Lovesong

I was 11 years old, sitting in a hot and steamy college gym, watching a sport that until then I had only seen played in the back yard at picnics.  We went to watch because my sister had just begun playing for the freshman team and the varsity team had made it to states.  I watched high school athletes throwing their bodies around on the floor, jumping and swinging and celebrating, and cry their hearts out when they lost in the championship.  I fell in love.

It has been a part of my life ever since that Saturday a long time ago.  I watched my sister earn two PIAA silver medals and play division I ball.  I started playing myself in seventh grade, was part of a three-time state championship team, played club ball that took me to parts of the country I probably would never have seen otherwise, and earned a college scholarship to a small school that brought amazing people into my life and made me the woman I am.  I helped manage the newly created men’s program at my high school, preparing me for coaching, which I have been doing in some capacity since I was 19 years old.  I played in co-ed leagues and tournaments as an adult, though not much recently.  I even watched my mom accept a national award for Parent of the Year for it.

It has introduced me to amazing people: one coach in high school who I am not sure realizes that he saved me from myself and another who was willing to spend countless hours after practice just hitting the ball at me to make me better; friends from my high school, club, and college teams who may not be a part of my every day life anymore, but who taught me who I want as well as who I do not want to be; people from adult leagues who, though a continent away, are among my best friends in the world.

It has taught me important things: how to rely on others to make something happen; how to take charge when others are struggling and need someone to look to; how to follow strong leaders who know where they’re going; how to get up and try again when I make a mistake; how to celebrate respectfully when I sometimes win; how to encourage, how to be honest, how to meet new people, how to be comfortable in my own skin.  It has given me a strength I do not know I would have had I not fallen in love with it so very long ago.

It was my passion for a long time.  I ate, slept, and breathed it.  There were days when I spent half a day with it, when I went from one practice to another to another, when I became so gym-drunk, the punchiness brought fits of giggles only a fellow player or coach could understand. 

I spent the past holiday weekend watching my nieces play the sport their mother and I so love for a club in which I once played, my mother once ran as the director, and my sister and I coached.  They are 14 and 11-years-old, and they have the bug.  I see it and hear it in their voices.  If the oldest could play it for 16 hours a day, she probably would.  And they’re good.  Very good.  They work hard and play with intensity and love it, love it, love it.  But as good as they are, what makes me happiest is knowing that they will learn all of the things I learned, meet awesome people like I did, and have countless great memories and experiences to forever shape who they will become.

I debate at the end of every season whether I want to continue coaching because the passion has begun to wane after 26 years.  Every year it takes a little longer before I say yes in my head.  Part of me thinks I continue to coach because I don’t know who I would be if it weren’t part of my life anymore.  Part of me thinks that if it weren’t for volleyball, a piece of my heart would stop beating.  Part of me thinks that a love affair this long means forever, for better or for worse.  

Entitlement

Disclaimer:  For the anecdotes included in the following writing, I use first person for sake of a smoother pronoun agreement; however, I am just as guilty of some of these and just witnessed the others. I would like to direct the following words toward myself more if not as much as toward the general population.  

I walk up to customer service and say, “I need to leave something here and pick it up later because it won’t fit in my car” rather than “Would it be possible for me to leave this here to pick up later?  I can’t fit it in my car.”   

or

My significant other breaks up with me, several months or several years ago, and I only call particular friends to unload all of my heartache and never ask how s/he is doing, even after months have passed since I’ve asked.

or

I sit in my classes and do nothing but creep on Facebook or tweet on Twitter, and I am shocked that I got a zero percent for the marking period.  “I should get something just for showing up!”

or

I make plans with someone, but then I back out because something better comes along or because I just don’t feel like it.  The next time I want to go out, I am annoyed that my friend won’t go.

What is wrong with us?  How is it that we have morphed into a group of people who feel they are entitled to special treatment, special rules or exemption from the rules that apply to everyone else?  How have we become a group of people who think of themselves first and everyone and everything else as secondary?  

Please understand, I know there are times when we do need to come first because if we don’t, we wouldn’t have enough to keep on living.  But think about it: what is so bad that I cannot ask someone how they are (and mean it)?  You can count on one of your hands events or situations that qualify.  What makes me so much better than someone else that I get to do whatever I want?  Answer: nothing.

Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my pain and start focusing on how I could help someone else, my pain would somehow abate.  Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my frustration and start focusing on what I can do to make things run more smoothly for someone else, my patience would grow.  Maybe, just maybe, if I stop focusing on my disappointment and start focusing on being a blessing for someone else, maybe I will be able to see all the blessings I’ve been given.

Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, 

love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous: 

~ 1 Peter 3:8

Comparative Grief

When most people hear the term grief, they assume there has been a literal, physical death; and, usually, their compassion valves switch on and they immediately offer condolences and support.  What is interesting is how people tend to have considerably less compassion when the death is metaphorical instead.  

Think about the times you, or someone you know, came to the end of a long-term, romantic relationship.  If you are anything like me, the person you love is your best friend as well, so when that ends, there is a double whammy.  I remember hearing some sort of explanation for romantic grief on a television show: the amount of time permissible to grieve is directly proportionate to the length of time one was in said relationship by a third or some such.  As if grief works like an algebra equation.  Don’t get me wrong, if that is a personal mantra for you and it works for you, brilliant!  It is the application to others, and judging them according to that personal mantra, that drives me bananas.

I also find it curious that people, and I am guilty of this myself, tend to put more weight on the dissolution of a marriage than the ending of a long-term relationship.  (Clarification: when I think long-term, I think 2 years or more; I am sure that is different for everyone.)  While I have never been through a divorce, I have struggled through the ending of an 8 year relationship.  No, there were no legal waters to navigate.  Yes, I understand that legal matters can become incredibly nasty.  However, I still had to face family gatherings alone, to feel the fresh cut of the knife every time an acquaintance would ask about us, to face shared spots alone, to feel the pain anew every time a special song evoked the innumerable memories.  

There is also the great unspoken grief: fading or losing friendships.  As we grow and change, which I hope is a never-ending process, sometimes the people in our lives no longer fit.  I think it is natural for some friendships to fade because commonalities dissipate or belief systems change and are no longer compatible.  Sometimes, the feelings are mutually recognized; sometimes, they are not.  The surprising fact: it is rare for friends to have “the talk” like those ending a romantic relationship would.  I have been both the one to pull away and the one from whom friends have withdrawn.  I don’t feel good about either, and as awkward as those “talks” may have been, the closure they would have provided would have been worth it.  

Confession: I do not talk much about these things to my friends.  I have had both good and bad experiences when I have tried to talk about it.  One friend told me it’s on me to figure out how to feel better; another friend just about flicked me in the forehead for not going to her sooner.  My reticence comes more from my own self-judgment more so than my fear of others’.  I judge myself as being weak or ridiculous for perseverating on hurt and pain. Before some of you start banging your heads on the keyboard, I do see the fallacious logic of this.  I mean, come on.  Anyone who knows me knows I do my best to listen to people without judging them.  Why do I do it to myself?  Or even worry for a millisecond about someone judging me?  

I had a conversation with a friend last night who is struggling with grief.  If one were following the Kubler-Ross model of grief, this friend is experiencing anger, bargaining, and depression all at the same time.  Fun times, right?  But in speaking with him, I realized something: it is easy to dismiss someone else’s pain because you think it’s not as bad as, say, a literal death, or a terminal disease, or losing one’s home, or global genocides.  He and I both spoke of the wonderfully vicious cycle of beating ourselves up for feeling sad and angry when there are much worse things in the world, which everyone knows makes the initial pain and hurt feel so much better, right?  

Sometimes, we treat others’ pain as insignificant in comparison to - fill in the blank.  That judgment may never be vocalized, but our thoughts influence what we put into the world in even the smallest of ways.  I hope, I pray, that I remember that what may feel like a catastrophe to me might seem like a gnat to someone else.  I pray that I remember a walk in the park for me might be someone else’s cataclysm.  And may what I put into the world uplift rather than judge.

The Melody of Tears

Hunger.  Discomfort.  Frustration.  Grief.  Joy.  Anger.  Exhaustion.  Empathy. Heartbreak.  Hope.  Despair.  Love.  Gratitude.  

I have known many tears, each its own distinct aria in the score of my life.  We all begin with the infantile overture of hunger or discomfort, solace found, if we are fortunate enough, in the loving arms of parents.  From there, our unique experiences form the mood and tone of each movement of the composition.

Joy:  my salvation serenade.  I had never known one could weep with such gratitude.  Tears of rejoicing formed the hymn of a lifetime.

Grief:  an elegy to my pap, former students who have gone on too early, friends who’ve faded from my life.  These tears play a mournful tune, but they are evidence of how I am forever changed from those presences in my life and provide a salve to my grief.

Empathy:  when my friends ache, when my students hurt, when my family suffers, my heart aches, hurts, and suffers.  Our tears compose a chord for a bridge to healing. 

Heartbreak:  disappointed, left, lied to.  Staccato sobs punctuate every wound, every rent in the fabric of my heart.

Hope:  sometimes it flickers, a piano in the back of my mind.  Sometimes it burns brightly with a timbre that deafens.  These tears slide adagio, a soft reprise.

Exhaustion:  bone-deep, world-weariness, a dissonance in my soul.  Physical languor makes me sleepy; emotional fatigue rings like the cacophony of nails on a blackboard, each tear a release.

Frustration:  it wells when I am unable to reach my students, a crescendo that leads to one of two outlets.  Since I am a professional, I choose not to give in to the tickertape of colorful language running across my mind’s eye; thus, tears fill my eyes and sometimes spill over.

Love:  my mom, my sister, my gram, my nieces, my stepdad, my stepbrother, my cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my friends, my students, my players.  Individual notes in a chorus, these tears conduct the constant refrain of my life.

I have known many tears.  With the grace of God, I will know many more.  I am thankful for the music they bring, the good and the bad.  Without them, without the concertos and duets, without the symphony of tears, life is fractured and incomplete.

Motherhood

My gram rocked it three times.  My mom rocked it twice. My sister is currently kicking some serious butt at it.  Many of my friends are new to it, but are learning to conquer.  My best friend will be entering the arena come October.  I have witnessed it in the making once and am often awed by all those who wake to it every day and do such an amazing job.  Motherhood.

I have always wanted to have children; there are times when I think about and research all of the things involved with going through the process. FYI: one round of IVF, which has about a 25% chance of success, costs over $10,000; adoption costs range all over the place, but being a single parent puts the odds decidedly not in my favor, a fact that would otherwise make me quite happy if I were entering an Hunger Games. I pray about it a lot, and I wonder if I would even be equipped to handle it alone if I did have the money to make it happen.  (For what it’s worth, I think I would be able to handle anything for the love of a child; it’s the going through the process that I’m afraid might make me crazy.)  I also wonder if perhaps there is a reason my womb has yet to produce.

When I wrote earlier that I am awed by motherhood, that may have been an understatement.  I listen to dear friends who are struggling every day to be the best mom possible, who think they are failing miserably, and who do not understand the absolute beauty and grace with which they shine even when they haven’t showered in two days or feel joyous upon getting out for adult conversation.  I hear the ache in their voices when they discuss how to discipline their children so they will become kind, respectful, helpful, humble, hopeful human beings who will bring light into the world.  My eyes fill up when their eyes do when they admit how much they feel like they are failing, and I want to tell them how truly awesome, in every sense of the word, they are.

I have not carried a child in my belly.  I haven’t had the joy of stretch marks and baby kicks and morning sickness.  I haven’t pushed a child into the world or suffered the searing pain of an episiotomy.  (I saw that, live and in person, and lemme tell you, the empathetic pain I felt made me cry out for my sister.  Once kids are old enough to know what that is, the Mother’s Day gifts should rise exponentially.)  There are times when I look at all these amazing women who are struggling through the pains and joys of motherhood every day and feel a bit jealous, but the majority of the time, my brain simply gapes in wonderment at how they do it.

Ironically, I received two Mother’s Day cards today.  One, a Beauty and the Beast musically-enhanced card, came from my current group of seniors.  I’m not quite sure why they went with this card, especially because they didn’t sign it yet.  I say yet because I was told that would be the card they would all sign the week of graduation.  This is not the first group of students to give me such a card; I have actually gotten cards in the past couple of years as well from some pretty sweet kids.  The second was from my one of my nieces, who I think was trying to send it on behalf of my pup.  This one was not only signed but filled with some of the loveliest words ever.  

As much as I may not understand the reason now, I think there is a reason I haven’t given birth to my own children.  Perhaps I do not have any of my own so I have more to give to others’ children.  Perhaps the Lord’s plan for me is never to have children of my own so I can be of service to those who do.  Or, perhaps He is giving me the opportunity to learn the ropes from some pretty amazing women.  If that is the case, I will have one of the most amazing support systems ever.

In Proverbs, it reads, “Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.” (31:28) Mommas, may you get all the praise you deserve from the blessings you’ve been given.

Diction

I took a two-year hiatus from music.  I drove in silence.  I never had it playing at home.  I had an mp3 player that lay dormant somewhere in my apartment.  I am sure I heard it when I went out-n-about, I may have even put some dollars in a juke box from time to time, but I have no recollection of hearing it play or being particularly moved by anything for that time period.  What I find interesting about this fact is not that I went without; I am certain there are many people who just don’t get into it, and I surely was not a die-hard fan of an musician in particular.  I find it interesting that it was that two year window of my life when I felt the lowest.  

I think about that time today not because I want to write some inspirational piece about how music saved my life; though, I can tell you that one of the first signs of me moving out of that darkness was when I started listening to it again.  Rather, I was thinking about that time because yesterday, as I cleaned and did some yard work, I put on my ipod and lost myself in the world of music for the first time in a little while.  It was lovely, uplifting, and distracting from some of the things about which I tend to brood.  After some thought, I realized that music and the recent blogging process have been two fantastic sources of release for me.

Confession:  I have another blog.  It’s private, a place for me to maintain my discipleship notes and narrate the inner-workings of my mind.  Writing for an audience is foreign to me, and I often doubt that my opinion about things is all that exciting or ground-breaking, so why write at all?  I wish I could be as delightfully witty and sassy as one of my friends in her writing - you know who you are - or as vulnerable as another of my friends.  I suppose the purpose of all this is in the title of the blog itself: to discover my voice, a process I hope never ends.

Attempting to define my purpose as a writer/blogger makes me contemplate the purpose for all of my words - have I mentioned the whole brooding thing? - regardless of the context. I weigh my words much more carefully if I am going to be writing them, in an email, on paper, online, texting, wherever.  And I am often shocked when I see nastiness in the same venues.  There is something about the written word that seems permanent, and thusly, more sacred to me.  Paradoxically, I am rarely offended by swearing or most words, for that matter, if they are spoken, and I am decidedly less careful with the words that run through my head and sometimes spill out of my mouth.  Perhaps I chalk them up to heat-of-the-moment ramblings.  What I have been finding, though, is those points of passion, those sometimes frustration-filled thoughts turn into spoken words that I doubt I would ever put to paper.  

The majority of the music I enjoy focuses on praise and worship, and I love songs with which I can harmonize (though my neighbors probably don’t particularly like it when they come on whilst I am belting out lyrics as I am weeding the flower beds).  One would imagine that the more of those aforementioned heat-of-the-moment ramblings I have, the more I would plug in to the music.  Ironically, it is the converse that is true for me, and I haven’t been listening to much music of late.  I’ve thought about writing about those negative things nipping at the corners of my mind, but what would it profit?  Yes, I might feel better to get it out of my head, but who else would benefit from such an endeavor?

I expect lyricists weigh their diction carefully; after all, they have a message they want to convey clearly.  Each word ached over for its denotation, connotation, sound.  It frustrates me that I am not as conscientious about the words I use to give voice to my thoughts; it disheartens me that I allow them to simmer over into the words I speak; and, it saddens me to know that sometimes those words infuse toxin into someone else’s day.   

In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul writes: Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers. (4:29) I want so badly for my words to be grace-filled and harmonious, not merely in my inner-monologue but for those that trickle, stream, and gush into the world around me.  I want to remember that each word is its own note, part of a greater composition that has the power to disparage or edify, abash or minister, curse or bless, and I want to choose them with care, mindful of my purpose.

Faith Matters

The term "born again" has become quite a loaded expression.  Typically in today's media, it is associated with the conservative side of politics, usually the extreme right-wing movement.  Or, if you are a fan of the Law and Order series, you would hear it associated with a character who murdered someone in order to cover up something or in order to "save my church." Sadly, as is often the case with any particular group of people, the extremists and/or loudest of the group come to represent it as a whole; and, with the speed with which information is propagated today, thus a stereotype is born.  

I was baptized in the Catholic faith, a fact I know but do not remember - if there is anyone who can remember their baby baptism, please let me know 'cause that's just impressive; however, I can recall being in my crib and seing a large green spider crawling across the ceiling, but that's a story for another day.  I was raised and confirmed in the Methodist church my mom grew up in.  This is what I remember: feeling close to God while singing in church, walking up the mountain to the cross at Jumonville during a retreat, and writing about Scripture for missed confirmation classes.  I do not remember feeling particularly passionate about it as I grew up, but I cannot remember a time when I did not have faith in God or Jesus Christ, His Son.  Granted, my expressions of that faith and worship have lacked, dramatically at times, but I have always felt close to God.

I was blessed in college to have some pretty amazing friends, strong in the faith and infinite in their patience with me.  I do not remember - I have typed this phrase several times in two short paragraphs; I am beginning to think working with teenagers might be turning my brain to swiss cheese - anyway, I do not remember when it happened or why for that matter, but it was at this point I became disenchanted with organized religion.  I came to see it as the harbinger of destruction and doom, responsible for all the world's woes.  My dear friends were patient in their efforts to assure me of all the good that comes with it, even with the bad, but I argued my little heart out.  Little did they know they were planting seeds that would take 15 years to bear fruit.

Fast-forward through years of living, making both poor choices and good and my conversations with God limited mostly to times of need, my presence in church limited to weddings and baptisms.  After surviving a painful break-up, the house-hunting process that had me at a whole new level of  bananas, and experiencing a level of closeness with a group of students akin to parenthood, I finally understood what Nicodemus struggled to understand almost two thousand years ago.  

On June 9, 2010, I wept.  I sobbed in a way I never had before, with an understanding so profound it redefined me and with a gratitude so immense it brought me to my knees.  I'll be honest: I've had nights of sadness and despair when I've cried and cried and cried.  They were nothing compared to this level of catharsis.  It was this moment when I finally grasped His sacrifice.  I knew with my intellect He died for us, but it was this moment I realized He died for me.  For me.

I have tried to describe this moment to a friend; she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said okay.  Perhaps my words were ineloquent or insufficient.  Perhaps that moment seemed insignificant compared to others'.  Perhaps my friend had a similar moment and she thought everyone already knew it.  I'm not certain, but as I've thought about it, I am convinced that moment is similar yet intensely unique for every one of us who have experienced it.  While I had heard the expression of being born again before, read about it in literature and non-fiction, I didn't get it until I got it.

I wish I could say my life since then has been perfection, but I am human, capable and guilty of sin. For as much as I strive to let Him work through me, I often rebel and fail.  My walk with Christ has had spurts of great growth, times of stagnancy, and stumbles of backsliding.  However, the difference from the Before is an awareness, a recognition of His presence in every aspect of my life, be it the glory of a sunrise, the gift of an heartache, the blessing of a friend's thoughtful text message, the opportunity to help someone in need, or the instruction an impatient moment brings.  The difference in the After is when I struggle, when I choose, when I celebrate, I feel His hand at my back.  I may not choose the best response every time, but I feel Him here.  Acutely. 

Jesus tells Nicodemus, "That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit." (John 3:6)   The media may define it one way, atheists may define it another, and various sects of Christianity may define it yet another way.  Me, I was born again when I became cognizant of what He has done for me, when I allowed the Spirit into a very fallible and broken heart.  

And I pray that my response to that tremendous Gift is worthy of it.