Listening

Recently, I can't remember exactly where, I read that what most of us want is to be heard.  We desire someone to take in what we say, store it in their heart, and respond back in a way that confirms, affirms and assures us that we have been heard, listened too ...understood.  Somewhere else I read, and again I don't remember where, that we might strive to cultivate as great a passion within ourselves to listen, really listen to others, that is as great, or better yet, greater than our passion to be heard.
The circumstances of mothering force us to be listeners, naturally.  We listen for grumbling tummies, crabby dispositions from too little sleep, uniforms in need of laundering for a game in 47 minutes, deadlines for applications.  We hear so much, respond so often and so well.  We feed them, tuck them in, wash their clothes, drive them to the game and cheer them on, stamp and lick envelopes.  We do so many things right, over and over.We hear, we respond.
For me though I wonder how often I fall short of real, true, passionate listening.  This theme keeps popping up, calling my attention, posing interior questions and reflections about where I am in the listening spectrum.  Dynamics in my own past and present demand my attention to hone in on my listening skills. Conversations with friends, mothers too, echo this desire to let go of the obstacles that prevent listening rooted in the heart, anchored in love and respect.  For me those obstacles are many ...exhaustion, hunger, time, anger, boredom, fear, panic ...grief.  But too, I wonder how afraid I am of not being heard ...not being listened too.  Many of us carry that sense of not being heard.  My own fear hinders me from listening in ways I am capable of, only if I let go of the hold it has on me.
I could go in lots of directions with this theme, but the one that replays itself over and over is how well we listen, or don't listen, to our children.  Real listening matters, it affects our kids, shapes them for life in ways beginning to unfold now.  We live in a prescriptive culture.  Do this, check.  Do this, check, Do this, check, Do this, check.  "Oh look at all the check marks, they are doing fine!"  There are some universal check marks for parents.  Is my child eating, check.  Is my child sleeping, check.  Is homework done, check. And then there are the more personalized ones.  Conversation, no matter how loud, challenging, disturbing, upsetting is one of mine.  I feel better if we are talking. Check. I don't care so much if the conversation is pleasant. I don't care so much if what I'm getting back is what I want to hear ....I just want to be engaged, actively communicating. Check. I want my kids to ask hard questions (ok, honestly, I really don't like it when they ask them at eleven pm on a school/work night). I want my kids to challenge what they've been told or taught, so they ultimately claim the Truth for themselves.  I've seen kids who yes their parents, appear to be in alignment with expectations and beliefs, only to be doing so just to satisfy the parents, while living a different construct right under their nose.  I don't want that.  I want a real, active, dynamic life that isn't afraid to ask and face hard questions.  And I thought that's what I had with Phoebe, and I think did in many ways.  But her death pushes me to examine my own authenticity, my own ability to extend both ears along with my heart and listen to the tangled, confusing lives of my children.  Some children are sneaky, but I wonder if they become that way because they are not really heard, they are just satisfying, or acting as if they are, what adults put on them.  It's a hard job being a parent. We want them to do well, thrive. Culturally there exist benchmarks universally accepted as indicators of moving through childhood and adolescence appropriately.  Too often though these benchmarks don't come from ourselves and are not determined with our own children in mind.  Creating benchmarks appropriate for our own kids takes great confidence and risk ....and real, whole listening, the way God listens to us.  In small ways I might be there, but in big ways I think I lack a real ability for that.  In a moment, Phoebe wasn't heard, she may have thought she'd failed to meet our expectations or those of our culture.  Being unheard is a big deal, and more,  being accused and condemned of something without the opportunity of our own voice expressed, is an even bigger deal.  Our kids need us to listen.  My kids need me to listen to them ...better, fuller, in wholesome way.  My desire for my kids to hear me must be less than my desire to hear them.
God listens to us, He hears our prayers, knows the interior desires of our hearts.  He is patient, encouraging, compassionate and kind.  Gently He guides us.  So often during my day I say to Him "could you please just say something, let me know you're there?"  I say it in exasperation, frustration.  He is patiently listening, actively engaged in my struggle to make sense of this world, my life, my heart.  I wish I reflected His way more.
How often is my own chatter clanging over the voices of my children, my husband?  How often do I think what I have to say is more important?  How often do I believe, with all of me, that this lesson must be imparted NOW!?  How often do I wait for a pause so I might jump in and weave my own fear and panic through the gift words shared, the exposed heart that just took a risk in revealing a vulnerable, treasured thought?  How often do I fail to take delight in the launching of this young life for fear they might lose their way?
In lots of ways my situation is unique.  I lost a daughter.  I wish I heard her that morning.  I wish so many things.  And because of that morning, because Phoebe died, and because she was a teenage girl, and because she was my daughter, my daughter in my house, under my care, I live in fear, often panic, that I might miss something in my other children. And I'm becoming increasingly convinced that fear and panic will be what causes me to miss something.  It certainly stops me from listening with a whole heart ...fully engaged and awed at the marvel of teenage girls spreading their wings and taking a shot at flight ...under my watchful gaze.
It is a crazy world, there is plenty to frighten us, lots to be aware and on top of.  The prescriptive path might appear to work on the surface, but it's really a band-aid, and doesn't cultivate a richly lived life, an authentic life that bears the individual gifts given by God.  And the fear/panic path hinders real growth and cultivates or exacerbates the exact things we fear, far too often.  In my close circle there are a few mothers so stunned by the loss of  Phoebe, their own level of fear and panic as a result of her death, nearly equals mine.  We are afraid.  Afraid of what the passionate teenager might do at times. So what's the answer?
The answer is to listen and love them.  Listen without expecting a certain answer.  Listen without the clipboard of check marks.  Just listen without fear, panic.  Listen with wonder and delight in the vibrant nature of who they are, designed by God to be exactly as they are!
I'm not advocating no limits, no curfew, high fiving them when they take a dangerous risk.  I'm not suggesting we don't lead them, I'm not suggesting we let them riddle us with backtalk and disobedience and tell them they are a marvel. I don't dismiss the seriousness of teaching them about morals, about sin and its consequences. These are critical obligations of parenting.
For me, I'm striving to listen with a great expansive heart that will let me see and sense where their own heart is and the yearning that tugs at them.  When my hearing and my heart work together, guided by the Holy Spirit. ...then I will be listening.  I will be wholly present and engaged, on the journey with them, as a guide, rather than working the toll booth they must pass through, making sure they stay on the prescribed road paying the predetermined dues.  I once believed I was united, heart and ear, to my kids.  I know I have been at times, but I want it to be 'my way' always.  Before Phoebe died, I would have said my rudder was prudence, but it was fear.  I would have said my sail was faith, but it was prescriptives.  Let my rudder be compassion, and let my sail fill with the witness of their adventure, their climb, a difficult, treacherous one, into adulthood.  I want my kids to know they can come to me when they've taken a wrong turn, found themselves in trouble. Too many kids live in response to the check mark seeing no wiggle room for mistakes, setbacks, wrong turns  "Oh, I would never tell my mother that, she'd disown me."  Really.  How do any of us get there?  In some way Phoebe believed I'd disown her because she was found with pot in her backpack.  Never would I have thought I'd conveyed that to her. that she would be rejected by that poor, but all too common, choice.  But I look back and see I'd lost my way too.  For years I'd communicated with sternness, fear for my children's souls, fear they'd displease God.  I'd listened to  wrong voices.  I emulated faulty reasoning rooted in fear, not love and trust in God.
I pray to give thanks for the front row seating I have as my children navigate and explore their way to adulthood, sometimes using the map they've been given, and sometimes not.  I pray they don't look like the cookie cutter kids our prescriptive culture adores, but rather people with real interests, real desires, real curiosity and a high sense of adventure not limited by a neatly etched template we expect them to abide. I pray I may take in the gift of their robust lives with both ears, a full, grateful heart and the assurance that God sees them, loves them and protects them with all His angels and saints.
Let my passion to listen be greater than my passion to be heard.  Let my children know they have a voice, a beautiful melody that sings their own genuine song.  And let them know their mother hears them with a full heart and great joy in the gift of who they are.

Perspective

Banter around our house lasts for about a week as Lent approaches.  Who will give up what, who will do what, what will we do as a family.  All sorts of comments and jokes are made "I'm giving up homework!, I'm giving up being polite, I'm giving up ...." The kids all laugh trying to beat each other, and it is comical, but also, it eases the tension of the seriousness of Lent and this season that calls us to give more of ourselves back to God and less of ourselves to our own desires.  There are the outward actions we take on, or let go of, but the internal are harder, the one's that call for our own conversion, giving ourselves over to the One. I think there is truth too that God will often give us something for Lent, some struggle, some discomfort that eeks out of us what we claim to desire ...full union with Him.  But claiming that, desiring it even, is far, far different from living it ...truly living it.  If we truly live it, we are living with joy. The hardships are embraced as blessings, trail markers from God.  That is so hard for us humans, us imperfect beings, especially me.  Those rare birds who really do live it spread joy in the places and spaces they find themselves, among the people who cross their paths.  I've been blessed with some friends who truly live that, and I know it's not easy, nor constant, but the majority of their lives are lived with this beautiful, extraordinary quality..  Someday, I hope to live that too. For now, it's a desire I have, something I pray for.
God chose a very specific cross for me in the second half of my life.  It is heavy, and carrying it is hard ...and constant.  Along the way, He's allowed some other crosses to enter my life, blindside me, leave me stunned and confused and feeling extremely hurt and betrayed.  So by now, I've come to understand (because things can take me a long, long time to grasp) that He has chosen a harder path for me than many others, while others have been given a trail that is barely passable, much more difficult than mine. I know prayer, sacrifice, conversion are ways to stay close to Him and appreciate the intensity of Lent for that reason.  I'd chosen my sacrifices for Lent, made my choices to live the season.  But immediately, God had different plans, and some pretty heavy, untimely burdens came my way.  I delved into a bit of a pity party, knowing full well that's what it was.  I prayed for God to show me greater suffering than my own so I would understand and embrace my blessings, rather than shudder in the pain I felt ...feel. He answered.
I work with the elderly, sometimes not so elderly, as a nurse.  I love my job, love the people I work with and feel enormously blessed that while I'm away from my family, I'm serving and making people's lives a bit better by caring for them.  On Thursday, while God was literally unfolding His plan for my Lenten walk, I cared for a fairly new patient.  I have twenty patients on a long-term care floor.  We are among the more 'progressive' facilities in that we don't fit the stereotype of the traditional nursing home.  As people live longer, have more healthcare options, we've become more like a sub-acute, stepdown floor that is aggressive in care.  It's an active and engaged environment, fast paced and dynamic.  This particular patient is new to me, I haven't 'gotten' her yet.  She is lovely.  Her diagnosis upon admission made us all cringe.  While I entered orders for her on Thursday, the challenge was to balance different directives from different doctors with different specialties, all with solid, confident egos.  I spent a lot of time on the phone for clarification, tracked down particular treatments rarely used.  It was a lot of work, added to an already intense schedule. Everything for her would start Friday, so while I 'knew' the orders, reviewed them with the other nurses and our aides being very specific, emphasizing the critical nature of what we were to do, only my intellect was engaged.  My heart wouldn't follow until today. Part of the treatments started yesterday while I wasn't there.  The rest started today, under my care and supervision. To say I was deeply humbled does not grasp what God revealed to me.  I felt both very small and insignificant, and at the same time ...beyond blessed.
We've all heard stories of what people must endure, hardships told that bring tears, and there are for sure worse things that people have had to experience.  I can't go into detail, but what I will tell you is that no woman should have to bear what this one does.  No woman should have to struggle each moment with the pain and outrageous unpleasantness of her condition, only to be completely at the mercy of her caregivers while in the most vulnerable situation I've ever witnessed.  And she moves through it with amazing grace.  In another culture, she'd likely be shunned, and outcast.  She has humbled me and witnessed what I've asked of God ...show me worse suffering than my own  (such a selfish, self absorbed question, I know) and He has.  And knowing my need for a shared experience He's provided my companion for this particular journey.
While I always work with two aides assigned specifically to my patients, there is one I believe is Heaven sent.  I have grown to  love her deeply.  We work very well together, often not needing words, just glances and gestures.  She makes me look good ...a lot. Her own sister has a tough diagnosis. Last night they held a fundraiser for her care expenses.  So Annie was a little late this morning.  She had glitter in her hair still from the party bring with her a sense of joy and festivity, a mood of gratitude.  This patient is one of her ten people.  She loves all of them and cares for each as if they were her own.  Today, Annie looked at me with her sparkling head and filled eyes.  "She's here to die you know," she said to me, "I can't get too attached, it will hurt too much."  I told her I didn't know that, I'd thought she was short term, we'd get her up and running, send her home.  Annie shook her head. We just looked at each other, made a silent pact, as we've done before.  She will die with dignity and beauty and grace ...we will help her.  Annie will get attached, and she will drag me along with her.  It will be a hard death, perhaps the hardest I will ever see, it will take months.  She will suffer even more than she is now. It is a horrible, horrible thing for any woman to experience.
I asked for God to show me a burden greater than my own.  If one day I have this same one, it will be different, I will have my children, perhaps my husband still.  I will not be alone.  She is ...all alone.  For sure, God is with her, ministering to her.  It takes me out of my own, unites me to hers ...because I do not want her to be alone.  I don't want her to feel so vulnerable.  Through her own suffering, I've been given the gift of caring for her, gaining perspective and reaching outside what pulls me down.  God put me right where I belong, gave me the view I needed to say thank you! thank you! great God of mine. 
The perfect answer to my imperfect prayer.  Please pray for my little lady.

Storms

I just got back from the grocery store.  I didn't go until 10PM.  Earlier, the parking lots were jammed and the lines at the gas stations were long, out on the street.  Seems like we live in the line of fire and full on panic has set in.  Schools cancelled for tomorrow.  I have to work, so the kids here will hunker down, though some think it's a great time to socialize and don't see the concern over driving.
I remember years ago the Blizzard of '78, back when Shelby Scott and Don Kent were our weather people.  Don always stayed in the studio.  He was like a dad.  Shelby was a lot like a mom. Shelby always got stuck out in high winds, swiping sleet and ravaging rain.  She was a hero.  I miss her.  I tell my kids about Don  and Shelby.  I grew up with them.  They were different than the celebrities we see on TV today.  There wasn't any glitz and glammor to their jobs.  They worked hard, and were paid fairly. 
They say this storm could be like that one, and by the look of the grocery story shelves it seems certain.  We were stuck inside for a week, at least.  Cars couldn't go anywhere. The snow took months to melt, piled high in parking lots.  There was no internet, no constant updates, no advance notice school cancellations.  So different from today. 
I often wonder where all this advancement has taken us.  For sure, a lot of it is good.  But I miss people like Don Kent and the amazing Shelby Scott.  I felt safe with them, even when the weather wasn't.  As long as Shelby was getting whipped around in the waves and we could see her head still bobbing ...we were all set.
Sometimes I can find someone else who remembers her and we trade stories of "remember when Shelby was ...,"  "remember when all the trees fell, and sure enough, there was Shelby on top of them all!"
I think whenever you lose someone, you not only beg for their return, but all the other things too that made up the fabric of their time with you.  You long for a return to the past and the things that made you secure.
Phoebe never saw Don or Shelby, but she knew about them, loved hearing stories about Shelby.  And I think Phoebe would have liked her job, would have been a good protege.  I miss having a storm looming and having Phoebe help me ready the troops.  If she was still here she'd have the shovels ready, tell me the strategy for the cars.  She'd be telling her sisters they could or couldn't go to their friends.  She'd be bossing us all around.  I could have walked through that store with her tonight and she would have laughed at all the empty shelves and wondered what people would do if they really lived without. 
I get to do lots of good and fun things with all my kids.  Simple funny things. Just this morning Mary Claire was horrified with me that I didn't know ducks don't get wet.  "Mom!  I'm six and I know that, you're a grownup and you don't know about the special oil on their feathers?  How could you not know that?"  She reported me to her big brother.  I was reprimanded. There's lots of laughter in this house ...and its good, our life is good.  But still, those times, those special little moments I shared with just her are gone, and I miss them.  She loved the outdoors, the power of nature and knew what it could do.  And she pushed her limits right up against it, always cautioning me. 
The Grand Canyon, the rivers and mountain ranges, valleys all were forged by the earth moving and shifting.  Their beauty is magnificent, extraordinary ...carved out of chaos and upheaval, undone by storms, only to settle on beautiful ...in time.
Is that what grief and loss, sadness and sorrow, suffering and pain does to the landscape of our soul?  Is that how God prepares us for a better, richer, more beautiful ...even magnificent soul?
Maybe.  I think in many ways, certainly.  And that's a gift.  Even still, I'd love my girl to boss me around a little bit, tell me what to do, get us all in line.  I'd love to yell to her outside "Hey Shelby, how's the weather?"
She'd likely tell me it was more than I could handle and she'd let me know when it was safe for me to come out. 
We'll ride out this storm ...without Don Kent, without Shelby Scott and without Phoebe.  And we'll arrive on the other side.