Heart Secrets

I feel bruised.  Utterly battered.  And it's not my body.  It's my heart.  And it's radiating to, throughout the rest of me.

Something happened last night.  Something different than other nights.  Although similar things happen most nights.

Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God?  It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude.  The power.  The thought, of what that means.  The comfort.  That there is something bigger than just us.  Than just flesh.

I never remember details in the morning.  But I do remember having a holiness visited.

I knew something was going to happen last night.  But I didn't expect to feel so war weary.  And that's what it must have been.  War.  Spiritual war, over my heart.

My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge.  He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.

And so I read his words with trepidation.  Slowly.  Knowing more work is to come.  And exhaustion.

He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart.  But it always catches off guard.

Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story.  (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)

And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks.  What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright.  Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him.  It was pitch dark and he could see nothing.  And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls.  What he could hear was breathing.  His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . . 
     If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop.  But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop.  So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him.  At last he could bear it no longer.  "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
     "One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing.  It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . . 
     "Oh please-please do go away.  What harm have I ever done you?  Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!"  Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face.  "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost.  Tell me your sorrows."  Shasta was a little reassured by the breath:  so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman.  And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert.  And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis.  And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
     "I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice.  "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?"  said Shasta.  "There was only one lion," said the Voice.  "What on earth do you mean?  I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and  . . . "  "There was only one; but he was swift of foot."  "How do you know?"
     "I was the lion."
     And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued.  "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis.  I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead.  I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept.  I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time.  And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
     "Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
     "It was I."
     "But what for?"
     "Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
               (C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)

I read this as if it were a fairy tale.  It's lovely.  My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it.  Until John turned that story into our story.

He goes on to say that our life, is a story.  Filled with twists and turns.  Great moments.  Horrific failures.  Many firsts.  And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something.  Some truth.  A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.

He asks heart questions.  "Is your heart good?  Does your heart really matter?  What has life taught you about that?" 

I'm reading this with a quiet heart.  Alert.  The house is asleep.  It's dark.  And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.

And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you.  You sense his presence, feel his warm breath.  He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"

In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.

The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around.  And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast.  Oh, to be asked that question.

But he wasn't done there.  He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.

I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything.  I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.

And then it came.  The ripping.  Shredding.  Of my innermost.  A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for.  Felt, - yes. 

Our most hurt, often starts with our family.  Truth.  Hard truth, but truth.

I don't know how to say the next part  politically correct.  So I'll say it, the way it is.

My heart was not seen, growing up.  My innermost, God-created, was squashed.  Disciplined.  Re-directed.  Ignored.  Misinterpreted.

And that's what I believe most about my heart.  That it's not seen.  That it doesn't matter.  And if anything, it's wrong.  My heart is wrong.  Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.

What if I'm a self-made introvert?  Because I believe that my heart isn't seen.  So why bother?  Why give it out?  Every time I do, it's squashed.  Rejected.  Noses turn up.  The weird glances.  The appalled stares.  Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?

To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you.  The horror.  The relief of truth.  And the over-bearing burden of what to do next.  With this knowledge.

John always says to invite God into our hurts.  To reveal more, to bring healing.  When we know truth, we know what we're up against.  We know better how to protect, how to fight.  How to pray.

I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation.  I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart.  None of it I can remember.

My entire chest is aching today.  Not the inside, but the outside.  As if I participated in highly strenuous activities.  But I haven't.  Because I sit on the couch.

There was war last night.  And it was over my heart.  And it was dirty and terrible.  I know because I can feel the physical impact.  The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest.  Fighting to hold on.

I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing.  And with my healing history, it's years long.  I'm in no rush.  But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.

I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members.  It really is not there.  As humans we do the best we can with what we know.

And thank the Lord, I'm done.

A Typical Day With Ed

My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:

6:58 am
*SCREAMING*  "I want to get up"  repeatedly.  Loudly.  With lots of "moms".

I said no.  Because it wasn't quite 7.  And that's the rule.  And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .

I really thought he fell back asleep.  There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes.  And I thought it was my lucky day.  And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift.  And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.

But then he started yelling again.  And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.

And then there was much fawning over my breasts.  Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly.  And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle".  He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".

Now, not to brag or anything.  But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with.  But it's not soft.  Or squishy.  Or, lovely.  On any level.  But I do have nipples.

And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began.  I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk.  I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table.  In the wrong spot, of course.

And then more screaming.  Because he wanted to be spoon fed.

Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child.  My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.

Well, that attitude really got him going.  Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed.  Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.

In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down.  Picked up his bowl with both hands.  And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out.  Every last bit.  And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.

That was how my day began.  And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB".  It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.

I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library.  Which just sounds boringly naughty.  It was.  But it adds.

He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot.  Followed by snickers and chuckles.

And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.

And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.

I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday.  #1 - It's kinda funny.  #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?

Take Aways
1)  greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2)  and then stay home, forever.
3)  I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4)  I haven't worn makeup in months.  I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5)  Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes.  But in a really bad way.
6)  I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7)  Wah!
8)  Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Big D and I haven't spoken since Sunday.

Ok, honest truth.  I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it.  I like the purging of all things emotional.  I like the rawness.  I like the desperation.  I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling.  Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty.  And I love nothing more than honesty.

Did you know that I love 100% honesty.  And despise deception?  More than one million percent?

Another thing I love about fighting:  I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting.  It's like a break from marriage.  I don't have to try.  I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts.  Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad. 

For example:  Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea.  Well, in theory it's great.  However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work.  That story makes me a nervy wife.  But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting?  Great idea.  Don't really care as much.

On the other hand, if we're having this great week.  Lots of naughty boom boom time.  Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed.  Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.

So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring.  As much.  (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)

So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk.  Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions.  It's great.  It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.

"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate.  And I'm going full on bangs.  Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes."  "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work.  And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out.  A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore.  All by myself.  Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."

So, that's how our conversations go.  And have been going since the beginning of Monday.

One last thing I love about fighting.  I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me.  And snuggles extra hard.  And watches Grey's Anatomy with me.  And drinks wine with me.  And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario.  And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.

Also, I came up with a new word.  Wankfaggler.  I have a meaning for it that I will not share.  But I would love some new suggestions . . .

Take Aways
1)  Give me a fight any day.
2)  The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now.  And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride.  It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill.  And a very short visit at the top of the hill.  But it's a cycle.  You'll always go down.  And you'll always come back up.  There are enjoyable parts all along the way.  And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.