“She would have wanted…”

If you came here for a happy story, then you should turn back and read no further.

This past weekend, I went to see the third installment of “Fantastic Beasts.” I am not a Harry Potter fan. I never have been. Like many muggles out there, I’m the person who has seen the movies and knows which house they would be sorted into, but mostly because their friends wanted them to watch and find out.

So, why would I go see a film from a franchise I wouldn’t usually care about?

I had a roommate in college who loved the world of Harry Potter. It made her eyes light up. When I watched the films for the very first time, she was the one making me watch and pausing the movie now and then to say, “Okay, so in the book…” I couldn’t have cared less about this information, but it made me smile to see how excited she was to share her favorite fandom with me.

She told me when the first “Fantastic Beasts” movie came out that she was giddy upon hearing the theme music play. She wanted to have a pet niffler. But…she didn’t get to see any more of the films.

In October 2017, my friend was in a car accident, hit by a drunk driver. She was 22.

As our friend group tried to pick up the pieces of her life, someone discovered a will. Many were surprised. I wasn’t. She had gotten the idea to write a will from me. We’d both experienced loss and I knew that one way to deal with it was to write a will. What I didn’t expect was that she left all of her Harry Potter paraphernalia…to me. Her Hufflepuff sweatpants. Her homemade Voldemort mask. I let another friend take the wand since I was never going to appreciate it as much as her. Why would she do this?

The only explanation I can think of is that she trusted me. She trusted that even if I didn’t care about the Harry Potter world, I wouldn’t let it go to just anyone. If those things didn’t stay in my care, they would go to someone who cared as much as she did.

In the weeks of the funeral and memorial service, I heard a number of people say, “She would have wanted…” I can’t stand it when people do that. Oftentimes, that statement springs from a nostalgic, yet inaccurate, perspective of the deceased. C.S. Lewis spoke on this in his book, “A Grief Observed.” I had seen this particular friend contradict what I had previously believed she would say too many times to be confident in what she would have wanted. So, for years, I avoided the statement.

Grieving this friend has not been the smoothest ride. Unlike many, once a few weeks after the funeral had passed, I didn’t miss her. I was relieved. It sounds harsh, but I felt like I could finally let myself be angry at her trauma. People don’t like to talk about how childhood trauma affects the adult loved ones of a person. They only like to talk about how the traumatized person can deal with it. But their loved ones end up bearing some of the weight of that trauma, too. Being her friend was not easy for me. We both had to grow up and learn how to communicate in a more emotionally mature way. It hurt because I loved her. My anger wasn’t meant to forget her; it was to acknowledge the emotions there and finally let go. For years, I wished I could remember her with fondness, but the angry pain was still there. That wasn’t always accepted by others who knew her. The only thing I could use to bring myself to acknowledge the positive she had in my life was Harry Potter.

Then, I went to see that film over the weekend.

As I came out of the cinema, I let myself say, “She would have liked it.” There was compassion. There was redemption. There were fantastic beasts. I wish I could have heard her full analysis of the film. See her eyes light up. See her do that special happy dance, or “penguin dance” as we called it. So, here’s to you, my friend and sister in Christ. I know that you’re so much happier now than you ever were here, but I think that I can finally say…I miss you.
See you when I get Home.

Holy Attraction

It’s Holy Week, the last week of Lent leading into the celebration of Christ’s death and resurrection. This year, Holy Week has been filled with a variety of emotions: temporary fatigue, guilt, annoyance, laughter, delight, and surprise.

Specifically, I was trying to explain to a friend today something that happened which summed up a lifetime of experiences. The term I ultimately used was “holy attraction.”

My aunt recommended a show which I’d heard about but never seen called “The Chosen.” Tuesday, I finally watched it…and was hooked. As I told my friend, the man they have portraying Jesus is the way little me longed for Him to be represented: a Middle Eastern man with dark brown (and curly) hair, deep brown eyes, a long nose, a worker’s physique, and a kind smile. Don’t get me wrong, Jim Caviezel did an excellent job with this portrayal in “The Passion of the Christ.” But this Jesus seems more…real. More of a man who truly understands our experiences.

In the first scene in which Jesus appears on the show, I immediately knew it was Him. My chest tightened and I squealed with excitement, knowing that the character about to meet Him was in for the best experience of their life. I was practically having a fangirl moment. The more I watched of the show, the more I desperately wanted to be right there with Jesus. I was attracted to Him…but in a special way. There was no sexual desire aroused whatsoever. There was no romantic inclination. Rather, it was a delight in the holiness of the God-Man which begged for more. I wanted to sit at the Rabbi’s feet and drink up every word He said. I wanted to tentatively approach Him and bow in reverence, hoping that He would do what He always does and raise me up for a hug. I wanted to be a child and play with Him. I wanted to be a woman and ask Him questions. As I sit here and type this up, the butterflies are back in my chest, reminding me how wonderful Jesus is to me.

How can I have such a complicated yet simple reaction? Jesus is special. He always has been and always will be.

When I was a small child afraid of the dark, He was there for me, guarding.

When I was a depressed 14-yr-old with no one to confide in, He was there for me, comforting.

When my family went to another country, He was there for me, opening my eyes to wonder.

When I was a college student, unsure of what the future held and trying to make sense of what I believed and could do, He was there for me, showing me things which helped others.

When I was a guilt-ridden woman this week, ashamed of myself for a habitual sin, He was there for me – reawakening holy attraction to Him. I want that attraction to stay this time. I don’t want it to wane. I want to be enamored with the Hero of my story, of all our stories.

So here is what I want to know: do men also experience this holy attraction to Jesus? I don’t mean in a, “Maybe, but they’re probably gay,” way. I mean did the disciples have a holy attraction to their Teacher? Does my father understand this holy attraction? Or is this something special to women’s relationship with Jesus? I don’t know yet. I may spend a lifetime figuring it out, but I may publish more posts on the subject.

Grace and peace.

New Site

Hey, y’all, I have a site dedicated solely to writing stories during this particular time of year. You can find it at https://fallliterature.wordpress.com/

I’m currently working on my very first spooky story. It’s a psychological thriller called “Alice at Oakland.” Think “Alice in Wonderland” meets “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” I’ve had so much fun with it thus far and I hope y’all enjoy it. Please feel free to leave comments. Thank you!

Gratitude for Dad

Today is my dad’s birthday.

The older I get, the more I like my dad. Our personalities are very different, but there are certain things that meet in the middle. Neither of us like talking to people first thing in the morning. We both need a certain amount of adventure every few years. We both have massive respect for artistic writing which paints godly ideas. We both like arguments that get all of the rebuttals out of the way before anyone has a chance to make them. With time, I actually mature into a person who recognizes what other people went through and how fortunate I am to have the father that I do.

When I was in college, I came face-to-face with gung-ho feminists who seemed to believe the statement, “I am a strong, independent woman!” was a novelty. I typically met these feminists with silence and an inner attitude of, to quote Christ Rock, “What do you want? A cookie?” You see, I didn’t need feminism to save me. Feminism offered me no redemption from the oppressive patriarch because I hadn’t suffered that.

Why? Dad.

My dad raised my brother[s] and me with an equal standard. At age 12, we learned how to mow the lawn. We learned how to cook because it helped take some weight off of Mom. We both learned how to punch properly in case someone tried to kidnap us. We got a good education and were expected to have a good work ethic.

Independence was tantamount to maturity.

While I am grateful for the feminists of earlier decades who fought for suffrage and set up safe houses, I have not suffered sexism. My dad made sure of that.

Thank you, Dad.
Thank you for raising me to be a woman free from certain injustices.

Unusual Background

“Nobody had your growing up experience.” My brother said this to me the other day. I had been expressing my frustration with a coworker who insists on calling me “innocent.” I’ve found that when people say this, what they really mean is “naïve.” Like many homeschool grads, I’ve been called this repeatedly through the years by public school students and grads. It’s typically preceded by an innuendo which either isn’t acknowledged or goes over the homeschooler’s head. Most homeschoolers have also been asked at least once, “Why don’t you go to real school?”

After much thought, I’ve realized that there is an entire worldview behind these snide comments and little put-downs. So many American public school grads have the attitude that everyone had the same basic growing up experience that they did. As such, when a person doesn’t fit the norm they’ve created in their minds, they decide the person must be stupid, sheltered, naïve, etc. What that other person went through isn’t valid in their minds.

My brother and I had an unusual growing up experience. Being homeschooled was just the tip of the iceberg. We had a classical education. We kept chickens in the back yard, but lived in the ‘hood across the street from a drug dealer. (Yes, there was once a drive-by.) And then, we lived in a Muslim country for over a year. I took the SAT and graduated high school there. Flirting rules and innuendos which Americans learn in public high school were replaced with learning how to buy groceries in another language and how to cook completely different foods.

Nobody had my growing up experience.

That doesn’t make my experience any less valid. I have the right to choose to not think about whatever gross innuendo my coworker just made. It doesn’t matter if I understand it or not because it’s not important to me. I shouldn’t be put down for that.

“All I want is just a little respect.”

Gone (a free-verse poem)

Gone.

One person says they think of you every day.

One says they pray you’d come back.

One says they hear you in their sleep.

One says they’re relieved you’re

Gone.

We’re all just trying to breathe.

We’re all looking for words

For what happened to you.

We’re all trying to describe

What we’re feeling.

We know where you are

But where are we?

Are we lost on some foreign planet

Searching for meaning in the noise

Of life after you?

It’s step by step

Stomp by stomp

Stride by stride

Walk by walk

Trying to find a new rhythm.

We all just want to go home.

Yes.

In the end

We all just want to go home.

Encouragement for the “Messed Up” Mom

Mothers in general have a tendency to wonder, “Am I raising my kids well?” As a soon-to-be childcare professional, I am already wondering this about myself. Will I screw up the children I work with? Will I be able to stick to what I’ve been told works? Will I remember to utilize what I’ve learned when I have my own children? These are just some of the questions that flood my head — and I’m not even in a relationship.

Then, I remember my mother and think, “If she could do it, I can do it.”

My mom home schooled my brother and me for the majority of our primary education. She researched proper child development practices before the internet was in full swing. She and my dad went out of their way to plan field trips which correlated to what we were learning in history. Once a year, she drove an hour away to a place where she could exchange and buy educational books which were needed for our curriculum. For two years during middle school, she home schooled another child from a single parent home along with us. She worked hard to give us a classical Christian education.

But, this was just one side of the story. My mom suffers from depression. During childhood, she had Mono. In college, she had chronic fatigue. For reasons which we do not understand, this has left her with both dead and active Epstein bar virus. Her body is constantly fighting this virus. As a result, whenever she gets sick, her immune system cannot fight both the Epstein bar virus and the additional illness. So, she has symptoms of the illness and Mono and chronic fatigue. Think that’s a lot? There’s more. She had difficult birthing experiences with both me and my brother, nearly dying in both cases. With my brother, she suffered a hip injury which she has never fully recovered from.

How did she do it? How did she manage to be a good wife and mother with all of these potential barriers?

I won’t lie, there were times when it was difficult. She was usually honest with us about her health issues. I did not fully understand her depression until I was 14 years old, partly because she kept it out of site during our early childhood years. I’m thankful that she did this. When she became more open about it, it was far from easy as her child. But, communication helped all of us.

Because my mom knew that she had limitations, she taught my brother and me to help out around the house from an early age. We were usually responsible for the dishes and folding laundry. With time, we increasingly cooked dinner more often. The older we got, the more we were able to know when she could do the housework and when she needed to go rest. Last year, a particular incident occurred which revealed how well my brother and I had come to understand what our mom needed. Our mom was debating whether she should get up and cook dinner or lie down and rest for an hour. My brother was 19 at the time and is a very blunt person. He came into the room and said, “Mom, you are not allowed to make dinner today. You need to lie down and rest. We’ll take care of it.”

As my brother and I enter adulthood, our mom sometimes says, “I’m sorry you have a messed up mom.” I want so badly to deny it and say, “You’re not messed up.” But, when I am honest and examine the barriers she has struggled with, I start to wonder if she really is “messed up.” I have come to the conclusion that what ultimately matters is that she’s my mom. Is she “messed up”? I don’t know. Did she raise me? Yes. Did she teach me well? Yes. Do I love her? Absolutely.

My mom is not the only woman out there who struggles with health issues and/or mental illness. I have a friend who struggles with childhood trauma. She wonders if she will be a burden to her future family. She has said to me before, “I don’t want my kids to have a messed up mom.” What solace is there for such women?

As the child of a woman who struggled, allow me to offer some peace of mind: No matter what, you will always be your children’s mother. Yes, there will be days when you feel like a failure. Yes, there will be times when your children wish you did not have to struggle. Persevere. Take it one day at a time. Communicate with your family and friends. Be willing to accept help. Your children will see you for what you are: a human being fighting to win against all odds. Do not despair.