The Disabled Bride

 

Though I have lived with this body of mine for 28 years, I'm still learning how to listen to it. Disability affects every part of my life. As I've learned rather suddenly, this includes even my thoughts and actions as a bride-to-be. When David and I got engaged in November, with a wedding planned for the spring, I was genuinely concerned with how the stress of planning a wedding would compound my chronic pain and fatigue, especially knowing that Michigan winters and professional stressors make the effects of my spastic Cerebral Palsy much more pronounced in my daily living during these cold months. However, I knew that a short engagement was a non-negotiable for us. We knew that God was calling us into marriage, and we wanted to honor that call as soon as possible.

I sought advice from other professionals in my field. I talked with my doctors about my health concerns.. I talked with my future husband. How could  we all work together so that I could maintain my professional sanity, my personal health, and my commitment to planning this event?  I seriously considered forgoing the whole event, and instead, thought of marrying David in an intimate ceremony with only our siblings, parents and grandparents in attendance. There were a lot of reasons for this consideration, but my concerns for my physical stamina to get through this season were prominent.  Maybe other people could do the big wedding, I thought. But maybe those people aren’t battling their bodies on a daily basis. We have reasonable accommodations in the workplace; can we think about extending those to societal events and expectations?  

I recalled, rather grimly, how on my brother Joshua’s wedding day, my other brother, Christopher, had to carry me to the van after we had our pictures taken because my muscles locked up in the early November chill, and I couldn’t move my legs. Thanks to some pretty strong muscle relaxants and Advil, I was able to celebrate and dance that night, but those moments of pain still punctuate my memory of an otherwise joyous day.  I was afraid that on my own wedding day, with nerves and excitement at an all-time high, and everyone watching my every move, my body would just be like, “Um, yeah, I’m not gonna function anymore today, ‘cause this pressure is too much. BYYYE!” and I would be in visible pain, and everyone would be sad and blah blah blah.

David and I decided to go the route of traditional wedding – the people, the cake, the dancing and the whole bit – so I decided to change my mindset. I decided that the wedding itself was periphery to the actual thing I wanted. A marriage. So, I told myself, I wasn’t going to care about being a bride, when really all I wanted was to be David’s wife.

With that shift in focus, I decided that wedding planning would not alter my life in any way. It would be the thing that I could use to fill my time, when I had time. Like a hobby or something. I did not want to compromise my work goals, or my social engagements, or my physical health. It would be great! I would be an example for all women who felt that they had to cave to these cultural norms and pressures of planning a really expensive party, AND I would be an advocate for disabled brides everywhere! “Your body doesn’t need this stress of planning a big wedding, ladies! Don’t even think about it!”

 Haha.

For the most part, I have been really mindful of my self-care. The days that I have taken away from work have been primarily due to my spastic Cerebral Palsy, and have had very little to do with actual wedding planning, which makes me happy.  However, I think that weddings bring a whole lotta stress, no matter who you are, so my body has been reacting to that in full force these last few weeks. It’s been fatiguing  in the worst ways.

This blog post, for example, began as an idea I had on Monday night, when I was awake until two in the morning, battling insomnia, a killer migraine and fully body spasms, all while simultaneously bursting into lists of things I hadn’t accomplished yet or even thought about for our wedding day. As I shoved my face into the pillow and hit snooze a million times on Tuesday morning, for the first time in this whole process, I regretted my decision to just keep charging ahead as if nothing monumental was happening. As if I didn’t have physical limitations.

I wish I would have been better about listening to the needs of my body. I wish I would have taken the time off; not because I’m a bride, but because I am a woman with a physical disability that demands that I carefully steward my time and energy.

I know that my wedding day might look a little different behind the scenes. I already made the emotionally painful decision to not wear high heels on my wedding day. No matter how pretty and feminine I feel in them, I know that they are the first class ticket to immediate spasticity and immobility.  I’m prepared to bring my support cane, or a walker to rest as much as possible. I’m prepared to advocate for my needs, as they arise, even if it seems a little unconventional.  We might just take a lot of sitting pictures. Or fewer pictures. I don’t know. I’ll know as the need arises. I might have to sit during part of the ceremony. That’s fine.

 This is a learning process, living with a disability, and I am fortunate to have the friends and family to support me through it. Whatever happens, in 9 days, I will marry the love of my life, my partner in all things, and my biggest encourager and supporter. And I am overjoyed.

Why "It Happened To Me" Needs To Be Taylor Swift's Next Single

I was sitting in the East Lansing Greyhound bus station in October of last year when I received a breaking news alert about then-Presidential candidate Donald Trump. Reading over the exchange now makes me just as sick as it did on that autumn day.

 

"I moved on her and I failed. I'll admit it," Trump said. "I did try and fuck her. She was married."

"...You know I'm automatically attracted to beautiful -- I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait."

"And when you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything ... Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything."

 

Of all of the horrible, vile, inappropriate things Trump had said up until that point, this revelation, from an exchange in 2005, was the one that devastated me to my very core. Because I know what it's like to be victimized by dehumanizing language and predatory actions. I have friends - male and female - who have been victims of intimate atrocities.

 

And, God help me, I struggle to respect and understand why people whom I genuinely love and get along with would vote for him after that. Why they defend this so-called "locker room talk."  I want to scream at them: How dare you?  How dare you betray the dignity and worth of your fellow human being by electing someone who uses his power to prey on the vulnerable? How dare you?

 

-------------------

On Monday afternoon, after four days of testimony, Taylor Swift won her countersuit against former disc jockey, David Mueller, for sexual assault and battery. She accused that, in June of 2013, he had groped her during a photo opportunity at a meet-and-greet. 

 

In her 2016 deposition, Swift said, “Right as the moment came for us to pose for the photo, he took his hand and put it up my dress and grabbed onto my ass cheek, and no matter how much I scooted over, it was still there. It was not an accident, it was completely intentional, and I have never been so sure of anything in my life.” To the court, she stated, “It happened to me. He had a handful of my ass. It happened to me.”

 

I have always been a huge fan of Taylor Swift. We are the same age. We share an affinity for fashion, red lipstick and cats. Taylor's music has provided the soundtrack to my life for the better part of a decade, and I have often wished that I was in her "squad" of famous ladies. In reading about her 2013 assault, and how she has responded to it through the court system, my respect and admiration for her has only deepened. And, sadly, this incident has given me even more commonality with the pop star.

 

In August of 2013, it happened to me. He had a handful of my ass. It happened to me.

 

Richard and I had just ended our second date, and I knew this would be the last. I hesitated even accepting the second date, because he had crossed boundaries. On our first date, I stammered, "I don't do that,"  as he slipped his hand past my dress and up my thigh. "I'm a virgin." I was proud of my chastity, and I thought it would protect me; thought that he wouldn't want to pursue someone who is inexperienced. I couldn't imagine that knowledge of my virginity would only heighten the chase.

 

He asked to walk me to the door. I declined, making some witty comment about independence and feminism. I wanted to appear confident, but truly, I couldn't wait to leave the confines of his customized European car. Richard insisted. "Let me be a gentleman. I'm old-fashioned."

Old-fashioned, perhaps, but most certainly old. Richard was nearly four decades older than me. Yes, you read that correctly. He was around the same age as our President was when he made those comments about grabbing pussy back in 2005.  I was 23. Richard was 62.  I was lonely. He was lecherous. I had Old Hollywood ideals of an older man (I blame you, Cary Grant!), and Richard knew how to play that daydream.  He told me I was his embodied fantasy. His Grace Kelly. His fairy queen. He confessed that every time we shared an elevator, or whenever I walked past him, "I just want to grab you and kiss you!" Sound familiar?

 

I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait.

 

All of these were red flags (Taylor Swift's song lyric, "I knew you were trouble when you walked in", comes to mind, here!), but I was experimenting. (He was exploiting.) I allowed him to walk me to the door. He leaned in for a hug, I was hesitant. And suddenly, his hand was far below my waistline, clamped. He had a handful of my ass.

 

Two thoughts simultaneously erupted in my mind at that moment. 1.) NO. 2.) Shouldn't I be enjoying this? Isn't this the part of the date where my hormones are supposed to get all hot and heavy, and my heart, wild and hurried?

I pushed him away.  I rushed up to my apartment, alone, suddenly fearful and feeling incredibly vulnerable.

Richard and I worked in the same building. The next day, I had an all day conference out-of-town. The day after that, I called in sick. I didn't want to see him. I verbally told him that I didn't want to see him.

 

Richard was persistent. He sent me cards through interoffice mail. He made me a mix CD of love songs. He bought me a huge glass bottle of Coca-Cola. About a month after our first date, he followed me as I waited for the Go!Bus and presented me with a gift. He bought me jewelry with a card that said, "Please accept this as a token of my esteem." I refused. He became angry with me. He accused me of being dramatic when I insisted that men don't buy jewelry for a woman unless they are expecting something from her. He was insulted, and forced the gift into my hands. Richard left the building just as my bus arrived.

 

He was using his power to try and buy me. We hadn't slept together, but in that moment, I felt like a prostitute.

 

Richard proceeded to stalk me while I was at work. I didn't use that word for it at the time - I was too afraid, but that's what he did. He was everywhere that I was, in and outside that building. And I'll never forget his casually predatory stance -- always leaned up against a wall, always watching me, and undressing me with his eyes. I could just feel him. And at those times when I was brave enough to confront him with my own gaze and a forced congeniality, Richard would shuffle his feet and lower his head. More than once I asked him to leave me alone.

 

Six months after our first date, he cornered me in the mailroom and invited me to move in with him, as if we were already in the middle of an intimate conversation. His tone of voice was so soft and matter-of-fact. He said, "I can just picture you there. You would look so well in my kitchen," and "You deserve to be the belle of Grand Rapids. Just like your last name."

 

For two and a half years, Richard and I worked in that same building, and his patterns of "causally bumping into me" stayed mostly the same, with only a few creative exceptions of showing up at my office with his grandson, or whatever. I found out that he was only one of two individuals in the building who had access to the security cameras, which explained why he knew exactly where I was at all times. I was constantly anxious, wondering where he watched, and how often, and if he would show up at my apartment. And once, he saw me in Barnes & Noble with a date. He didn't approach me there....he simply watched me and my date from the second floor, and told me about it the next Monday.

 

I was too afraid to make any formal reports. I told my parents and my coworkers and my roommates, but beyond that, Richard was just that creepy guy who grabbed my ass and worked in my office building. By his own account, he had previously worked for law enforcement, so even as I thought about pursuing legal action, I was horrified that he would find a way to turn it all back on me. That he would say that I was just a lonely graduate student who got confused about her dating choices.

 

Which is why I am devastated that Donald Trump can so carelessly speak about inappropriately touching women and be elected to our highest office. Which is why I am so thankful that Taylor Swift won a dollar worth of damages as a symbol for women like me. Which is why she needs to write about it, And sing about it. These things are connected. And they are vitally important.

 

It happened to me. He had a handful of my ass. It happened to me.

 

 

 

---------

#ThrowbackThursday - Norman Bates and Birth Control

Dreams are weird.

The other day, some girlfriends and I were sitting around, talking about some of our most memorable dreams. In college, I used to write my dreams in short-story form, and then read them aloud at get-togethers. Some of them are still pretty legendary for a few friends.  Like that one time when I had a dream that I was an unwed teen mom, circa 1900, and so, to save my dignity, I married Michigan-born actor, Jeff Daniels, and we had six kids, and he had cancer, and then it was in remission, and then it came back, and the dream ended. I can still picture the gaslights that adorned our Victorian-era living room. And our kids were all incredibly blonde. That dream, because of it's dramatics, is still one of my favorites. (Cue: Jeff Daniels, carrying our youngest up to bed, turning to face me, and exclaiming with a dramatic sigh, "Cassaundra! The cancer's back!" End Scene.) My friend, Hope quoted that final line to me as we were reminiscing this past weekend.

When I think about past dreams, especially during this time of year, I always have a small smile for the holiday-themed-love affair my subconscious brewed up in December of 2010. I was kind of obsessed with classic Hollywood actor, Anthony Perkins, during that stressful Final Exam season. Though he is best known for playing literal lady-killer Norman Bates in Hitchcock's 1960 masterpiece, "Psycho", I always found him rather swoon-y in a tall, lanky and shy kind of way. That fall, I had discovered his lesser-known attempts at crooning (that guy had multiple jazz albums!), and romantic comedies, and used his films as distractions from my studies.

In honor of that night (or, early morning...?) I want to share the dream again, on the six-year anniversary. #ThrowbackThursday to that time when I dream-dated Anthony Perkins, referenced the Bates Motel, and refused birth control even though we were moving in together. All while having dinner with my family. Y'know, typical Christmas stuff...

The Man of My Dreams: Anthony Perkins - December 15, 2010

December 15, 2010 at 10:22am

 

My dream about Tony Perkins – December 15, 2010

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: I always have the strangest dreams. I think this one comes from the fact that I have been cramming my mind with Biology (you'll see this represented in the mention of human gestation/pregnancy), thinking about publishing my writing (I feel my subconciois gave poet Mary Karr a shout out when, in my dream, Tony talks about babies being no bigger than a bite of burger. I think Mary wote a poem about that.), and the fact that last night as a study break, I watched Anthony Perkins playing a cute college kid in the romantic comedy, "Tall Story". Also, this dream was written right after it happened, so it's not my best work, but it makes me laugh. Also, the dream ends where it does because at that moment, I was woken up at 7:44am. by a woman who had a wrong number. She thought I was Kim, and she was telling me to tell Jim something about a freezer.  Weird. So, here's my dream....I hope it amuses you! :) *

Snow swirled around the twinkling lights that hung above the frosted windows. Made to look like a cozy, secluded cabin in the woods, this restaurant planted in the middle of a busy stretch of McDonald’s and Wendy’s, seemed out of place, but I was glad that we could get out of the cold, and enjoy a nice dinner before heading back and cramming for the rest of our exams.

Tony parked his little green Bug, sloshing it up against the snow bank. He turned off the car, and settled back against the seat. His short, silky dark hair caught the glow of the winter moonlight, and smiling at me,  he leaned over and pecked my cheek, warming me from head to toe. Oh, how I loved him! But there was something behind that smile; it didn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes, and it told me that he wasn’t altogether happy. The nervousness that lingered below his charming exterior worried me. I knew that he could get so wound up, so anxious, and I was uncertain of how I would handle him if he had one of those episodes again. 

We got out of the car, and together walked, hand in hand to the restaurant. A nice couple walked in ahead of us, and the gentleman held the door open for Tony and me. Tony just stood there. Underneath the glow of the restaurant’s light, I looked up at him. His tall, skinny frame was covered only in a stylish grey sweater and dark, denim slacks. I was always worried about his health – that man never ate anything – and now without a coat, I was worried that he would just catch a death of cold out there in the December snow. Plus, I thought it was rude and awkward that he was just standing there, especially because that other couple was waiting for us.

 “Anthony,” I grabbed his hand again. “let’s go inside.”

He stiffened. “I –I don’t want to. Not yet.”

 Oh, dear. “Well, you can’t just stand here, letting all the cold air in. Plus, these nice people are waiting to come in. Come on. I think my parents are right over there.  I’m sorry!” I smiled at the couple who were waiting, and I let them shuffle past us. Anthony still didn’t move.

“I – I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m n-not very hungry, you know,” he stuttered.

I sighed and grabbed his hand, practically yanking him behind me. I directed our paths to a booth where my parents sat with another couple.

“Tony!” The man who sat across from my father turned around and reached out to shake my boyfriend’s hand. "How are you, my boy? Does your mother still own that old motel?"

Tony stiffly nodded – it seemed more like a jerk of the head. “Yes, -uh, H-hello. Good to see you. Um, darling,” he cleared his throat and directed his attention back to me. “I – I think I’ll go sit over there where your brothers are, if you-you don’t mind.”

Before I could respond, he slipped past me, placing his hands on my shoulders for the briefest moment as he left. I watched him practically fold himself in half to get into that tiny booth, his long legs crowding under the table.

“Hey, what’s the matter with Tony tonight?” my mother inquired.

“Yes,” the man who had originally spoken to Tony agreed. “I haven’t sen him since he graduated high school, and I wanted to see how he was fairing. It’s good to see alumni back in these parts again.”

“Oh, you know,” I smiled. “End of term finals, things like that. He’s fine.”

I really had no idea, so I left my comments there, and joined the trio of boys at the table. My brothers had already ordered their meal, and were close to finishing once the waitress finally came to take our orders. As we waited for our food, Tony and I laughed together with my brothers, chatting about Christmas-y things. It all seemed to e going very well, until --

“Let me see that last bit of burger, there,” Tony began and before anyone could object, he reached across the table, and with his long, delicate pale fingers, he plucked the grizzled and gnawed bit of burger off of my brother’s plate. My eyes widened when Tony took this deformed piece of food, and held it against my abdomen, the grease clinging to the wool of my sweater.

“Um, Anthony? W-what are you doing?”

‘Do you see this piece of burger?” Tony began as he spread his fingers over my belly. “This bite of burger is no bigger than what an embryo will be in your uterus in a matter of weeks. Of course, assuming implantation occurs. ” (*side note: OH MY GOSH!!!! I HATE Biology!)

“What??”

“Did you ask your mother about birth control pills?”

“Tony!!” I gasped as I looked at my brothers wildly. Their expressions were that of shock and discomfort. “No, I didn’t ask her, and I mean – why would – just no!”

“Well, you’ll need to ask her,” he began matter-of-factly.  I really didn't like his insistant tone.  “Because I’m moving in tonight and the sooner you get them, the better; we can’t take any chances of you getting pregnant.”

“Um – No! Tony, this is a really inappropriate conversation to be having in front of my brothers. Plus, just because you’re moving in, doesn’t mean that we’re going to start having sex.  I never said that. And even if we did, how is it that you’re so confident that you would get me pregnant right away, anyway?”

He chuckled as he laid aside the burger. “Well, darling,” he took my hand in both of his, beaming that smile of his. It reached his eyes this time.  “I know that you’re a bookworm  extraordinaire, and that  an educated woman like yourself has little time or interest for any sort of recreation, but I was hoping I could…p-persuade you.”

He only faltered on the last two words.

“Well, I –I don’t know….” My words faded to nothing as the waiter came with our meals. Suddenly, my double cheeseburger with the works and onion rings didn’t seem appealing at all.

Tony Perkins: Man of my dreams...or at least this dream! :)

Premature Mom Guilt

No, I'm not pregnant. You can all take a deep breath.

However, last Friday, when I ran home for a very late lunch break, and scrubbed dishes in-between organizing my mail and gulping lukewarm soup from the only clean bowl left in my possession, I thought of all of the moms I know, and wondered how often they hear the negative whispers that I heard that day. That nagging, buzzing refrain of, "Your apartment is a wreck! Your cat is being ignored! Bills need to be paid, and WHEN was the last time you vacuumed?!" screamed in my brain. I thought, "Huh. This must be what that whole 'Mom Guilt' thing is all about."  I realized that this is something I could be very prone to experiencing if, Lord willing, I have a family of my own, someday.

Never doing enough. Never being enough. Never completing all of the things on that never-ending to-do list. Never feeling like I'm properly managing that whole "work-life-balance" thing. Sound familiar?  

Now, of course, I know that “Mom Guilt” isn’t a real diagnostic term. It’s just a clever, gendered title for something that has ailed all of humanity since the beginning of creation. Those co-occurring lies of Worthlessness and Required Perfection. We cannot listen or live up to either parts of that lie. But, oh! How tempting and trapping those thoughts become to me.

I’ve learned a lot about this during the last year, and I have my disability to thank for providing the lessons. Spastic Cerebral Palsy, though technically not degenerative or life-threatening, is a chronic disability, and its effects in my day-to-day have been much more disruptive and apparent in my young adult life than I could have ever imagined. Immobilizing pain and dangerous falls. Every muscle within me will spasm, and burn and throb, and jolt, as though electricity is coursing through every vein. And sometimes, I listen to my body, and I use a support cane to navigate. I take a few hours or a day off from work. I rest and stretch and soak in boiling bubble baths.

These days of pain, though, have become more frequent, and so my willingness to “take a day” for myself has been dwindling. I have to work, because, bills! And professional development! And, I-Worked-Hard-For-This-Masters-Degree-So-I-Had-Better-Work! You know, that whole Required Perfection lie. That whole Worthlessness thing.

I have to choose where my energy goes, because if there’s one thing I have learned, it’s that physical pain is absolutely exhausting. This week is a prime example of that choice. I am proud about the ways in which my professional life is flourishing. I successfully closed one of my most difficult client cases, I began writing a blog for our organization (which means that I’m a paid writer, now!), and I began teaching a 10-week Employment Readiness class. However, these professional successes have come at a personal cost. My dishes are half-done, clean clothes are strewn all over the bedroom floor, and I can’t seem to stand for more than five minutes when I get home at the end of the day.  

And that’s when  the Premature Mom Guilt settles in. I keep thinking, “I’m not doing enough in my personal life.” Currently, I am in bed, with three pillows and a heating pad supporting me, and all I want is a neck massage, a glass of wine, and Barry Manilow’s Christmas album playing all night long. I am frustrated and thankful all at the same time. Frustrated that I can’t do these things for myself as well as I would like. Thankful that no one else is depending on me to accomplish them. Thankful that it’s just me and my cat, living in this apartment. Frustrated that it’s just the two of us.

I hope that in ten years, if I’m fortunate enough to be someone’s Mom, I’ll remember this blog post. I’ll remember my tendency to believe the lies of Worthlessness and Required Perfection, and I’ll be a little more gracious with myself and all that I am trying to accomplish in this beautiful life that God has given me. I’ll remember, amidst the homework, and parent--teacher conferences, and his-and-hers-work obligations, and physical exhaustion, that I am doing the best that I can.  After all, that’s all that any of us can ask of ourselves. And in ten years, there will be wine, and neck massages, and Barry Manilow’s Christmas album – all these, reminders of contentment and rest, rejuvenation and joy.

Be kind to yourself -- tonight, tomorrow, ten years from now.

Learning to Lament: Thoughts on Vision Loss

Public transportation has been hugely impactful on my ability to live an independent life. And for all it's imperfections and frustrations, I'm thankful for it. And friends, family, and loved ones have always "gone the extra mile" (pun TOTALLY intended) to help me get where I want to be. And they will never know the full depth of my gratitude for that.

Yet, for all of these blessings, there are moments when I feel trapped by my inability to drive. Trapped by this visual impairment. And my heart aches so deeply because of it.  The pain is suffocating. The pain that I can't be where I want to be, when I want to be there. My heart is so willing, but my eyes are unable.

Tonight is one of those nights.

I don't write this to invite you to a pity party.  I write this as a reminder to myself (and to anyone dealing with chronic setbacks) that no matter how independent I feel on my best days, there will always be, I think, a mourning for things that cannot be because of this disability.  And that's OK. It is called "Vision Loss", after all.

Too often, I get caught up in who I think I'm supposed to be, who society expects me to be, as a woman who is legally blind. I think I've been inherently taught that I need to be continually optimistic, because when I walk around Grand Rapids with my white cane, I'm the Face of Disability. And, heaven forbid that this face is marred by mascara-stained tears.

For the most part, I'm totally OK with pursuing that optimism. My very nature is one of sunny altruism, and I never want that to change.  I recognize that I am abundantly blessed, so that I may bless others. I've just started a job in my field, at an agency I love. I have amazing friends and family, and I am in a loving, committed relationship with the kindest man I have ever met. God has sustained me graciously and lovingly for 26 years, and I rejoice in all of that. I rejoice every single day.

Yet there is still vision loss. And, on nights like tonight, when all I want is to get in a car and drive to Ypsilanti to surprise my boyfriend, the profundity of that loss hits me like news of a death, and I am angry and saddened. It is a loss of spontaneity. A loss of complete autonomy. A loss, on some level, of dreams that I envision for my life, both now and in the future.

And so, I grieve.  I am learning that, on some level, I will always have moments of this grief. Seasons of my life will change, and so too, will the limitations. So too, will the lamentations.  I'm finally accepting this truth.

I believe that making peace with the pain, and allowing myself these authentic moments of sadness, can only increase my capacity to seek those authentic moments of joy.  And it is the search for this joy, and the hope for it, that makes all of this suffering worthwhile.

The Breaking Season: Reflections for Christmas 2015

As I sit here on a dreary December afternoon,  with a bright fire in the hearth, and Nat King Cole singing about the chestnuts that should be roasting there, I think of this season of Christmas, and how God specializes in brokenness.  I reflect on the fact that He broke into our humanity to bring us the blessing of His loving and saving grace, through the gift of His Son.  Jesus was broken to make us whole, and wounded to heal us. His body was fragmented so that through Him we could be fulfilled.

Brokenness.  

Everything is broken. And not in a good way.

At least, that’s how I felt in February of 2015.

My internship at the time wasn’t igniting any of my passions as a social worker, and my graduate classes felt as though they were being taught in a foreign language.  In both my work and social circles dangerously tumultuous relationships were only in the very beginning stages of wreaking havoc in my life, and yet, I sensed the forthcoming destruction, even then.  Broken spirit.

The effects of my Cerebral Palsy had rendered me immobile with pain most winter mornings, and something had to be done so that I could continue functioning in all of my obligations. So, that month, I began my eight-week sessions of Physical and Occupational Therapy.  At twenty-five years old, I felt like I possessed the energy and agility of someone more than three times my age, and there were many mornings when I wept as I struggled to button my blouses. I mourned that none of my muscles will ever work as well as I would like. Broken body.

I had ended a series of really uncomfortable “getting to know you” dates with a guy whose only commonality was that we are both legally blind.  And though I knew that this man would never be well-matched, there was still an aching.  My endless hope for a loving, respectful and committed relationship faltered-- yet again -- when I accepted that he wasn’t Mr. Right. And he was, like, the fourth Mr. Not Right in the last six months. Broken dreams.

 I cried out to God. But God seemed so far away.  Or, rather, I was far from Him. Broken heart.

February was always my least favorite month.

 On the last Friday in February, my dear friend, Sasha took me to dinner. She wanted to care for me in the best way she knew how – with hot soup and a warm heart. She and I sat across from each other in a cozy Panera Bread booth, and the words she spoke carried me through that night, and through this year.

“I used to run like hell from the idea of change and breaking and ending,” she began. “Because it’s just so painful. But, I’m learning to rush into it, now.  To embrace it, no matter how destructive it seems, because breaking is sometimes necessary. Look at nature. It happens all the time, in order for new growth. ”

During the winter months, God breaks and bends the twigs and trees under the weight of ice, and snow, and cold. And this process seems long, and painful and deathlike. But, oh! How necessary, this breaking season, so that spring may triumphantly come, and hope may break through the thawing ground, and brilliantly bloom with new life.

Many times this year I’ve attempted to write about the Breaking Season, yet never knew how to begin.   I realize now that this season, for me, lasted this all of this year, and thus, I couldn’t begin to speak about it until this very moment. I’ve broken away from those relationships and environments that were breaking me. I’ve sat with loved ones as we cried over our broken pasts and shared our fears of an equally fragmented future. Some good relationships broke, too, and I mourned that loss, as well.  And through all of these agonizing changes, I have found a tremendous gift of peace and healing.

Peace and healing in a time of brokenness and despair.  That’s what Christmas is all about, isn’t it?  I love the juxtapositions in our Christmas celebrations.   We celebrate the miracle of hope and promise and renewal in the bleak of winter – at a time when everything is dead and withering away. Light comes to the world at the darkest time of the year, and Christ is born in a barren season.

The beauty of these contradictions remind me of a poem by Robert Hayden which is entitled Ice Storm.

In the poem, the narrator is awake in the middle of the night, watching as a blizzard curls its vice-like grip over trees in his field, and he is speaking to God about the destruction he observes.  In the final stanza, the narrator says:

“The trees themselves, as in winters past,

will survive their burdening,

broken thrive. And am I less to You,

my God, than they?”

I often recite these words as a prayer on those days when my heart feels as lifeless and frostbitten as winter’s snapped and ice-glazed branches.  When I need a reminder that I am heard. When I need a reminder that I am His.  

Now, I know that I will experience breaking in this next year, and the year following, and every year after that for the rest of my life. Ten months ago, I wouldn’t have been comfortable committing that truth to page. But, I am slowly becoming more like my dear friend, Sasha, and not only accepting the change, but embracing the brokenness of this life. These struggles, these devastations, are only emboldening me for the life God has in store.

Everything is broken.  And it is beautiful.

Merry Christmas.

Nourished By Breadcrumbs

"Give us this day, our daily bread."

In the years since graduating college, praying this line from The Lord's Prayer has taken on new meaning for me, in the both the spiritual and physical sense. I've had to pray that line in it's most literal sense, on more than one occasion, because there have been numerous times when my fridge and  bank account were both entirely empty.

Working less than part-time and relying on a bus to get to and from my groceries doesn't always guarantee that food will be readily available. Yet somehow, I have never gone hungry. A dear friend shows up at my front door with home-made meals to freeze and last me months. Another friend packs up the canned goods, pasta and bread mixes that her family no longer needs, and sends them home with me after work. Or, sometimes, Mom shows up and makes me a meatloaf, "just because". In these moments, God has fed my body,  and reminded me of His physical provision, in all times.

Yet, I've also had time to reflect on what this prayer means for my spiritual nourishment, and have found that the most fortifying meals often come from the smallest of breadcrumbs.

***

I haven't been to church in years. I've certainly church "sampled" since graduating Calvin, but never committed. There are a lot of reasons behind my absence -- the biggest of these propelled by my own fear and anxiety of walking into a service alone, especially if I had to take a Go!Bus to get there. These fears were formed before the advent of Uber.)  Can you imagine that entrance? A small bus, pulling up to the curb of a church, and there I am, cane in hand. There's no room for anonymity, there, and I kind of want that quietness coming into a worship service for the first time. I just want to fade into the background and be fed by The Word --  until I'm more comfortable to immerse myself in a community of  faith.

And I assume that anyone else coming to a church for the first time, regardless of their journey in life, regardless of the burdens they carry, regardless of their ability, might share these same desires.

 I don't want "those" questions -- the ones about my vision loss, about it's connectedness to my faith journey, about how strong I MUST be  -- to be an initial part of a church experience, and I'm here to tell you, in all my "sampling", those questions have been asked in one form or another. And I understand why they are asked in church, just as I understand why I am asked them at a bus stop. I get that people are trying to connect and understand, and I appreciate the thought, but on some level, it's exhausting. Shouldn't the Church be the one place where I am not defined by my bodily limitations, but rather by my identity as a member of the Body of Christ? Is that too much to hope for?

So, I haven't gone to church. And I have felt that absence greatly affect my emotional and spiritual health. I think I have been starving for church community. There's been a hunger to meet God in that place of worship, and I have been neglecting it.

This summer, a friend of mine invited me to Christ Church, the community of faith that he had been attending for the summer. (He had only been living temporarily in GR for an internship.) The service we attended was also on the day that he was moving back home, and I appreciated that this service would be our final "hurrah!" before we parted ways for a few months. Worshipping with loved ones has always been really important  to me.

I really loved the service. The sermon spoke directly to more than one questions of faith that I had been wrestling with, and I so enjoyed singing traditional hymns. While there, my friend and I met a wonderful couple, who, after learning that this was my first time attending, warmly invited me back to future services, even though my friend was moving away. Tiny morsels of assurance. Tiny nuggets of communion.

It was about a month later that I decided to go back to Christ Church. I felt the prompting after listening to one of the podcasts online, and just felt a tugging, "This-Is-Where-You-Should-Be" on my heart. That Sunday morning, I woke up early with the intention of attending the 8:30AM service. I was a nervous wreck as I got ready. I had never, ever, ever gone to a church by myself, and there was an absurd amount of thought about how this would go. ("So, I just, like, walk in and sit down? Like, by myself? But what if I'm late?") As if I was the first person, ever, in the whole history of the world, to attend a Sunday morning service, single-o.

With each moment, I kept looking for God's assurance, kept hoping that He would feed me with bits of this day's bread. And of course, He did. And of course, I faltered in my faith quite a few times that morning. The Uber showed up on time. Yep, God is here.  But oh, no! We're running late, because the Uber got lost! Should I still be doing this? You're only two minutes late, and they're on the second verse of that five-verse hymn. Chill. (Sometimes, I imagine that God says, "Chill" a lot, to me.)

 I made it through the service. And yes, "Made it through" is probably a horrible descripin of anyone's church experience, but I was such a ball of anxiety and nerves that morning, that the making it through was providential, because, in spite of all my stomach-knotting angst, I was abundantly nourished by the service that day. And the biggest bounty came at a moment when my own hunger for recognition howled in my heart, at the end of the service. When everyone was congregating around Sunday school activities, I suddenly felt very alone. This was why I avoided church attendance by myself.

I started this dialogue within, completing doubting that it would make any difference. "Wouldn't that be great if that couple was here, today?" I thought. "I'd really like to see that woman again. I could really use a friendly face. Some sort of sure sign that everything will be OK. But that won't happen, because what are the odds that she's in this service, let alone that she would remember me? I shouldn't hope for -- "

"You came back!" And just like that, she parted the crowds (it all felt very cinematic, actually) and walked towards me. She exclaimed, "Oh, I've been thinking a lot about you, and wondering how you are!" She embraced me as though she had known me her whole life.

In that moment, I was welcomed into a community of believers. Prayers that I didn't even know how to articulate were answered. Faith had been fed. This is where I'm meant to be. May I never starve, again.

{"For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread,  and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, 'This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.'" -- 1 Corinthians 11: 23, 24}