Back to the Bench

It all started right here.

Ten years ago - it seems hard to believe it's been a decade - my heart was heavy. Almost inconsolable.

Then I began what I called Lakeside Services.

On this very bench, as I took in glorious sunsets each evening, I would cry out to God in my pain and ask Him a lot of "whys?"

I didn't get an answer to every question, but surrounded by the beauty of His creation, I found peace and comfort in the midst of the storm.

I went back to the beginning of this blog today. Back six years looking for one of my early posts that spoke of that time. When I pulled up Lakeside Services I was surprised at what I read, but honestly, I shouldn't have been.

The verse that has defined the past three months for me was there once again. The verse I wrote about last month in Flood and Fire.

Isaiah 43:2: When you go through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown. When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned up; the flames will not consume you.

In the Flood and Fire post I shared about my recent cancer journey. I have been blessed in that it was caught early, treatment was short and uneventful, and the prognosis is good. (Although prayers are gratefully accepted for my one month follow up July 3rd!)

What I didn't share was the other half of the past three months. The part of the journey that is the more emotionally taxing for me than even a cancer diagnosis.

The same day I received that news, my brother reappeared after more than a year; homeless, desperate, and looking for help.

He is almost four years younger than me, but hard living most of the past few decades has taken its toll. Most people think I'm the younger sibling by as much as 10 years.

He now suffers from short-term memory loss and a host of health issues. When he resurfaced it was from a place a little lower than rock bottom.

My profession is working with people in desperate situations. My office is often their last resort.

I thought that would have prepared me for working with my brother, but I was wrong.

No matter how intense the needs and demands of others who walk through my door, I could still go home at night, pray for them and move on to other things.

Not so when it's family.

There are no "work hours" and "down time."

It's all the time. 

The phone rings early in the morning and late at night. Work and weekends get shifted around to accommodate visits to social services, Social Security, and doctors offices.

I thought I was awesomely juggling all the balls in the air until the day the wrong button got pushed. I dropped him off at the temporary shelter where he's been staying the past three months and sobbed all the way home.

It didn't make sense to me. I was angry with him and his behavior - why on earth was I crying?

But cry I did. The ugly cry. The shoulder-heaving, snot running, torrents of tears so-thick-I-could-barely-see-the-road cry. And when I thought it had stopped, it started all over again.

The next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, tears lived in the rims. The mere thought of having to deal with him pushed those droplets over the edge and down my cheeks.

It wasn't my nature to be so down for so many days on end.

Through it all, I have continued to force myself to sit down and work on a writing assignment and my book. I would leave work, then write for several hours. I have deadlines to meet and I spent many days going from the computer screen at work to the computer screen at home.

Last night as I drove home I noticed the sunset, and the lake called to my spirit. I can't tell you how many long, long months it has been since I sat on my bench and watched the sun slip below the horizon.

I almost didn't heed the call.

At the last minute I rerouted myself and headed toward the park. It was 8:30 and the sun was already hanging low in the sky. As I drove in the direction of the marina, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

There was a fawn prancing around it's mom, then taking off in wild abandon. It stopped in its tracks, abruptly changed directions, and charged off again.

I pulled off on the side of the road to watch for a full two minutes, laughing at the fawn and his joyous play.

It immediately lifted my spirits. 

I slowly drove off, then pulled my camera out of my purse, turned around, and was thrilled to see him still at it so I could record his antics.

A few minutes later I continued to the marina and headed down to the water with my camera.

The lake and the sunset did not disappoint. I sat on the bench and listened to the "whizzzz" of the fisherman's line being cast and the "plunk" as the weight hit the water to pull the hook below the surface, tantalizing the fish below with a worm or minnow.

I smelled the sweetness of the honeysuckles hanging in the air.

And I felt the warm breeze on my face.

This is where it all began for an aching heart searching to find joy again.

This heart, once more heavy with the struggles of this life, has returned to ask new why's. To seek answers once again in the stillness and beauty of creation.

To hear Him whisper "I am with you always, Toni. Sometimes in this life you will go through storms, but I am in control."

This heart has come back to the bench.

Permission to Grieve

As I stood in the recessed archway of the now empty dining room, the memories came flooding back.

This was the spot that sold me on this house 28 years ago. 

I had been 8 months pregnant with my first child when we first walked through the front door, so I knew time was of the essence in finding a place bigger than our one bedroom apartment.

Still, I really didn't want to buy a semi, or as some call it, a duplex. And I definitely didn't want to buy in the city. But when I saw this perfect little alcove for my piano, it made me change my mind.

The plan was 5 years, then sell the house and move to someplace in Suburbia.

But plans rarely go, well, as planned, do they? 

We had a second child, money got tight, life took over, and time just flew.

So there I was, 28 years later, once again looking at the alcove, thinking about how much everything has changed.

The baby who was born just 2 weeks before we signed the mortgage papers is 28 now. Married last October and considering a family of her own. The second child is almost as old as I was when we bought the house. I'm divorced-almost 4 years. And my piano? Given away to a friend because there was no place for it in my new apartment.

Yes, I've moved. After a year of ups and downs, court papers and prayers, it seemed clear that God's plan was for me to leave this house.

But it's been more than just a move. The past year has been one of loss. 

I hadn't thought of it that way at first. I mostly thought of it as change. 

But the truth is, there have been many losses, large and small. The house, the piano, the many things with sentimental attachment that had to be sold or given away because there's nowhere to store them.  The neighbors who have cared for me cutting my grass, shoveling my walk, keeping a watchful eye on my home. My space and my privacy. It is much harder to be undisturbed in a 4 room apartment than a 7 room, 3 story house. Even the loss of sleep as I try to acclimate to a smaller, less comfortable bed.

I've wrestled with God over a lot of this. Asked Him lots of questions. I'm not angry. Just kind of confused about how and where He's leading in all of this. And kind of sad about all the loss.

I love Ephesians 3:20, but this current circumstance is certainly less than I've asked for or imagined. 

So I have to ask myself, does that make the promise any less true?

No.

God still loves me. He's still in control. Still working things together for my good. Still able to do abundantly more than I can ask or imagine. 

But I can still mourn that which has been removed.

Yesterday's sermon was on renewal. The pastor closed by quoting Ephesians 3:20 and said "The altar is open. If you have a burden, come forward and leave it here." It isn't something we do every week in my church. I didn't know the invitation would be given when I got there.

As I went forward and knelt, I couldn't pray. Tears began to flow and they became unstoppable, silent sobs. I stayed kneeling until the singing began again, then quickly slipped into my seat down in front. I sat in the sanctuary until most were gone, not wanting to-not even sure I could-explain my tear-stained face.

My pastor came over and asked what was wrong. I blurted out a mish mosh of everything, nothing, and I just don't know. That's when he said to me "you've been through a lot lately Toni. It's okay to give yourself permission to grieve."

I can't tell you how freeing that was. 

I'd been looking for the bright side in all of this a long time. And when friends encouraged me with "it's an exciting new chapter" I knew it was true, but couldn't always feel it. 

My pastor's words spoke such comfort to me. We don't have to have it altogether all the time. Life isn't tied up with a bow. Sometimes, we experience loss. And sometimes, we just need permission to grieve before we move on to those new chapters in life. 

And that's okay.