Label It Satan.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a fierce phrase: Battling Satan for my Family. Like blocked computer pop-up screens, things pop up and flash at me. Things that catch me off guard, and and send me reeling to find and click an "x" box. Only, in real life, when it's your family, there isn't an "x" box.

I am starting to train myself to label some things "Satan." Because only he could connive such twists and turns, lies and truths, and split and divide us along the lines as such.

I was asked this weekend how I came through my "anger" stage and what that journey was like. I responded that I still am caught off guard by it and don't understand all of it. As I think about it, I see growth in me here though and know I have really trained myself to let family things bounce off a bit more, and not take all of it to heart, or let it cause havoc on my life and self for days.

But I also note telling the ladies that as they leave, I would pray for their protection. Because when God does a good work, as he did with their presence being here, Satan is always looming on the edge waiting to attack and break down what the Lord has accomplished.

Could it be that maybe I needed to pray this for myself too?

Sure enough, when Monday night rolled around and I split open the mail, a wedding shower invitation for Julie arrived -- with bridal registry cards and all. Anger spurted from me. My arms flailed as I my steps pounded down to take my exacerbating to my roommate. The reasons for my rantings were founded and justified.

But the spark of my anger and the burning of it still this morning, is not. I do not want Satan to have a hold of me like this. Only he would connive sneaking this jolting piece of mail into my pile after having such a blessed weekend. Only he would try to ruin me and set me off as such, and sit back like the Grinch at my twisted reaction.

I'm going to label it Satan. I'm going to see his work as I fight. I'm going to train myself to be aware of his lurking presence and then to arm myself to battle it. From now on, as I battle for my family, I'm going to label it Satan.

Four Women.

I want to be like them.

Four women from Crossroads drove 14 hours on Friday to spend Saturday & Sunday with me and drive another 14 hours back on Monday. Four women, from my community group, with relationships to me that combine teacher, mother, mentor, fellow journeyer, teacher, comedian, and worshipper. They are my friends.

As we went through the God-given block of time together, a few thoughts trickled through me.

~ Friday night, I left their hotel room and wrote: "They are solace to my defeat."

~ Saturday night I was baking cookies in the kitchen and heard them in the living room playing games with my roommates, and wrote: "It is a sweet sweet sound in my ear. It's beautiful. It's giggles and exclamations, and silly chidings. It's mixings of voices and inflections. It's communal laughter, in unison, beckoning me to hear the tones of it's melodies." What joy.

They are women who challenge, who love, who live. They ask hard questions. They are willing to give hard answers. They prod, encourage, wrestle, trust, and worship with me. I am grateful; I am blessed. I am touched, by the presence of these four women.

Conquered Death.

I am so glad that Jesus Conquered Death.

That he has the last victory.

He isn't in the grave. She isn't in the grave.

He has conquered death. And We will have the Victory.

This is hope, this is freedom, this is My God.

I Remember.

So what happens during these times of anniversary, is you remember many things. Some of them sad, some of them funny, some of them sacred. Here's just a few from those categories...

* My last two conversations with my mom were Thursday afternoon and Friday afternoon, both afterschool. They were beautiful days, the first gorgeous days of spring, and I sat outside on the lawn. Her discussing and us praying about her starting a mentoring program for younger women in her church. We talked Thursday for nearly an hour, then came back to revisit the topic Friday. And I still remember the Lord speaking clearly to me those days. And the warmth of sitting on the blanket on the freshly grown spring grass.

* That Friday, I was setting up for my Bloom Brunch, and decided to stay home to do so. I was giddy and excited, placing name cards and flowers around the condo. And staying home to get a pizza and movie for myself. My mom and I laughed about how fun that was for me.

* That night. I had called dad because I thought someone was in my house (long story...) so when the cop called, I thought he was referencing this, because he kept saying "I'm at your house with your dad..." Then, I thought maybe it was a student posing as a cop. Then I asked about my brother and sister, and he said they were also on their way. I finally figured it was the Homerich house but was still wary and he just said he would tell me information once I got there, and to take my time driving. I called Kelly. Josh picked up. I could hear Kelly in the background. That was all I needed to know. I got in my car and knew I would remember that drive for the rest of my life. So I drove slow, wondering if bricks had fallen on dad, if someone robbed them, if dad had a heart attack... I remember my mom saying the cops called them all to her parent's house when they were killed... but was trying not to freak myself out. So I remained calm the whole drive.

* My shoe. I will never get in a car again with only one shoe on and not think of this moment. I left in such a rush that I only got one shoe on. I pulled up to the house in the dark and the cop wouldn't let me pass. I stood on one shoe and held the other in my hand. Josh was on the front steps waving me up and in, but the cop was on the phone, and wouldn't let me pass. This went on for minutes. Finally, I just proceeded past the cop and met Josh on the porch... Kelly and dad in the front entryway, clinging to the stairs...

* I remember making phone calls. And people's exact responses when I had to tell her closest friend's the news. I can still hear their voices.

* Carolyn Deppe. The Friday night, I was crouched on the fireplace and she came over and said, in front of the thirty or so people there, loud and clear -- "You're mom and I were just talking about you this week. And we were both praying that you would marry a missionary doctor." Wow, of all times and places to discuss my dating life. I wanted to laugh and crawl in a whole at the same time, exposed in front of the crowd.

* Trying to arrange food. Whoa. That is a job in itself. Thankfully, Kelly took over most of that one. And made sure her and Melissa got a lot of Aunt Dawn's veggie pizza :)

* Trying to write the obituary. I think it was the first time that I felt my brain seize up. I remember sitting downstairs at the corner of the table of Cook Funeral home, and realizing that I wanted, I needed, to write her one last letter. Usually words tumble from my fingers, but I got so angry and cried all over the table because I just couldn't get to writing that obituary in the pressure of that twenty-minute time zone while also picking out headstones, caskets, bulletin wording, etc. Agr! It makes me angry and frustrated just thinking about that moment.

* Walking into "our section" of the funeral home the first time.

* People coming. People flocking to our house all day Friday, Saturday, Sunday, & Monday. My dad's friends walking in with wrenching tears and grasping him. My sister's best friend never leaving her side. My brother's entourage walking as one unit up the driveway. The neighbors with baskets and baked goods. Scott, Kimie, and Jill as that cousin bond unleashed fresh tears. People walking into the funeral home. Kate & Michael standing there. My students. Crossroads people. Amanda Cupp & Mandi Campbell. Laura, Jenny, & Missy never leaving my side. Countless friends from camp, high school, college, work, and beyond. Standing next to dad as a protector, and ushering people on.

* Consciously thinking, "I should be crying... Can I laugh? Why don't I feel pain?" And knowing I was almost third person at times, while other times envisioning things how I thought they would be instead of how they were.

* Sitting in the big red chair in the living room. Voices all in the kitchen talking, and tears just quietly and silently rolling down my checks.

* Taking Jaxson for walks any moment that I could. He was my safe place. My nurture. My quiet amidst the storm.

* Spending sleepless nights on the couches, floors, and beds at dad's house. (And transferring language from "mom & dad's house" to that). And each morning, us up before the sunrise, all awake and sitting talking for hours.

* Lots of coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

* Going out for Sunday brunch with the family to Boatwerks. I remember thinking, "Wow. These people just keep living. They just keep mowing their grass, going to church...." And also the freshness that we felt getting out and getting food.

* Wanting to flick off everyone who drove by ever-so-slowly and stared out their windows at our house.

* Getting the message for the phone call during the funeral home, only to find it was Channel 8 in disguise, and having no idea what they were talking about.

* Anne staying with me my first night "home." Just quiet and silent and patient.

Love Comes In Packages.

If love comes in packages, then I know I am loved.

If it feels braggy or materialistic to say so... whatever, today I am fine with that. :)

I have great friends. GREAT FRIENDS! My roommates don't know what to make of my great friends who this past year keep sending cards, books, cds, postcards, flowers, mugs, lotions, chocolates, cookie cutters, and yes, even rocks & stones, in the mail.

If love comes in packages, then I know I am loved. I know that distance and travel and phone calls and text and all the ways we could connect or disconnect during this season and space are void, because somedays, these days, love comes in packages.

French Fries.

Right now, friendships are equated with French fries. I just got home and am anxious all inside, and embarrassed at the same time. Trying to fit in and finds friends in Charlotte is easy and hard at the same time. This Tuesday, it is exclamation marks. I went out with some people after a gathering of Christian singles worship, thinking it would be conversation and general chat about our weeks. Instead, it turned into people throwing French fries, sugar packets, and whatever across tables to be silly. I was so embarrassed to be labeled with them, and especially labeled as Christians in that restaurant, that I wanted to creep out of my seat from beneath the table.

At this point in my life, I want to be tucking my children in. I don't want to be ducking adults French fries at a restaurant. I live this life of single, twenty-seven, and am trying to find other adults/women to really dig into life of greater meaning with others that have the space/capacity for me also. Husbands, children, whatever. It doesn't matter, as long as I am still welcomed along. I have friends with both of these, and we are still core friends. But, how do I connect and meet with some of them deeply here?

And not sit at a booth where they are throwing French fries.

Missing Home.

"I need not despise one to enjoy the other,

and I need not to be ashamed of missing one

while living in another.

There will still be times of sadness

and much that I will miss.

But I do not want to miss the present

by missing the past,

or miss the here for missing the there."
~ Victor L. Luther

This quote was written by a third culture kid, a TCK as their labeled in Missionary World, and was given to me during my training for the Philippines. It struck me and connected with me.

The last couple of weeks, it has become like glue to my soul. It transfixes on me, with its depth and truth, and gives me permission with its reality.

I miss Michigan right now. It's not that I don't want to be here, but I miss it. I miss having people who have known me for more than a season. I miss being able to drive twenty minutes and be on a sandy coast. I miss having great little nooks like East Grand Rapids, Holland, Grand Haven, and Rockford. I miss "my" places like Roses and the pier and Crossroads. I miss the people there, and the way they go about life. I miss chicks who wear John Deere T-shirts and braids in their hair, but drive Grand Prixs and wear Lucky jeans. I miss guys who get dirty during the day, but put on their button up at night. I miss wild and care-free life at the lake, my nephew, and my seat in the gym worship. I miss Meijers, Gap Body, Schueler, and coffee at JPs. I miss a homemade latte at Lynda's, brunch with Bekah, bike-riding with Anne, and opening day of BDD with "the girls." I miss day drives to Traverse, climbs on the dunes, picnics at Saugatuck, weekends at Mackinaw, and roaming through Nordhouse. I miss being able to connect with spaces in a sense so norm to me that it doesn't seem "culture."

I thought, in so many ways, things would look different. I thought I would always be able to go "home" in the summer and spend a month there during the season off from teaching. I thought it would always be a safe place. I thought I would find "nooks" and places like home in N.C. But I keep driving and looking. I thought I would miss MI more throughout the year, but with mom not there, it doesn't linger with the same appeal. But it's summer burns in me with lusting fire. I miss MI in the summer. I knew I would, and I do.

It's also different because, though I love the South, I keep finding how much I'm not a part of it. I keep finding ways to label it "another country" and knowing it really is. It's a place that does bridal portraits, high noon weddings, and dressed-up days at the lake. It's a place where country doesn't equate in any way with city, and shows no blurring of the in between. It's a place where it's talked about constantly, and labels itself with daily reminders spoken of "the South." It's a place where cities like Charlotte bear license plates with messages, and children with couture floral dresses and smocked shortalls. It's a place where I try to fit, but can't find the mold.

Really, I do love the South. I do want to be in the mix of it. But I don't fail to reckon that I'm not of it. That I'm Mid-West born and raised. And that though I hate snow, slush, gray days, and not-married-at-twenty, it's still the most of me. I don't have to hate one to love the other. I don't have to neglect to miss one while being in the other. I'm a TCK. Third Culture "Kid." Of foreign lands, of living here, of missing there. Of wishing and wanting... Home.

Left Out In-between.

Last year I remember standing in my mom's kitchen and talking about how well I connected with the women at my church who I was working with on the Women's Brunch and Retreat. I just felt so filled being with them. They were all in thirty, forty, fifty... and felt like women I would sit around the table with for hours over tea. We would talk about life, God, church, husbands, children, connecting, books, and the general planning ideas. I remember saying to my mom, "I connect so much more with them than I do with those my age."

She replied, "Oh, that doesn't surprise me at all."

I was surprised by that. I asked her why, and she went to comment about who I am, what I love, and I have much more in common with these women than with the single girls I was always trying to chum around with or fit in with.

It's exactly how I feel. I can enjoy the single life. I can enjoy being twenty-seven. But the heart of it comes down to that I don't want to go out and party until after midnight, or stay out for drinks after a gathering, or play mindless video games... Or pretend to be dolled-up, while silently hoping some guy thinks twice when he looks my way. Like a fawn, waiting to be wanted.

I want to make a home. To love and nurture my children. To become more than.... this.

I try live my life to the fullest now, as it was given to me. And not waste away the days "waiting" or even look at them as that. But living single and twenty-something doesn't fit the mold of me. I miss these Crossroads women in my life, and how they didn't label and disconnect me simply because our life circumstances were different.

I hear comments at the playground from children and parents, or feel the nudge of it from relatives. I heard it said word-for-word at the last Youth Group from a mother to a student, "No, you're not an adult yet. You're not an adult until you are married and have kids." Ouch. I could have stood their and cried right there.

Mothers at the playground here constantly react and treat me "less." As if I haven't arrived, am still some teenager with no life experience or know-how of mothering. Like haven't earned the right into their clique. They ask me to babysit like I'm twelve, and talk about homeschooling like I have no awareness of educational statutes.

I'm twenty-seven. I am a full-grown adult. I don't have the ring or stroller to prove it, though I tuck Garrett in every day and love people with all my heart. I have carried children since they were five days old, earned my Masters degree and managed 140 kids a day, sometimes 33 at a time. I pack a water bottle, sunscreen, and snack whenever Garrett and I leave the house. I cook pasta salad with peppers, Parmesan, and pepperoni. I know how to use a thermometer on a child, string prayers through daily life, and live in third world countries. I can schedule a doctors appointment, get the oil changed, and sit across the table from bankers. Proving myself somehow seems called for, yet I stay silently appropriate.

I know this post is ramble. It's only the ice burg of what's in me. Underneath is the complexity of it all - the wants, needs, emotions, hurts, gifts. But for now, I walk in between single, party-life twenty-somethings, and steady sippy-cup carrying moms. I don't fit nor am invited completely into either. Part of it is my own doing, part of it is their undoing. Either way, I'm left out, living in-between.

A little bit...Me.

Citizenship in the South is not easily gained.

It really is like a whole different country down here. I got invited to a gathering of 60-some twenty-somethings on Sunday, called "Easter at the Lake." So, of course, I grab my suit and towel and some crackers and head out on the road with Lady Antebellum and windows blowing.

But, who arrives at "Easter on the Lake" with dresses and pearls and high heels? Southern girls. There was not one bathing suit on the beach. Only one other guy had his even with. So there was I, ready to dive-in and exhale in the decently warm lake water, while all the other girls and Southern gents shimmered on the shore.

It was like a "lake day" on the lake, without the feel of lake. Volleyball, soccer, chips, and drinks... and guys dressed in full-out button-down Polo's and girls applying lipstick and blush.

I cringed. This just isn't me. "Me" is wild abandon, bring-it-on lake day. Throw off the T-shirt before you even hit the sand and grab the quickest wave you can. It's sloppy pony tails and tossed around towels. It's yelling "Hit-it!" from the boat, and sloshing cool watermelon chunks through your fingers. It's the leveling -- the rich/poor, good body/not-so-good body, all in suits and Ts and worn leather sandals.

So when it came down to it, I dove in any way. Sixty to seventy some others frolicked and flirted and stared coy at one another on the beach, and I just walked down the way a bit, stripped down my aqua cover-up, and dove on in. Swimming, somersaults, and floating alike. It's me.

I'm sure someone on the shore saw me, and considered me ridiculous. But it's me. I hadn't experienced joy like those first few puffs of air and strokes in the sea in... months. Only giggles and exhibitions and open-lunged release casted through my chilled veins.

In lots of ways, I try to fit in the South. In lots of ways, I continue to discover more and more... that I don't. That I'll just always be a little bit of an outsider... a little bit of an ex-pat... a little bit of a foreigner... A little bit... Me.

Let Heaven & Earth.

"Let heaven and earth praise him,

The seas and all that move in them."

Psalm 70:34

I sung out from the core of who I am, giving all of the life in me and shouting songs in worship at the color wheel of stained glass ahead. Pink geraniums gave fullness to the front of the church, an explosion of worship on their own accord. And me, melting into it all and overcome with the goodness that... Heaven & earth will praise him. Do praise him.

So today, it hit me with new goodness, new freedom: for all of us here on earth, for those who have loved, lost, lived, or live, we are all together in our worship. In our incredible, renown, exuberant magnitude, calling Him Holy. We gather with loud voices to the Throne, singing, "Holy, Holy, Holy... Alleluia, Christ Arose!"

Death cannot keep it's sting. Faith is the victory. Jesus Christ has overcome the world, the power of death, the fear of earth. He will and does break open the chains. He has the final victory, the last word. Praises. Holy. Holy. Holy. Let heaven and earth sing.

People Don't Get It.

People don't get it.

(Be warned... anger lurks...)

People say stupid things like...

"Take care of your dad, now, you hear?" (can I mention how many of my parents friends/relatives said this to me at the funeral, in the funeral line... right, exactly, because I haven't lost anyone here... but hey, thanks for the concern)

"I don't know if it makes you feel better, but my friend's mom died and her dad married within six months..." (ummm.... yes... does that make me feel better? yeah, uh, right. how?)

"Well, couldn't you ask your dad to fly down here and fix up a foreclosure for you?" (Yes, because he's been so willing to fly down here to see, encourage, and support me... can I mention I hate Realtors, and they both already knew my 'situation'?)

"Well, statistics show, most men marry within a year of their spouses death." (this is perhaps the worst and most repeated...see February blog on Statistics.)

"Well, you don't want him to be alone, do you?" (Thanks for the guilt-trip, but not working here... I didn't say I wanted him to be alone, but there is more to it than this.)

You don't get it. You're not the one who received a wedding invitation in the mail one day, and a packet from the lawyers the next. You're not dress shopping for a inconsiderate event, while still signing off on rights and waivers.

You don't get it. You're not the one who had family dinners with candles, and now don't hear a word high or low from what was called your family. You're not the one who will walk down the isle alone, decorate your house alone, and raise your child outside the bond of family. (I know, this could change... but hope is evasive nowadays.)

You don't get it. You're not the one who spent the following six weeks after the death with family each night at the dinner table, collectively working it through. The lost them completely somewhere along the way. You're not the one who wrote the obituary, planned the funeral, picked out the songs in the books, coordinated the food for 500+ people, had phone calls back and forth with pastors & planners, and arranged flowers to be distributed.

People don't get it. And because of this, they say and think stupid things. Hurtful things. Colliding things.

People don't get it, because their ignorant. They are not expected to get it. They can't get it. Because they haven't been here... I wouldn't really want them to really be able to get it... but the empathy strung alone could still reach the gap...

You can't equate the death of one, with the death of another. You can't equate the loss of family one way, to the loss of family another.

You can't equate four months of bedside cancer to drowning to roadkill. You can't equate childhood divorce to adult separation, to adoption, to betrayal, to no family at all. So to equate them is to draw conclusions that shouldn't be referenced in a way that does.

You can, gather empathy, listen carefully, and simply come by and say "I'm sorry." Or you can do countless of other things...

But you can't understand what it is like to go from last year, having security in all of it... to this year, walking through that front door on a Friday night.... to arranging a funeral, to hearing it was all a sick & psycho lie, to writing thank-you cards, to spending nights on your dad's couch, to arranging family meals, to boating, to sitting in a hearing, see seeing her face on the nightly news, to corresponding through the phone to lawyers, to seeing your face on the paper, to moving across the country, to developing new friends, to starting a yell-at-you job, to managing life away from anything safe, to receiving the outcomes of sentences, to watching your dad be touched by another woman, to starting another new job, to being yelled at over Christmas, to moving again, to being blamed & called "materialistic", to watching the man who killed your mother be chain-cuffed to jail, to the next day hearing her husband proposed, to hearing that you think you're the only one that's grieving, to having lies show up as broken truth again and again like the housewares and furniture that is now, too, scattered about without you.

You can't get it. You don't get it. But I have two Easter cards and a 1980's-looking wedding invitation and a lawyer packet to prove it.

Both In Tough Times.

Question: What do you do when you're both in tough times?

I wonder about this as I wade through my own struggles, and also hear the intensity of some of those of my friends. Usually, one is strong while the other is weak, and visa versa. But what if both are trying to be strong, while both are also really weak. What if you both are trying to help carry each other's burdens, but are in reality, really heavily carrying your won. Do you keep both entering into each other's deep waters? Does that help or hinder the friendship? The burdens?

I don't know.

I just have these thoughts. And I wonder what you, my precious loved ones, also think/wonder/process about it...