We're Stronger Than We Think: Physically, Mentally, Emotionally, and Spiritually

A couple of weeks ago, I started Crossfit. I'd heard about it. Sneered a little at its "cult following." And was, quite frankly, intimidated by the idea. Why would I, a 42-year-old mother with arthritis in every joint, want to subject myself to Olympic lifts and the infamous "WOD's?" If you Google Crossfit WOD's, you'll find stories of people passing out, throwing up, and ripping muscles. No thank you!

I checked my cynicism when my wonderful brother-in-law joined the movement and lost almost 50 pounds. More importantly, he felt better than he ever had. He inspired me to at least look behind the curtain and see what the hype was about. So one Friday afternoon, I timidly stepped into our local "box," Crossfit Uncompromised. What an eye-opener. There are no puking meatheads there. There are no trainers pushing you to the point of injury. There are no unreachable standards.

Instead, I found professionals who explain things slowly and meticulously so I don't injure myself. They help me while challenging me. Everyone in the class supports one another and encourages one another with "come on, just one more!"

In the years before I started Crossfit, I'd found a comfort zone. I would go to the gym, hop on the elliptical machine, and crank it for an hour. Sure, I'd sweat a little and felt like I'd done something. But the morning after my first Crossfit workout, I KNEW I'd actually done something for my body. I experienced a soreness I hadn't felt in years. And it was good. After that first day, I realized that if I stayed with it, I would be stronger and healthier in my 40's than I was in my 20's. The arthritis in my joints no longer frightens me. I don't worry that in a few years, I'll feel "old." Instead, I'll be strong and healthy.

In the past few weeks, I've learned a few things about myself:

1.   I've learned that I can't simply accept truth about things without investigating the accuracy of that truth.

2.  I've learned that the fear of something can debilitate you to the point of missing the value of it.

3.  I've learned that stepping out of my comfort zone can land me in a place I'm actually more comfortable in.

4.  I've learned that I'm stronger than I thought, both physically and mentally.

5.  I've learned that our bodies are incredibly complex and, no matter what our age, we can awaken things in it that will make us better.

A friend of mine recently trained for a marathon. In the weeks before, due to injury, she realized she would have to walk it instead. This weekend, she completed that marathon. It took her over six hours and I have more admiration for her than those who finished first. She realized that she is stronger than she ever knew.

We are all stronger than we know. The only way to see a glimpse of that strength is to step outside of our comfort zone, reach inside ourselves, and push forward. Especially when things are hard and taking one more step seems impossible.

In the last decade, I've lost my mother, my brother, and my daughter. I've stumbled under the weight of that loss and grief, but I've learned that I'm stronger than I think. I've also realized that my strength comes not from just what is inside of me, but because of who's in me and the people who are beside me everyday, pushing me and cheering me on.  Phillipians 4:13.

Grey's Anatomy, Bad Jokes, and Empathetic Eyes

I love "Grey's Anatomy." I've watched the series since it began, what, eight years ago? I love how each episode scans the spectrum of flippant to life-changing seriousness. But this weeks flippancy hit a nerve. *SPOILER ALERT* The lead character, Dr. Meredith Grey, watched her mother suffer and die from early onset Alzheimer's. One of the other physicians on the show is pursuing genome mapping and agrees to map Meredith's genes and test for Alzheimer's markers. She tests positive. Over the rest of the episode, she doesn't wrestle with this news. She doesn't get angry or sad or deny its veracity. She doesn't walk through any of the stages of grief upon learning she carries the genetic markers for this awful disease. Instead, she tells her husband to give her a lethal dose of morphine "when I can't remember where I put my keys." She also asks her best friend, another physician, to kill her when she forgets where her keys are.

Shame on you, Shonda Rhimes (the creator/writer) for being so insensitively flippant. I've watched my own mother suffer from dementia. Her symptoms started when she was just 50 and now, at the ridiculously young age of 64, she is in the end stages of her disease. Unaware of her surroundings. Unable to do anything for herself.

My novel, The Beauty of Grace, deals with quality of life issues and a woman who suffers from Huntington's Disease, a neurodegenerative disease that also results in dementia. The title character, Grace, decides to commit suicide rather than walk the path of dementia she witnessed in her own mother. In writing Grace and considering these issues of family, faith, quality of life, disease, I struggled with both sides. I tried to bear witness to both the families of those who suffer from dementia and the individuals who face an uncertain future upon receiving the diagnosis.

There is nothing flippant about learning you have an increased risk of becoming demented at a young age. Before your children have children. Before you and your beloved can enjoy your golden years. The manner in which "Grey's Anatomy" handled this issue offended me. But it also reminded me that those who haven't lived through something can't truly appreciate and understand its depths and challenges. The fear it plants deep inside. The cruelty of its uncertainty.

There is nothing funny about learning you have the gene for breast cancer. Or that you have an increased risk of heart disease. Or being born with Cystic Fibrosis, or Down's Syndrome, or countless other life-shortening diseases.

So let us be wary of crossing the line from joking about something as a coping method and being painfully insensitive. We all have a story. Many parts of it are filled with joy and excitement. But there are also parts that are full of intense hurt. Let us approach others with empathy and with the perception that some things simply aren't subject to humor. Whether it be a show you watch, a joke you hear or tell, or a word you say, try and look at others with an awareness drenched in compassion. Because a person's heart and soul--their humanity--is the core of their being. And what unites us all.

To cry is to be strong by giving grief a way out.

This week, one of my friends posted a quote on Facebook. Strangely, it was from Johnny Depp, who said, "People cry, not because they're weak. It's because they've been strong for too long."

This slapped me across the face and resonated so deeply in me that it echoed in my mind all day. So often, people see tears as weakness. A breaking of resolve. A surrender. But, in fact, tears are usually an eruption of an intense hurt. A volcano inside of us that's been building and rumbling for days or weeks or years. Until it can no longer be contained and uncontrollably releases things that have been building deep inside. That spill over the edges and can't be reclaimed.

Life is full of so much happiness. My daughter's kiss when I tell her goodnight. My son's "love you, Mom" as he hops out of the car in the morning at school. My puppy's unadulterated joy when I walk through the door after being gone for a half hour. My husband's gentle squeeze of my hand as we watch "Jeopardy." Sunrises. Sunsets. The smell of a freshly opened bag of coffee. The smell of my puppy's belly after she's been sleeping. A friend's hug. Chocolate chip cookies. A green light. Every day is full of happiness.

But sometimes, we get thrown into reverse by tragedy. It can be sudden or chronic. Life shattering or the slow darkness surrounding the end of something flickering out. The intensity of the pain and sadness induced by the juxtaposition of the joys experienced in everyday can be paralyzing. Overwhelming. Which is when the tears come.

Tonight, I prepared myself for seeing my Mom next week. How I wish I could see her everyday. That she were closer. But she isn't. So next week, I board a plane back to Alabama to check on her and my Dad. I know what I'll find, but I don't know. She's fading. In the end stages of dementia, she hasn't recognized me for years. And that's okay. When I visit her, I care about her comfort and her dignity. I lost my Mommy over a decade ago, but my Mama's still alive. Buried deep inside the beauty who rests quietly in the nursing home.

I cried intensely tonight. Tears of remembrance. Tears of sorrow. Tears of fear. Tears of uncertainty. I couldn't control them or contain them. I found myself sobbing with a wrenching from deep inside. Not simply tears that I blotted, but ones that began in my belly. The base of my soul. That I felt in my entire body. But with each one, with each sob, the pain left. The pain I continually push down over my sweet Mama's disease found release. This reminded me that no matter how much we try to push it down, what hurts us will pop up. Like an inflatable we attempt to shove down in a pool.

So let the tears flow. Let the pain leave your heart through your eyes. Let your spirit release it. Because it won't be held captive and will find its own way out. Better you create the avenue than let it carve its way out destructively.

Love Languages and How We Can Truly Communicate Our Love

Recently, a good friend asked me what my "love language" is. I've heard this term before. In fact, I once sat in Barnes & Noble and skimmed through a book on how to figure out your child's love language. That was years ago, but the idea of a love language and the way we express ourselves came to the forefront of my mind when I heard my friend ask a seventh grader, "Do you know your love language? I think it's gift-giving because that's how you express your love to people."

These few words spoken to a child in a moment of sincere inquiry caused me to pause and truly think about how my family expresses love. What became apparent to me is not only that we need to express our love in ways that reach those we love, but that we also need to understand their signs and words of affection outside the lens of our own love language.

When my honey heard about this topic, he asked "what are they?" To clarify, they are:

1.  Words of affirmation: people who experience love through this language find verbal expressions of love, acceptance, and affirmation as feeling loved.

2.  Quality time: people who experience love this way feel most loved when their loved one gives them undivided attention. Focus. Putting everything aside and simply being with them.

3.  Gifts:  to show love to a person who has this love language requires not simply buying something. It's buying the perfect gift. Although this isn't my primary love language, it's certainly my secondary, which I've realized by the fact that I always find it important to not just give someone I love a birthday or Christmas gift, but to give them the gift that will mean the most to them. My honey did this a few years ago on Mother's Day. We'd been watching "American Idol" and he heard me say that the song one of the contestants sang was one of my favorite songs. He pocketed this, then went online and found several versions of the song and burned six of them to a CD for me. The fact that he heard me, then spent time creating something just for me meant more than any chocolate, diamond, or fancy dinner.

4.  Acts of Service: This is most definitely my love language. I distinctly remember watching my husband vacuum and feel enormous love. When he says, "Let me do that for you" or "How can I help you," all I hear is "I love you."  I find myself expressing love this way by serving others. Whether it's picking up my daughter's messy clothes, paying property taxes so my honey doesn't have to worry about them, packing animal crackers in Ty's lunch or bringing coffee to a friend, I show those I love that I do in the way I experience it. In researching the topic, I read that laziness or making more work for someone with this language actually comes across as expressions that their feelings don't matter. Love is expressed to those with this language by actions that require thought and a positive spirit.

5.  Physical touch:  enough said. This love language is expressed through the brush of a hand. A kiss on the cheek. A squeeze of the knee.

       In looking at these, I easily identified mine. Those close to me can tell me all day they love me. They can give me gifts. Take me to a movie. Hold my hand. But when they selflessly do a simple task like empty the dishwasher without being asked or help me bring groceries in from the car or unpack their backpacks and lunch boxes without being asked, I feel loved. Because these simple acts say to me "I appreciate you. I want to make your day easier by helping with the little tasks that I can." They demonstrate thinking about someone else over yourself--and to me, that is the ultimate expression of love.

      In thinking through this, I also realized that expressing my love through my own love language might not be the most effective way to show those I love how I feel. Just because Acts of Service is my love language doesn't mean it's my husband's or daughter's or son's. I must see how they express their love to me and return that in kind. Because to show them how I love them requires me speaking their language. Just as a gift or word doesn't express as much to me as undertaking a task for me, I need to understand how my family experiences love and show it in a way they understand instead of a way that feels right to me.

     Because at our core, loving and feeling loved is the penultimate and we owe it to ourselves and those we love to get it right.

Words

We all have things in our lives that are difficult to begin, but once we do become just as difficult to stop. For some, it's a good book. You get so engrossed in the characters and plot that you find yourself stealing time in the carpool line or anywhere you can grab a second to read more and fill yourself with the story. For some, it's a bag of cheetos. You pop one into your mouth as you empty your child's lunchbox only to find yourself taking the box out of the cabinet because you can't get enough of the salty, cheesy yumminess that makes you lick your fingers. For others, particularly middle school girls (like my daughter), she balks about getting into the shower, but once she's in there the water heater drains. Or maybe its a reluctance to stop your busy day to run to the gym, but once you start and your heart is pumping and the endorphins dumping, you wonder why you don't do this everyday.

I love words (hence the name of the blog). I love reading them. I love writing them. I love exploring and examining their magnitude and their simplicity. How they give breath and life to us. How without them, our connection to one another would be limited to the point of isolation. Words have started and ended wars. Started and ended marriages. And friendships. They have the power to hurt and to heal. To pull together and push apart. Through them, we can honestly share ourselves or manipulate those around us. They connect us and allow us to explore and share our deepest thoughts and feelings in the hope of creating or solidifying a connection. We all need to be heard. Understood. Accepted. Loved. And words lay the roadway for that.

Superfluous conversation allows us to fill time and can create a false sense of connection. It's only when we open ourselves up and allow our words to speak truth instead of expectations that we make true connections with people. Form friendships that are both accepting and challenging. We can find comfort in the intimacy while being forced to expose ourselves honestly.

I realize that the majority of our relationships buzz along the periphery of who we really are. To protect ourselves, we only allow a few to truly understand us. Words are the impetus for this. Words allow us to expose ourselves. Open ourselves to a vulnerability that forces us to grow. In my own life, I've had few of these. And I've been fortunate enough to marry one of them. And to have friends who speak truth to me.

As my friend, Michelle, and I keep moving along the road of telling her family's story of life with her special needs son, Nick, I hope that the deep and honest intensity of our conversations in crafting her book allow us to stretch one another and find a truth within ourselves through our words that changes us. 

 

How Ten Years of Pain Has Opened the Door for Ten Years of Joy

Ten years ago, I lay in a hospital bed having just been induced for labor. Ten years ago this afternoon, I learned that the sweet baby girl I carried inside of me had died just shy of six months being alive. Ten years ago, I suffered the hardest physical and emotional pain I have ever endured. Because ten years ago, I held the hand of my sweet, two-year-old Peyton, while my obstetrician looked for a heartbeat for our sweet baby Abby. Ten years ago, I lay in denial as I stared at the ultrasound screen while the absence of her pulsing heartbeat changed my world forever. Ten years ago, my soul teetered on the brink of death as I screamed at God for stealing my little girl from me before I'd even met her.

Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of Abby's birth/death: January 10, 2003. Every year, I pull out my "Abby box." It holds our only pictures of her in the hospital nursery. Her tiny footprints on her birth certificate--evidence of her time with us. The solemn death certificate. The map of Pebble Beach with a heart on the spot where we scattered her ashes. Photographs of the bench we carved her name into at Pebble Beach to mark her grave.

As the years have passed, the anniversary of her birthday has affected me in different ways. For the first few years, waking and realizing what day it was caused a searing pain like ripping a Band-aid off an open wound. I would cradle the remnants and cry. Then, there were the years where I mourned not her death but where she would have been in her life: starting Kindergarten, losing her first teeth, taking her to Disney.

Over the past several days, I've been thinking of her. The beginning of January is always tough in certain ways. My little brother died January 3, 2004, just one week before the first anniversary of Abby's death. At the time, the pain seemed unbearable. Yet, today, I look back at that time and remember that I was pregnant with Ty...our miracle boy, who was born in April of 2004. And as I sit in 2013 and look back over the last decade, I see so much happiness that has risen above the sorrow of the years. I've experienced Tyler starting Kindergarten, losing his first teeth, and going to Orlando. As much as I loved my Abby--and the two babies we miscarried before her-- I know that Tyler was the miracle we were meant to embrace. He is kind, empathetic, wicked smart, and funny. I love him so much I can't express it. For reasons I can't begin to comprehend or want to question, he is here instead of her.

So on her 10th birthday, I will think of her. Love her. Mourn her. And embrace the gift of her little brother. Because an important lesson I've learned in the last decade is that focusing on sadness instead of the immense joy that lies directly in front of us causes us to miss out on the blessings we've been given.

Why Traditions are Important instead of Repetitive

You never quite realize how important traditions are, how much they define pieces of you, until they end. It's the little things...like fresh baked cookies when you get home on your first day of school or lighting marshmallows over the first fire of the year or reading the Christmas story from the Bible on Christmas Eve. Traditions provide a special stamp. An indelible mark that defines an important time. Something that unites years, decades even. That pulls you into that pocket of the familiar.

Ever since I can remember, I've heard my Dad read the Christmas story from the book of Luke on Christmas Eve. I can hear his voice, "And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not. For behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord."

Tonight, the torch passed. My Dad couldn't be with us to read the Christmas story. And in this season of lights and gifts and family and food, I felt compelled to continue his tradition...his legacy of pulling out the Bible and reading the Christmas story from the book of Luke. Initially, it saddened me that it was my own voice instead of my Dad's reading the verses aloud. But my amazing husband reminded me that traditions are fluid and passed on. He told me that just as my father had read the Christmas story for the four decades of my life, it was now my turn to do so for my children. To continue the tradition by making it my own.

These words of wisdom by my sweet husband are both profound and accurate. Traditions aren't stagnant. They don't exist in the bubble of one generation. That is the antithesis of the meaning of the word "tradition." Such defining, important principals expressed through rituals shared every year or season are designed to be continued. Adopted by the next generation. Whether it's baking cookies, hanging wreaths on every window, watching "The Sound of Music," or singing along to "The Wizard of Oz," just enjoy your family and their traditions. For one day soon, you'll be the one passing on the baton. And the importance of that is immeasurable.