Category: journey

Togetherness… {A giveaway}

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay20 Comments

 

Oh Christmas Tree...I’m going to be honest… I have really struggled with writing this post. I wanted to talk about what Christmas means to me and how my faith plays a part in that. This is a timely post and while I deeply love both Christmas and my faith, and for me personally the two are intertwined, I am still on the cusp of what has been an incredibly difficult leg of my life journey. To sit here and tell you how much I adore Christmas, and this is why and this is how my family celebrates, seems so fake and contrived. Sure, we have traditions and we somehow managed to continue those traditions (for the most part) when we were apart last Christmas… But truthfully, I still cringe with so many raw and broken emotions when I think about last Christmas. It is almost like I had loved the season so deeply, and then we had a terrible break up and I feel like I can never look at it the same again…

What I want, this Christmas, is for that feeling to go away and for the magic to be restored. Before the horrible holiday season of 2015, my youngest daughter and I loved cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies. We all loved our trips to the city to watch black and white Christmas movies on the big screen. We bought special outfits to dress up in for our annual “family date.” Last year we had tickets to Newsies. Chw and Gen went alone, of course. On my wall of Playbills, that one hangs there screaming at me of all the mistakes I have made, ways I have both wounded and been wounded, and all that was broken when adulthood just got too hard.

For me Christmas means so many things, different things than they did before last December, but possibly that is simply a part of growing up. Whenever life is hard, or hurts, it seems like the holidays accentuate that. Two Decembers ago, we sat in a New Jersey hospital, afraid that someone dear to us would not wake up. Last December I unpacked my life in the last place I wanted to be, going through the motions of what I felt like I was supposed to be doing, while dying more and more, and more on the inside. Having a faith in Jesus gives my heart reason to celebrate Christmas. Having a faith in Jesus is perhaps the only thing that stopped me from not ending my life last Christmas day when I finally woke up to the reality of life crashing down all around me. Today, in this season, I am not one hundred percent clear about how my faith and the holidays fit together. I could write up some plastic piece which sounds right, and is something I probably would have felt 14 months ago. I don’t want to be that person. Last Christmas looms, in my mind, like the boogeyman. I feel overwhelmed with this need to make up for it, to make it better, to be better and to never be there again. Gone is the magic or sentiment of any beautiful Christmas before, as the shadow of last Christmas hides them all. The Hallmark movies were unbearable for me to sit through, and I saw this play out in Gen as well, though we both tried to force it for a while. It only feels like Christmas because of the sparkly tree and gift wrap. Unspokenly, for me, it all feels so terrifying and like I don’t belong.

It is that last little bit, which has navigated me through. It has driven me as I focus on acts of kindness towards others. We’ve sponsored a family, bought gifts for a young girl and I have tried so very hard to spread genuine kindness and cheer to an increasing number of people who want no part of either. Perhaps this bleak and overwhelming fear I feel is closer to what many feel, where Christmas is concerned.

For me Christmas means Togetherness… Together, an honest connection between my faith and my action. Together with friends and family, wherever we’re at, no fakeness needed. Together within myself. Allowing me to be right where I am at, not drowning within the sea of my expectations and personal disappointment. Holding it together, keeping it together, reaching out, connecting and moving through this season together in every possible way the word can be… Together with God, together with loved ones. Slowly glueing my pieces back in place.

In what has been the absolute worst year of my life, I have had a few bright spots. Two of these come in the forms of really lovely films I’ve had the privilege of writing a bit about before. I loved both of these movies a great deal.

Hillsong: Let Hope Rise follows Hillsong United as they share a bit of their journey both as a band, and individually. It is a moving showcase in the dark days we face, coupled with how God can truly do the unexpected in our lives. As I have said here before, Hillsong has played such a vital part in my year and growth. I truly love this movie for its authenticity and relevance.

Greater is the inspiring true story of college football player Brandon Burlsworth. His journey is one that taught me so much about my own faith and how I live my life. There are not enough things I could say…

BOTH films are releasing on Blu-ray/DVD Tuesday December 20th, just in time for Christmas. I am giving away a movie night bundle to a reader, including copies of BOTH films. Simply comment on THIS POST by December 20th, at 12 a.m. with what Christmas means to you, to be entered.

Movie, movie, movie…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay1 Comment

This morning was shaping up to be a great day for a variety of reasons. This morning, when I found myself wide awake after only a couple of hours of restless sleep, I decided this within the wee hours of the dark night, and so far it is. I mean, sure, I am feeling pretty tired. By 7 a.m. I’d already done half of our weekly laundry, watched an episode of Jane the Virgin, caught up on emails, had breakfast and coffee with my husband and done a little writing. Also admitting that my entire To do list is more of a hoping to get to list, and have a little grace for that.

As an avid movie lover, 2016 has been a bit of a let down for me. I am wondering if this is because I am just getting older… Or maybe it is that 2016 has been such a hard year that suddenly (*gasp*) movies felt less important than before… (truthfully, this last one just doesn’t feel true, but I guess it is still a possibility.) More often than not, these days, we sit here and feel unanimously like there is nothing worth going to see. Despite these less feelings, there have been some really great movies that I loved, come out this year. One of my all time favorites was Storks. I know, I know. This sounds ridiculous, especially since I am not an animated fan typically. I took my grandson to see it, and then my husband. And then my best friend. And in the wee hours of this morning, when apple alerted me to the fact that my pre-buy was available- I very nearly curled up on my couch to watch it alone.

Today was a pretty good movie release date, through Apple. Hillsong, Let Hope Rise is waiting for me, along with The Hollars. Both of which were also films I loved this year. (there will be more on Hillsong LHR, closer to the dvd release date.)

I was thinking, this morning, about classic Hollywood vs current. One of my favorite modern Christmas movies, The Holiday, touches on how back in the day, it was a big deal that a small handful of movies opened in a quarter. Now, a dozen plus movies open each month, and three months later we are watching them at home. It is fascinating really, but if you look at so many of those old movies in comparison to so many of our now films, it is easy to spot a difference in quality. Sure, special effects are better, images are sharper and sound is more layered, but it takes more than some software to make a story come to life. While there are movies I still fall in love with, I am admitting that (even for this die-hard movie obsessor) quality trumps quantity every time…

In honor of Award’s season beginning and the Golden Glob noms coming on Monday I wanted to leave a little list of the 2016 releases I actually loved. Feel free to share what you’ve loved!

The Hollars

The Finest Hours

Hello My Name is Doris

Money Monster

The Meddler

XMen Apocalypse

Free State of Jones

Ghostbusters

Bad Moms

Imperium

Greater

Hillsong LHR

Storks

Arrival

I have seen a ton more but these stuck with me… Some because they were crazy funny, some because they moved me and some because it’s just thought-provoking… Have you seen movies lately, you love?

With mama in her ‘kercheif…

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Sleep and I have never been good friends. Even as a young girl, I remember laying awake for hours, just watching the clock. I would tell my mom about this, because she was a grown up and could therefore fix all problems, but she just told me I was lying and should stop.

This laying awake for hours, each night, became a thing that would last for the whole of my life, most nights. The imagine can be  in those dark, quiet nights. Though I was not a fan of working the graveyard shift, I learned that my mind is at it’s wildest, most productive time, in those hours. Later, when my husband worked nights (well, until 3 a.m.) I realized that these hours meant I would sleep the most and be the most productive.

Alas, now I am a real grown up too. My schedule is that of normal hours and my sleep is the same mangled mess it has always been. During the time that I was alone in Idaho, earlier this year, I got into the bad habit of falling asleep to tv. I think that it was because I didn’t feel so alone.At any rate, now there are nights when I simply can not shut my mind off without a tv show. (the unexpected downside to this is that it may take me 6 nights to actually get through an episode because I fall asleep.) The issue I am having, sleep wise, as of late is that I am having the most bizarre, vivid dreams. It is like they speak in screams, they are so bold. I am not getting quality rest and am waking up completely exhausted. While I am a big believer in dreams being my psyche processing what I am dealing with subconsciously, these dreams are so utterly ridiculous.

Every night, these past few weeks, go a little like this:

  • go to bed.
  • an episode of tv.
  • fall asleep for about 20 min.
  • wake up, tv off.
  • lay awake for about an hour.
  • sleep fitfully, for a few hours.
  • wake up for about an hour, lay there and pray.
  • fall asleep into deep, weird dreams for a few hours.

It’s awful. I am so tired.

As a result I have been thinking a lot about REST. What is rest? How can I achieve this when my nights are working against me? And, question of the hour: what is it that is psychologically causing this?

This week, with a fresh (loosely knitted) blanket of snow on the ground and a peace dangling ornamentally from the sky, I am on a quest to answer this question… Any wisdom to share?

One foot in front of the other…

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To my right a thousand little lights twinkle. Armed with my second cup of coffee, this morning, I open up this page and begin. I have not been spending much time with this blog of mine for a hundred different reasons, many based upon heart issues. I am sure someone reading this can understand issues of the heart. The heaviness, the frustrations, the aches, the loss, the less, the more…

Two thousand and sixteen has been my least favorite year and one of tremendous growth. Every time I admit this truth I am reminded of the nights spent in agony, in my bed, from leg pains. On a scattering of those evenings, my mother would be there massaging them to bring me relief. Those were among the good childhood moments, fighting through pain and not alone. While I was mostly a normal child, I did have a disorder which caused the pain to be a bit more than that of a typical childhood growth spurt. Growing hurt just a bit more. Even through the pain, which at times felt unbearable, those times when my mother was there comforting me and validating the pain I was in where among the small list of happier childhood moments. It took me decades later to realize that growth will always hurt, but people do have the ability to make it beautiful, despite the pain.

During those seasons of my life there were hospital visits, hotel stays (the most magical bits of the journey. Even as a small girl, I understood the sheer wonderful that was a hotel room.) painful exams and my mother. It was clear to me what a burden, in every sense of the word, I was to her. And the massage nights, they would likely be the kindest things she ever did for me. It does not matter that for every 25 pain ridden nights, there would be one with her sitting there helping me. Somehow, for as far as I could remember, I knew to be so thankful for that one. (I also knew never to ask her to do it, but that is a different story.)

Throughout my young years, my mother often told me to massage lotion into her feet. I hated doing this. Of the two things she asked me to do the most for, (foot massage and dumping her ashtray) thoughts of both still have me recoiling. As an adult I now live with my own feet which ache more often than not. (sidenote, my mother went on to have some serious foot issues needing multiple surgeries and there are moments when my own pains lead me to fear that is my fate as well,) Despite the tumultuous relationship I have had with my mother, i was flooded with something like peace and relief to know that maybe I had brought her something good. Maybe in those moments, with Vaseline lotion in hand, I brought her the comfort she was mentally/emotional incapable of bringing to me.

A couple of weekends ago I went to visit my mother. I had not seen her for one week shy of a year. I was wary of how it would go. Sitting down for a visit with a severely bi-polar woman who is in the early stages of dementia can be unpredictable. The 120 minutes were filled with ups, downs, confusion (hers), empathy (mine), guilt (also mine) and a precious 10 minutes where I grabbed the bottle of lotion from the table which sits next to her lift bed, and gently rubbed her feet. She argued at first, but in time she relaxed.

My mom has dementia and is in a home 45 minutes from my apartment. This is the closest I have lived to her since I was 12. Between us there is so much and it has been very hard on me, in a complicated and layered way. My dog, who was my closest companion, died. This broke the tiny piece of my heart which was still in tact and, three months later, I still miss her terribly. My marriage was in shambles and felt irreparable and hopeless. While the word felt is truly appropriate here, past tense and all, I won’t lie: it still feels that way sometimes. (I do appreciate that sometimes is a lot more manageable than always.) I went through a lot of hurt and due to a situation, have harbored a lot of flat-out hatred for a few individuals. I have spent seven long months waiting to matter, waiting to be worth something to my husband and waiting to have my heart fought for. It was in my thirty November days of gratitude and reflection that I finally had to admit this will never happen. My husband loves me. He used to love me more, and differently, or at least he pretended really well. Now he loves me this way, and that is simply how it is. I have some semblance of worth to him, though others are worth more. They have done nothing to earn this position, and honestly are really horrible women, but that is not the reflection of my worth that I have allowed it to be. As much as I may imagine a confrontation which leads my husband to proclaim his choice of me and force each of them to face the awfulness of themselves, I do not need this. I no longer harbor hatred towards them. I no longer expect my husband to love me the way I once believed he did, simply I accept that he does not. While I do not like the esteemed position of these women within his heart, this realization does not make me less valuable or worthy. It simply means to my husband I may be, but he is not the end all of my appraisal.

I am the daughter of a woman who had loving parents who worked really hard for her. They were not perfect, but neither was she. She has mental illness which, untreated, really made a mess of her life. She caused immeasurable amounts of pain and for the forty years that I have known her, she has harbored hatred and bitterness to extreme degrees. Despite everything, I will always be her daughter. I may end up with marred and pain riddled feet. I may cry in the occasional sappy Hallmark movie, melt into a puddle whenever I see a puppy and have unrealistic ideals of what my daily productivity levels should be, but beyond the little details I do not want to be like my mother. I do not want to harbor ill will to anyone. I do not want my perception of worth to be based on a man’s perception of my worth. I do not want to spend any amount of time tormenting my children, causing them to go any amount of time terrified to see me.

I will however, take any foot massage offered to me. (that being said, I am probably always going to be way too scarred to ask for it.)

Beneath the view…

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Beneath this multi color sky rests a village.

Villagers close their days, in many ways. Some are laying the tableware down, while the stew is simmering. Others slap turkey and thinly sliced swiss between two slices of rough cut baguette. There are homes with shingle tile roofs, where beneath them families interact little, instead losing their best selves into their screens. Some homes have single-paned windows, no television and their dinner of lentils and tofu will be followed by board game and laughter.

One or two of these homes likely have pictures of Jesus on the wall, angry hearts seated in plaid patterned recliners, bottles of cheap bourbon stashed about the room indiscreetly.

Across town perhaps a father is sincerely praying a prayer of gratitude for the meager meal his family is about to dine on. In another home a mother is crying while her pork chops burn on the stove because her four-year old drew all over the newly painted dining room with sharpie, and she’s tired.

Beneath many of these roofs there are tired and weary souls. Tired from working, tired from living. Tired from living to work, lack of connection, poor nutrition, fitful rest, marital discord, and so on. Tired never ends…

One woman, down there, in one home hiding behind one porch light miscarried a baby today. Behind another, a spouse hides the secret of an affair. One home holds an empty bed because their teenage son ran away, choosing addiction over the tough love of a mother and father.

A fraction of the homes have held cancer, loss, bankruptcy and enraged anger.

Beneath the view, an artistic photograph with which one took pride and many admired, there is life. Life is ugly and lonely, life is messy and hard.

Though much is speculated about these nameless, faceless people below, a few things are certain…

There are hurting, aching and broken people down there, hiding behind their front doors. Neighbors don’t know. Many neighbors do not want to know. The Villagers are consumed with their own empty, lonely aches.

No one grabs the hand of the stranger next to them, no one says “We’ve got this, you and I. You are not alone.”

Wednesday morning the sun rose, and people felt crippled with fear. Not just these villagers, but most of us. Our financial system took a hit and the optimistic ones placed their hopes in a man who isn’t ready to be our everything. No man is. Until we take the faceless and broken and learn their names, learn their stories, and decide to set our aching down to help them carry theirs, we will continue to fall downward.

Today let’s go love someone. Let’s call a friend whom we know is hurting, and let’s not ask if you need anything, let me know. No, let us say “I am bringing you a well needed chocolate bar that I am instructing you not to share with a single soul!” And then do it. And when we see them, hug them with as much sincerity as our arms can contain, and let them know by our gestures that We’ve got this, together, and they are not alone.

Shame, fear and hatred bread in the dark. Let’s be the light, and shine and shine and shine, until there isn’t a square inch left untouched. Let’s make America great, finally...