Easter Week and the Painful Promise of Hope

 It's Palm Sunday, and I'm reflecting on hope.

Easter is my favorite church holiday. I have so many emotions and memories wrapped up in it. Years of Passion plays at my childhood church, my dad as Jesus, "resurrecting" dead girls during rehearsals - lifting dolls standing-in for daughters and quipping, "She's not dead! Her batteries are low!"

At the tomb of Lazarus, in his booming voice, "Lazarus! Come forth!" And never a dry eye in the house.

Some talk about Christmas as the season of hope. The infant savior bringing light and a promise into the world. Easter is the promise fulfilled - the triumph, the victory. We win in the end!

But its core is still hope. The hope on Palm Sunday that the triumphal entry Means Something. That the Savior has come. Hope on Thursday in the Passover supper that His cryptic remarks are just the wine talking. Hope on Good Friday that it's all a bad dream. Hope on Saturday that somehow, this whole thing could turn out differently. Hope on Sunday ... hope, fulfilled.

I've been struggling with hope lately. In the most pedantic situation. We lost our cat, Jack. Is this serious? No. Is it earth changing? No. Do cats go missing literally every day, and we will be fine? Yes. 

But I still hope. I hope every day as I drive home, that I'll open the door, and there he'll be, curled in his cat tower. And Clark will yell, "Jack came back!" 

I hope the phone will ring and it will be someone with a chip scanner, "We have Jack..."

I hope the next Facebook tag, "Is this Jack?" really will be Jack, instead of a not-quite-right doppelganger. Too light. Too small. Too old. Too young. Too not Jack.

In my favorite movie ever, "Shawshank Redemption," Red tells Andy, "Hope is a dangerous thing my friend. Hope can drive a man insane." I know what he meant. Hope hurts more than anything. It squeezes your heart. It tells you to keep going on. It tells you to keep looking. It tells you to keep trying. It whispers and sometimes screams, "Don't give up! There's something worth waiting for!"

Last week, I told TJ that I think we should buy chicken wire and line the inside of our rotten, horrible fence with it. We can't afford to replace the fence, and it's riddled with holes and boards barely hanging on. And the neighbor's dogs keep nosing boards off so they can get a better look at the backyard cats. "We could tack up wire, and it'd keep things together, maybe," I said. "And things couldn't get out - or in," TJ agreed.

Clark spoke up, indignant, "But then how will Jack get back in?!"

Every night at prayer, we end with "And please bring Jack home."

Today is one month since he disappeared. Clark still has hope.

I want to have hope. But I dread it. I want to let the hope go because defeat is easier. Giving up is safer. I can make a little mourning hole in my heart and take down the posters and disengage from the Facebook groups and move on. 

And I look at Clark, and he still hopes. And I want to teach him that hope is worth it. That someday, eventually, Sunday does come. Good Fridays bring Easter Sundays. That the Bible is true, that God is working all things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.

All things. All lost cats. That there is a good. That there is a something. That even if Jack never returns, that we have something here to learn. That we loved him, and he was special to us. That maybe someone else loves him now, and he's special to them. That maybe in months or years, that phone will still ring and it will still be some vet somewhere, "We have Jack..."

I have to hope, because I have to teach my son that hope is worth having. 

As Andy said, "Hope is a good thing, maybe even the best of things. And good things never die."

And so I check Facebook pages. I follow up on leads. I pray.

I hope.

I hope.  

Owning the narrative

A friend reached out to me recently to say she missed my blog. It encouraged her when she read it. In truth, it encouraged me to write it.

I'd like to say my silence here has been about just being too busy and happy to stop and reflect. But the truth is, I didn't know how to come back to this place of raw honesty when I have been sitting on a lie.

In October 2019, something very important to me was taken. Some of you know what I'm talking about - or think you do. But the truth is that what was taken from me wasn't a position or a career or a planned future. It was my voice. My truth.

A year and a half ago, I was unexpectedly given the very painful choice to step down from my position or be fired. In business terms, we call this a "demotion." But it was important to them that it was my choice. I was instructed very plainly to not be honest about this. "Own the narrative," they told me. "This is the best thing for you, and the college. It's a better fit." 

There's a lot to say about how this happened, and why. I could say a lot about it being unjustified. I could point out this happened to me despite not ever being written up or placed on an improvement plan. That I had to face vague complaints and accusations I was never allowed to address or fix. I could rant about the unfairness of putting a first-time supervisor in an untenable staffing situation and then expecting them to succeed, with no training, no support.

I wanted to do all that then.

But I couldn't.

I knew deeply that the only way I was getting through this was to be very, very silent. So I showed up at staff meetings. I posted happy status updates about how I was so excited to refocus back on feature writing in my new role. I spent an entire weekend at a conference with the two people who had done this, and smiled through every dinner and feigned excitement about the possibilities for a department I was no longer leading. I watched them post my job on the "help wanted" bulletin board.

I never felt so alone.

And yet, I was never alone.

Beyond the cliche "God is with me," God went out of his way to make sure I knew that OTHERS were with me, too.

A colleague surprised me during a meeting with "Congratulations on the new position!" And my face spoke all the truth before I could stop it. She cornered me later, "Hey .... I'm here you for you if you need to talk about it." 

I never took her up on that, but it meant everything that I could.

Few people got to know the raw angry pain of my situation. Those who did shared their own pain and vulnerability with me. I found new friends. I also found opportunities to learn, to explore the ways in which I had failed, to challenge myself. I embarked on intensive therapy, dealing with long-seeded issues. I leaned in to me.

I allowed my pain to be a catalyst for change. And I allowed my silence to speak for itself. 

Before quitting my job for a brand new industry, I struggled. Was I giving up on what God wanted to teach me? Had I learned the lesson? I don't ever want a repeat of what I went through there. Was I abandoning God's plan for me?

God has to constantly remind me that his plan for me is not career-specific. As I left Walla Walla, I found how I had been able to be a bridge to build connections and relationships among others. I saw how my faith had inspired those around me. 

And I heard from colleagues, who had spent a year piecing together the truth.

"I don't know how you did it."

"I never understood why they did that to you."

"You handled that better than anyone could possibly have done."

My silence felt unnaturally to me, but it was also a revelation. My words aren't the only thing that speaks. My life speaks, too. And in that season it spoke not of my strength - but God's. Let me assure you, it was a horrible time. I cried. I felt hopeless. I felt despair. At moments I wanted the earth to swallow me up. 

But God held me. And my husband held me. And strangers who became friends reached out to me. And though I was silent, I was not alone.

I am now on the other side of this pain, and I'm ready to stop being silent. I can't let the fear of judgement silence my voice anymore.

Friends, you are not alone. Whatever it is you're facing, whatever has been taken from you, you aren't alone. God is with you.

And so am I. 

Teach Them How to Say Good-Bye

I have had my next blog post planned for a while. It's a great piece about the next stage of our life, and has this great metaphor/life lessons based on our street name. It's gonna be poignant and emotional, and you'll love it.

But today, I'm going to write about death.

Binx is going to the other side today. We have fought it off for basically all of quarantine. But the last

month has been a quick descent. His recurring skin issue turned into a MRSA infection, and then an enlarged spleen. He stopped eating, and dropped to under 6 pounds.

Yesterday, he ate, but also peed on the floor. And I had a mix of hope and fear. Last night, he laid on the bed with me all night. He purred and snuggled. But also peed on the bed, because he can't get down. This morning I watched him half stumble/fall to his litter box, where he laid down in it. 

I was leaning against the stairs, watching him sitting on top of his own poo, when Clark walked up. 

"What are you doing?"

"Looking at Binx. He's not doing well."

"I know."

"We might have to say good-bye to him."

"I know. It's OK."

I feel so ill-equipped to tell my son our cat is dying. He barely remembers Dave. But Binx has been his cat. They snuggle together. Binx tolerates an enormous amount from him. It's like they're specially made to be each other's people.

And my grief feels so large by itself. 

I am not someone who thinks pets are people, too. I think pets are pets. They aren't children. They're pets. That's not to diminish the place they have in our hearts. But as someone who deeply loves both a child and a pet, I know that the love is different. My cat is a cat — he's not a person. The space that he fills in my heart is different than the space filled by my son. It's a furrier place. It is a place that can only be filled by 8 pounds of furry, warm, scratchy cat.  To say the love is the same diminishes both. It's not the same — it's different and special.

I've never had to do this. As a kid, the pet death always happened without me. And I would feel lonely and miss them, but another pet would come eventually and fill the fuzzy hole. Even when Dave left us, I didn't have to face it — he just disappeared. It was its own kind of pain.

My mom suggested I could just let nature take its course. But I know that's days of watching my guy lay there. Cleaning up after him. Wondering if he's in pain. That's the thing about Binx — he's not a talker. He never has been. He only makes noise if you step on him. Or if you have a rotisserie chicken. Through all this, he's been silent.

Yesterday, our next door neighbor stopped by to ask if we had a black cat. He'd been laying in the well of his downstairs window for three hours, not moving. The neighbor was really worried that he was dead. TJ collected him - small and fragile, but still breathing.

I told Clark this morning that Dad was taking Binx to the vet, and we needed to say good-bye. I worry that my big grief will overwhelm him. But he's a strong, resilient little kid. And I know when we get settled in our new place, it won't be long before we go looking for another fuzzy something to fill the void.

But today, I will use a sick day. And I will spend the last hour with Binx, curled up on the couch. Petting his bony head. Telling him good-bye, and that I'm sorry we didn't have more time. And I hope that his last four years with us were good years. And I hope he and Dave can be friends on the other side. And that I wish there was more we could have done. 

You were a great cat, Binx. You earned a place in cat heaven, if anyone ever did. 

And we love you.

Good-bye.

Reflections on the Moment

I don't know what to do with what's happening in the world right now.

I see so much vitriol online, on all sides, and I'm overwhelmed. A friend called us all out: "If you aren't doing something right now, you're racist."

That seemed like so much. But I pondered it. Am I? I don't think so. But am I doing anything?

I can't tell.

I grew up in North Idaho, near an active white supremacist compound. It's what people know my hometown for, which I've always found unfair. I try to explain it — People don't move there because we love racists. People move there because we're a small, rural community that wants to be left alone and values individualism. Celebrities are attracted it. So are people who want to hide. So are people with unsavory political briefs. And people who like to fill their yard with broken down cars. Our attitude is basically, "Just keep your crazy in your lawn. As long as it's not on my lawn, it's fine."

In the past year, I found that I had unwittingly caused harm to a colleague of color. I was devastated to know that, but more to know that they didn't see me as a person they could tell. That we never got to talk about it. I had to learn after the fact, and try to educate myself. And do better. I have to think hard about the words I use, and how they make others feel.

Because at the end of the day, I am a privileged middle class white woman. I grew up in a non-diverse community. I went to a non-diverse school. My first interaction with overt racism was when I moved to South Dakota as an adult and came face-to-face with lingering issues and racism faced by the Native population. It stunned me. "This exists?" I thought when I heard a friend warn me not to rent a house in the dangerous "Native" neighborhood. Despite living so near hateful people my whole life, it hadn't spilled onto my lawn, so to speak.

I wounded a colleague because I wasn't thoughtful. I didn't consider that they wouldn't feel comfortable in spaces the same way that I do. As a privileged, educated white woman, I have rarely entered a room in which I didn't feel 100% comfortable, like I had a right to exist in that space and feel heard. But if your skin tone doesn't afford you that privilege, you may be offended when someone like me confronts you.

It takes a lot to consider how people's identities — seen and unseen — change how they show up in a space. It takes emotional energy to make sure that I am using my position of privilege to make space for others, that my comfort at being heard gives way to hearing.

This past weekend, we went to the river, and Clark befriended another child. They played and splashed for hours, and I loved how much fun he was having. The other kiddo had brown skin. I loved that my son didn't hesitate for one moment to play with him. I loved that it didn't come up. I know that it's ignorant and not helpful to want to raise a "color blind" child. I do want him to never hesitate to play with another child regardless of how they look or talk or dress. I also want to raise a child who is full of empathy and emotional intelligence, and has a good foundation to know that how he shows up as a white man will impact the marginalized people in the room.

My next door neighbor is black. We smile and wave at each other across the lawn. I know his first name, which is rare anymore with neighbors. But that's all I know. I want to know if there's anything I could do for him. I want him to know he's welcome in this neighborhood. I want him to feel safe. I don't want to show up on his front step and say, "Hi! I'm the white lady next door and I want to see if I can use my privilege to help you!" That's unpardonably arrogant.

But I will still smile. I will wave. I will make more of an effort to call out a greeting by name. I will never assume the worst of him. I will sit in the discomfort of my privilege and do everything I can to look for places to create spaces of welcome. I will make mistakes. I will offend where none was meant, and have to deal with the consequences of wounding others.

I will not make the marginalized educate me. I will educate myself. I will educate my child.

It's so little. It's not enough.

It's something.

It's time to face that the crazy has spilled over onto all our lawns now. We have to do everything we can to push it back.

The Truth About Not Being OK

I'm not OK.

It's super likely that you are not OK, either.

We are in week number whatever of this thing. My kiddo hasn't seen any of his friends since March 14, when we had a pretty good little birthday party. I'm very grateful for that. And then, it just all blew up.

I created a solid little routine coming to the home office every day. Working a regular schedule. Not taking it "home" (into another room) with me. Keeping up a brave face.

The shiny veneer is starting to wear thin. I am, quite likely, going to crack.

Every interview I start these days, we look at each other through our pixels and laugh awkwardly, "How are you DOING?" we say. And I laugh and say, "Oh, ya know, I'm surviving!" And they laugh. We both look a little crazy. I don't say, "I cried at my desk for 30 minutes today. I think my body is shutting down. My child is on the verge of emotional collapse, and my husband is so exhausted from being everyone else's emotional punching bag that after bedtime, he's basically an empty shell."

I don't say that. Because we hold this steadfast belief that we need to Be Strong in the face of crisis. And I certainly know how to play that game. But be real: That approach only works when there are other, stronger, mentally healthy people around to bolster you. When we can take turns having crisis. When everyone is in crisis all at once, where do you go? Where can you turn? How can you fathom burdening someone else with your feelings, when they're in the same sinking ship as you? We've hit the ice-burg. Everyone is trying to find a lifeboat. No one has time to talk to you about your concerns about the fit of your safety vest.

And so I don't have a deep answer today. I don't know where to put my stress. All I can do is keep waking up, fall into the pattern of my routine, hope it's enough to get us through. Pray I'll have a job when this is over. Pray my stress won't make me so neurotic that I get fired anyway. Pray my heart will stop pounding like this all the time. Pray for sleep. No dreams. Just an abyss of eight hours a night where my brain can rest in darkness and silence.

Pray that I can keep managing to not collapse in a ball on the floor and sob in front of my son. Pray that he comes out of this remembering the fun stuff, and not the trauma. Pray that we don't all get sick anyway, and make all of this for nothing.

Pray the schools reopen.

Pray for normal. Realize that I don't know what "normal" is anymore.

So today I just want to take a moment and say: I see you. I see that you're not OK, too. It's OK to stop pretending. And if you need someone to unload your emotional burdens on, I'm here. And I may give you some of mine. At least, if we're all holding them up together, it may not feel so much like we're about to collapse.

Skating Through to Victory

I fell at practice last night. An epic fall. A full-speed, around a corner, ended up backward on my back fall.

It was a great fall.

It was also a devastating fall.

It was devastating because I was in the midst of being on pace to finally — finally — break my yearlong plateau of 22 laps in 5 minutes. I was mentally prepared. I was as physically prepared as I could be at this moment in my journey. I pushed.

I fell.

The goal of hitting 27 laps in 5 minutes (the dreaded "27/5") hangs over the heads of all but the most quick-footed skaters. It feels at times an impossible task. And it is a barrier that can keep skaters from passing the required minimum skills and being roster-eligible.

And that's the real problem here.

There's a bout on March 7. A B-level bout. (I can skate B bouts!) And it's in Pullman. And every fiber of my being wants to be there. But, I'm coming to realize, not necessarily for the best reasons.

I want to skate in that bout because I think I can. I also want to skate in that bout because it feels like a proof point. I broke down in tears over the weekend worrying about my laps, and sobbed to my spouse, this bout isn't just a bout. It's like being the pretty popular girl at the party while your ex-boyfriend stands alone in a corner.

"I just want to prove that they didn't break me," I cried.

So turns out maybe I haven't quite dealt with all the emotional pain associated with the Palouse. I have made so much personal and emotional progress living in Walla Walla. I have dealt with some toxic behavior and habits. I have had some intense therapy. I have pushed myself physically in ways I never thought possible. And I know that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for there.

Maybe that's where the pain is. The pain of realizing I spent three years in a place not quite hitting the marks I know I am now capable of. Holding myself back. Hurting my own chances. It's a little bit of disappointment mixed with shame. And still, some anger and resentment that the support and love I have found here — from my bosses, from my husband, from my friends, from my community, from myself — wasn't something I could access in Moscow, a place I considered home.

So yeah, I have some emotional baggage associated with showing up there in my true, proud Pinkie self, skating my ass off, and being able to say Look at me. I did it.

Then I fell.

But, the lesson we learn in roller derby is it doesn't end with the fall.

I laid on my back like a turtle, knees in the air, screaming internally and burning physically. And then I did the most important thing of my life.

I got up.

I kept skating.

I finished the time.

And it was a little bit of a break-through moment. I can do this.

Can I get 25 laps — or even better, 27 — in 5 minutes? Yes, yes I can. Eventually I can. I didn't quit last night. I'm not quitting today. I'm trying again tomorrow.

Will I bout in Pullman on March 7? I don't know. And you know what, it's OK. I will still go, and I will NSO, and I will cheer on the incredible women who are there. The incredible women who scream and cheer and push and encourage me at every practice. I will encourage them.

And I will scream and cheer and encourage the skaters on the other team. Because we're all in this together. Our strength isn't found in proving to the world that we are capable.

It's only in proving it to ourselves.

Get back up. Keep skating. You got this.

Stay Committed

Last year around New Year's, I bought myself a new workout shirt to celebrate the soon-to-begin roller derby season. It was a deep wine purple with gold letters that boasted, "Be you. Do you. For you."

It became an accidental anthem for 2019.

This past year, I focused on finding myself. I was more than ready to put 2018 far behind me. For 2019, I was going to become the person I wanted to be, and everyone else be damned.

I focused on conquering my fears: I played in my first bout, and then my second (I did not die in either). I sang karaoke. I sang karaoke in front of my boss. I sang on a stage in front of my entire town (for 10 shows!). I led a den of small children in Scouts. I faced a difficult professional change, and came out better for it. I hiked. I camped. I traveled.

I went back to counseling and began the long and emotional process of doing EMDR to reprocess some trauma that continues to poison me. I faced down hormonal and emotional issues and finally began taking an anti-depressant.

And I didn't do it for TJ. Or my mom. Or even my kid. Or my boss. Or that bully from sixth grade. Or even my team. I did it for me.

Today, appropriately on New Year's Eve, I purchased a new workout shirt. It's avocado green and has, emblazoned up the side: Stay Committed.

It's the perfect workout shirt for 2020. It encapsulates everything I've been feeling about this year.

This is my way of telling myself, Girl, you've done so much. You've come so far. Don't you dare give up now.

It also pushes me to continue facing my fear, as I constantly want to quit. This roller derby season especially I know will challenge and push me in new ways -- it's time to come off the bench, it's time to stop being "Stale Meat" and step up as a Vet.

It calls me to stick with my counseling even as my therapist retires and I have to start over with someone else. It pushes me to keep navigating my health until I'm satisfied with my results. It tells me to stick with the mindfulness techniques I've been studying in order to be a better communicator.

It reaches into every part of my life.

Stay committed ...

To becoming credit card-debt free.

To saving for a house.

To keep being you. Doing you. For you.

Stay committed.