Not My Party

Christmas has always been a little bit of a weird time for me. As an earnest, uptight teenager, I remember coming home from my overseas trips and vowing to eschew all things material and American. I remember walking through the Mall of America and feeling overwhelmed and righteously (or so I thought at the time) disgusted by all the excess. I turned into an obnoxious version of this guy (although this particular picture is pretty cute):

I also remember the first year I was married. We picked a day early in December (the 2nd, to be exact) and went out to get all our Christmas shopping for each other done. I was so excited about what I had bought and how happy it was going to make him that we wrapped everything right away that night…and also opened presents. That night. All of them. And I remember when my marriage was floundering and heading towards total destruction, how hard it was to even care about a gift-giving opportunity but wanting, no, needing to make it grand for the littles.

I've gone back and forth through the years, sometimes annoyed by family requesting lists of things I want, other times so excited about it that I can barely stand myself. This Christmas, though…

This Christmas was a very big first. It was my very first Christmas in my whole life…that I spent alone. I had known it was coming for a very long time, since last Christmas actually. As it got closer, I just refused to deal. I kept saying, "I'm not thinking about that yet, October has to happen first," and then it was Thanksgiving, and then it was here.

My boys left town on the 21st of December. This was the year that I had them for Thanksgiving…and they went with their dad for Christmas.

I know that this is normal. Lots of people spend Christmas alone or with not their actual family all the time. Movies are made about it (I successfully avoided seeing any such drivel this year!) and songs are sung about it ("Christmas at Denny's", anyone?) and it's just reality for so many reasons for so many people. But for me, I had never not once NOT been with at least some type of family for Christmas.

Then, on Christmas Eve, my tree got smashed:

And there were no presents under it. And I had to work (all day until 5!). And my back has been hurting from a little car accident a few weeks ago. And I'm not gonna lie…I was feeling VERY sorry for myself.

So, of course I went to Midnight Mass (isn't that what every pathetic lonely Protestant girl does on Christmas Eve??). I love Midnight Mass. I try to go whenever I can. It's late and beautiful and feels like the perfect way to actually begin Christmas Day. And even though the bench was hard (my poor back) and the church was cold (cold feet and hands make it very hard to concentrate) and I didn't know anyone and I was apparently the only non-Catholic there…it was beautiful. And it reminded me that this is not my party. It's not about the presents and the people and the ribbons and the tags and the boxes and the bags…and not in anti-consumerism, shrunken heart kind of way either.

And I can honestly say now, that yes, it was weird. It was hard. It was very, very quiet. But it wasn't awful.

It was peaceful. And friends invited me for dinner on Christmas Day, and that was fun. And I have had and will have time to celebrate with family and friends on other days (and that's kind of awesome, actually, because it spreads the cheer out for a little while longer). I got to open presents with my boys and my parents this morning via Skype:

And it's okay. I made it. If I've learned anything these past couple years, it's that things I thought would break me have turned out to be survivable and even bring their own particular kind of joie de vivre. Not my party…no reason to cry…just an opportunity to learn another facet of the word celebrate.

Just Like That

Well. I got a little scared because I thought for a minute there I had actually run out of words. But then I remembered this:

 And this:

And words started coming back to me. I kept a lot of them in, which in and of itself is a miracle.

It so happened that the day before my divorce hearing was my 14th wedding anniversary. It took an astonishing scant 13 minutes for man to put asunder what I thought God had joined together. I'm not sure why I'm sharing that except, as Mr. Hemingway advised, I'm trying to write hard and clear. And that hurt.

Since it was such a long time coming, I think I was oddly disappointed that it didn't require more time. I filed on July 3rd. As of September 26th, a mere 2.75 months later...I'm divorced...just like that. I'm a divorcee. I'm not married. I'm a SWF. I will be filing taxes as head of household, single, 2 kids.

I've had time to adjust to this. Honestly, nothing really changed in my daily life or in my slowly emerging vision of what my future might look like. My boys have already started to adjust. I've started to move on. But I would be delusional if I said I didn't feel sad about it. It's still a loss, regardless of the varied emotions surrounding the process and the situation. It's still not the way I thought my life would unfold. It still hurts that it came to this.

I've already done a lot of grieving. I've cried and rationalized and argued and explained. I've written a lot and prayed a little and tried to imagine how I would feel and who I would be on this side of the signed paperwork. I've tried to keep my head above water and be present for my boys and I've even made some of the stereotypical interesting choices that people in this situation make.

And you know what...I'm ok. My boys are ok. I have friends, albeit not quite the same cast of characters as before. I've met new people. I don't have some sort of label on my head visibly listing my iniquities and warning off potential acquaintances. I'm still breathing. I'm employed and decently compensated. And my heart has ridiculously decided to wonder if perhaps, just maybe, this is not the end of its ability to participate in life.

Then last week there was another piece of news, the last piece of my former life falling away. It's hard to describe all the emotions - a little relief, a little vindication, a little confusion, a lot of sadness. I've scrutinized my reaction and I think it boils down to this: all the doors, windows, and gates that could have possibly reopened have not only shut but have blended back into the surroundings so as to be unidentifiable as possibilities. There's a clanging finality about it, louder than the judge's gavel, more definitive than the final paperwork, almost more heartbreaking than any of the preceding steps in the process. And while my life looks very different now, and "my former life" and "my former context" are frequently heard coming out of my mouth as I continue to move forward...I just have to acknowledge that it's weird....hard...sad...over.

And so...onward and upward...here's to whatever comes next...

Trail Magic

Sometimes it really is me, not you. I've tried to start this entry a bunch of times and for whatever reason, it feels hard. And that's not really the point.

This summer was the misspent summer of my youth that I never had. I spent my teenage summers doing remarkably earnest things, like believing I could change the world. I spent my college summers mostly thinking the same thing, except for that one summer - that particular summer could have been horribly misspent but I was disgustingly responsible instead and continued to march on. So that brings me to this summer...sort of...

There's no need for details. Let's just say I got a few things out of my system. I have no regrets, zero. My boys were safe in grandparentlandia and I was on my own for a bit. I'm going to leave all of that to imaginations everywhere, because the assumptions will be way better and wilder and more interesting than what actually happened and will trump anything I can write. 

I've been reading a lot of different things lately - books, magazines, newspapers, internet articles. One book that has been very interesting is Wild by Cheryl Strayed. It's a memoir of one woman's struggle to put her life back together while hiking the Pacific Coast Trail. She talks about "trail magic", defined as "the unexpected and sweet happenings that stand out in stark relief to the challenges of the trail." So, here are some of my trail magic moments:

1. Sometimes someone's silence doesn't mean they don't care. It means they are human and are maybe not sure what to say or how to say it without sounding weird. 

2. Sometimes my perceptions of things are very wrong. (Yes, I did just say that I can be wrong.) 

3. People are not stupid. 

4. Purple flowers made my heart happy.

5. Church still hurts. The level of evisceration varies a lot. There was one time when it didn't totally suck. 

6. Sometimes it's a timing thing, and then you get that phone call or that second interview or *gasp* competing job offers when you least expect it. 

7. The end of the world as we know it might be the beginning of a better one, or at least one with new challenges. 

8. Trying something new can change your perspective (and leave you with very sore arms).

9. Sometimes being brave enough to ask the question is more important than the answer. Sometimes framing the question even to yourself is a good start.

10. Friends and good conversation can happen in the most unexpected settings.

None of this is rocket science or Nobel-worthy. It's more like a list of a few life lessons that were maybe not completely checked off on my list of "what I know", and are now firmly in the category of "what I know now."

Who Says I'm Not Ok?

There is apparently not much grace for the average sinner who used to be a saint. Grace abounds for the sinner who walks in off the street, but falling off the platform is another situation entirely. There is a lot of talk in the church about the "body of Christ" and the "family of God", and even more so once one is initiated into the hallowed inner circle of "the ministry". However, there has been a bewildering silence from my former "family" lately. In my experience, both recent and historical, the church takes the same position as the Argentine health care system - if it bothers you, if it hurts, if it doesn't work right, just amputate! Chop it off, get rid of it, problem solved without too much investment of time or money. It doesn't really matter if it's gangrene or just an ingrown toenail - if it fails to meet the facetiously defined standard of "perfect", "Christian", "holy", "victorious", etc., make it disappear.

I filed for divorce last Wednesday. There, I've said it, so the wondering is over. I, a former ordained minister/missionary, filed for divorce from my formerly ordained minister/missionary spouse. *crickets* A well-meaning friend wrote to me on Friday, unaware of the timing but on topic: "One common thread I've found is that in none of the cases was the divorce a success." My first and admittedly rude thought was, "No kidding. In no language on earth are the words 'divorce' and 'success' even remotely related." The friend continued on about giving God a chance to do a miracle and other banalities along those lines. 

It got me thinking, once I'd overcome the momentary sarcastic reaction - who gets to define what my miracle is? Who gets to decide what my "ok" is? I've heard suggestions that run the gamut: 

• For some, me being ok could mean I'm back in ministry, reclaiming my credentials, re-married to a pastor or missionary, giving it all for Jesus.
• "Ok" could mean me back in church, one of those strong fabulous testimonies serving and smiling. 
• My "miracle" would be stopping the divorce and fighting it out and seeing my marriage and family restored.

Maybe, though, my miracle, my ok, my better, won't be that my life gets "back" to where everyone else thought it should be. Maybe my miracle will be that I am actually ok with God and with myself, the only two people who need to be participating in this conversation in the first place. 

I kind of want to scream, "Don't mistake my distance from church for a lack of relationship/dialogue with God!" I can say with certainty that God has not been silent. He has not observed this cautionary tale from a safe, non-contaminating distance. He has been speaking, holding, providing, supporting, walking alongside, even carrying me when one more step forward doesn't feel possible. He has been showing up in the least obvious people and the least expected circumstances. 

A dear friend, a heart-sister, tells me over and over how proud she is of me. I of course (in true Kristi-must-win form) argue back that there's not much of which to be proud in my story. I point out that this is not how life was supposed to go, and there is no way God can be happy with recent plot twists. 

And I don't honestly believe that God smiles much about certain of my bone-headed choices. But I almost believe that He smiles about me, about the fact that I'm trying to move forward considering the questionable material available to me. He may not be proud of all of my behavior, but...I think...He's okay with me and the fact that I haven't just given up. And if He can be okay with that, so can I. And anyone else whose definition of my okay wants to add more conditions to that, too bad. God has not abandoned me and is okay with me taking the time I need to be okay with him...and that's okay/better/miraculous enough for me.

Discussing a Downfall

So, did you hear about so-and-so?
I know, I can't believe it either. Who woulda thunkit, ya know?
And you know what else I heard?
I swear. That other person told me, and they know because they are friends with so-and-so's second cousin...

Sounds like a cheesy high school church group skit about the dangers of gossip, right? Yeah, it's not. It's things that actually have been said...by me, in the past, certainly, I'll admit...more recently, about me and mine...and there's nothing cheesy about the devastation lying below the surface of a seemingly breezy conversation.

I've been there, on the one hand, when it's of course not gossip...it's "sharing information" or "prayer requests" or yeah, just gossip. To my shame, I have participated in it, weaving cautionary tales out of barely understood half-truths and whispers of what probably didn't happen. I've also been on the side of earnestly warning against the dangers of gossip and the hurtful consequences and c'mon, people, it's just not christian to talk about other people like that. It's easy to forget that actual hurting people are somewhere at the bottom of the leaning tower of "did you hear".

And now...the fodder and impetus have converged to make me the headliner of the next cautionary tale to be shared at a "prayer meeting" near you. And of course, as is 100% of the time always the case, I'm seeing the whole concept through different eyes.

For me, the story went like this:
1. First, a series of unfortunate events happened. Right away, that's sad, but also right away, people in charge and other people not even remotely necessary to the plot started relying on everything except actually talking to the people involved to construct a story line. I was so busy being sad for a while that I wasn't really aware that there were these whole other conversations happening.
2. By the time I realized that other conversations were happening, I was in angry-at-the-world mode and promptly became pissed beyond reason and had several vilifying rants about "how dare they" and "who do they think they are" and "church 1, actual hurting person 0" and etc ad nauseam ad infinitum. I also had a very literal ache in my heart that spanned so many levels.
3. After, well, during, the pissed part came the "I'm gonna fix this" part. I declared a holy war of retribution and I was determined to root out the culprits and expose them in all their two-faced glory.
4. Then...I actually thought about it for five seconds before exploding (a modern-day miracle in and of itself)...and I thought..."Meh. It's sad that they have nothing else better to do than make up crap about me, who in the scheme of things is not really anybody worth all the whispering."
5. Then I saw this on Pinterest (vicious enemy of the best-laid time management plans):

And you know what...it's absolutely true. I get to choose who participates in my life on a regular basis...and "they" aren't invited. I don't have to ferret out the culprit or report them to the credentials board or make sure their sins (equally as devastating to the heart of God, even if seemingly more benign) are broadcast or really even worry about them at all. They are not my problem.

I get it. I really do. There's a certain satisfying hubris in assuring oneself and other people that we are not as bad or as broken or as whatever as so-and-so. In humanity's favorite game of self-justification, it's nice to come out "better" on the broken scale than someone else.

I spent some time feeling very miserable and disillusioned that this was happening in "christian" circles...but a friend made a very good (and rather sad) point: You often find more mercy and grace in tangible form from "prostitutes and publicans", because they are aware of the great need for it. In my ongoing struggle for reconciliation with church, there are topics like this one that just contribute to the difficulty of continuing the fight. I'm not making a blanket judgment about church, because I know it's mostly a person-by-person thing (I'm absurdly blessed to have a few friends from the ministry who are some of my biggest cheerleaders on this road to redemption). But even I was shocked when a supposedly well-intentioned pastor's wife sat down and told me how she wanted to be friends and she was okay with whatever my story was...and when she actually heard the story, she dropped off the face of the earth as far as I'm concerned and I haven't heard a peep out of her since. She got the deets...and took the first exit. And then there are the people I have met outside church, who are all very conscious of their own "sh** happens" stories, that have overwhelmed me with ridiculous generosity and tangible grace and mercy.

So, I guess the conversation continues for me and church. Actually, I think I'm going to pause that conversation for a while. Sometimes I get sick of repeating myself. I'm still holding out hope for the dialogue with Jesus, because I know He's only talking to me about my stuff and extending grace and mercy and unexpected blessings every single time He thinks I'll listen.

Church Hurts

I was going to start out by saying that I'm not supposed to say that sometimes church hurts, but let's face it: my whole life is one big "not supposed to" right now. So, I'm just going to say it like it is.

Sometimes going to church hurts. Actually, specifically, for the last 7 months or so, it has more than hurt. It has eviscerated. It has devitalized. It has been discouraging. Disappointing. Damaging. It has been all of those awful things and more. And I'm not supposed to say that.

I think I'm supposed to say that all things work together for good. Or that God knows what He's doing. Or that He didn't bring me this far just to leave me. Or that He doesn't give us more than we can handle. Or any of a number of platitudes that just don't actually suffice when one's soul grieves with a primal, visceral ache.

What I'm not supposed to say is that I don't feel it. I'm not supposed to say that right now going to church is an absolute exercise in blind and begrudging obedience. I'm not supposed to say that I sit in church and I can't sing and I can barely make it through the message and forget about any kind of response. I'm not supposed to say that I'm hurting...and that church doesn't seem to notice. I'm not supposed to say that the words "faith promise" and "missions Sunday" are like battery acid in open eyes. I'm not supposed to say that this is hard. And that some days I question my sanity. And that every time I walk through those doors I'm bracing myself for reactions, looks, comments, unexpected encounters.

If I were just a regular person with some crazy, ah-ma-zing back story, I don't think it would feel nearly as awful. But my back story is the "good girl" story - Bible college, married, ministry, missions. My back story is doing all the seemingly right things...and ending up flat on my face anyway. My back story is not actually okay with church...church likes to redeem the lost, but not so much to help the found who are hurting. My current story is sadly typical, of the "you cannot make this stuff up" variety...end of marriage, end of career, end of missions, start of new strange life that never occurred to me before now.

I had no Plan B...and church doesn't encourage Plan Bs. I know that church doesn't encourage Plan Bs because I've preached that sermon. I've delivered that message in one-on-one's, women's groups, potlucks, Sunday services, missions board meetings. And I've had those pitying conversations about so-and-so and where they ended up.

I sound bitter. Rereading this, I realize that it sounds like I'm bitter. I'm not. And I don't need to be told to let go and let God. I'm hurting. I'm a human being who's been sucker punched and then smacked in the face by my humanity. And I sit in the pew by myself on Saturday night, most times with tears streaming down my face. And no one talks to me. One little old(er) lady asked if it was my first time, and when I said no, I got the stereotypical "look down the nose", as if, since it wasn't my first time, I should really sing and shake hands and be part of church.

Church and I have not been friends, for decades really. And it's taken this one final humiliation in a long string of off-putting doses of reality for me to realize something basic. Church can't and won't fix me, and it has nothing to do with me following the formula.

I think I still have, buried somewhere deep, the audacity to believe that maybe Jesus can fix me. I'm frustrated with Him right now, and I have questions that feel unanswerable, but He knows that. I've let Him know. And He's okay with that. He can take it. He got frustrated too when His human side kept Him from being cool with God and His questions hung in the air, and He let God know about it. I think Jesus gets me, actually, and I'm not just saying that because I'm supposed to. Even when church hurts...disembowels...lays low...Jesus gets me. And that's enough for right now.

Lie to Me

So....it's January. I guess I'm on target for two entries per year - good thing blogging is not my job! 2012 was not a great year. Not at all. And 2013? As it's January, the jury is still out but let's just say the evidence so far is not in favor of it being an improvement on its predecessor.

In December and January people tend to get introspective, thinking about things that have happened and making plans, or at least imagining intentions, for a better future. I have a long and checkered past of hunkering down with my paper and pencil on December 31st, scratching out some half-hearted promise of change for the better in the following 12 months. It's hard to fathom what the future, even the near future, will bring, and I don't think I ever got one thing right.

The past can be just as tricky. And we have a tendency to want to rewrite the story. We want to remember things in a way that suits us...our temperament, our image, the argument we are in at the time. And memory itself is unreliable - every cop show on TV preaches that. I am not immune to the temptation (I've been known to embellish history myself).

This weekend I am alone, and was supposed to spend all day today working. Instead (shocker), I had a Netflix marathon of Lie to Me. It's really fascinating, a crime procedural based on micro-expressions and universal signs of emotion. In one episode, they asked a guy who was clearly making crap up on the go to reverse the timeline and tell his story backwards. Of course he couldn't, because it's impossible to remember all the lies, especially the spontaneous ones.

I'm struggling at the moment with not rewriting history. Even though I don't want to, I think I lie to me sometimes. I tend to see things through the lens of whatever I'm feeling at the moment, or whatever I want to prove. Seldom were things actually as awful - or as epic -  as I remember them. In the heat of an argument it's easy to start throwing around words like "always" and "never", which definitely leads to a rewrite of history, i.e. a lie. It's hard to step back and take a breath and really evaluate what happened and how it applies. I mean, that's what the psychologists and counselors want you to do, and they've even invented a magnet to help the conversation have those kinds of pauses (I'm not kidding, it's yellow and white and you're supposed to hand it back and forth and....I digress). But it's hard to do when accusations are flying and hearts are shattering.

Sometimes I want to lie to me. I want to remember something differently or explain it differently or just....do it over differently. I want to think I wasn't such a jerk, or so insensitive...or so ignorant. I want to lie to me so that I sound better than I was, so that the offense I caused was smaller, so that the cues I missed were less obvious. I want to lie to me so that the other person is the ogre, so that I'm the victim, so that it wasn't my fault, at all or in part. Sometimes the facts are the facts and my memory is skewed, which is also a kind of lie. I guess I could take a cue from the show and watch my face and body language for tells...but...that means I would have to always be talking to myself in a mirror...which would be awkward....or maybe it's time for serious introspection, turning the mirror on my thought processes and trying to not lie to me, or at least to start recognizing those universal expressions. And I can pay more attention to the tells, the "indicators and manipulators", the emotional cues, the non-verbals that shout so loudly, so nobody else can lie to me, either.