Yearbook Signing

The school year is wrapping up, and my kids are bringing home stashes of artwork and used-up pencils, celebrating their accomplishments, and preparing to spend a few days having fun with friends before school’s out for the summer. One annual task that is right around the corner is yearbook signing. My kids are young, so yearbooks seem a little extraneous, but I have to admit it’s pretty sweet to watch this tradition evolve. In Kindergarten, kids are just able to sign their names and by fifth grade, they are adding fun embellishments like hearts and stars to their signatures. Next up, middle school, where everyone writes, “Have a great summer!” and “Stay cool! C-ya next year!”

This got me thinking about my own yearbooks, and my high school self. I pulled my yearbooks out today because I remember the comments often surprising me. Of course most people say nice things, like “You’re a good friend,” and “It was fun having chemistry with you,” and always, “Have a great summer!” But when they became more specific, the personal comments in my high school yearbooks tend to have a similar theme, mostly about my perpetual optimism and joy.

“You are always smiling!”

“Thanks for being so happy and cheerful all the time.”

“I will miss seeing your smile and positive personality!”

In middle and high school, I was something of an incurable optimist. Search for the silver lining, point out the bright spot, think happy thoughts—these were my specialties. People who know me in my day-to-day life now would find this to be laughable. A bit of a skeptic, tired and complaining, and usually obviously stressed to the max as I run from kids to work to other obligations—this is the land I now reside in. Frankly, I miss the optimist within myself, and I’ve been wondering where she’s been.

It’s not as though the circumstances of my high school years were ideal, and I was simply enjoying the blissful ignorance of youth. You could argue that adult life is harder, and has more responsibilities and worries. But the truth is that when I was younger, not only was my home life much more difficult than my daily life now, the circumstances of my personal and family existence were pretty much public knowledge.

I remember the night my dad came charging into the high school auditorium. I was standing behind a giant wood and canvas construction made to look like a house that had been the backdrop for a play ending that night. I had called my dad to tell him that I would be home late, because we needed to strike the set that evening. I had asked for permission to attend the cast party afterward, and he had said no. I hung up the phone, telling him I would get a ride home after I finished helping to tear down and clean up. It would be late, but getting a ride home was normal for me. It was no surprise that my dad hadn’t attended a single showing of my first ever performance.

So there I was, standing on the stage of my high school production, holding onto a heavy backdrop while another person was breaking it down. I began to hear whispers from the other cast members. I heard yelling and a scuffle in the room just off the stage, and someone saying, “I think it’s her dad.” I looked up to see a friend standing at the end of the backdrop, and the look on his face was one of compassion.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Your dad is here,” he answered simply, and held out his arms to me.

I felt a wave of red-hot shame and embarrassment wash over my body. I ran into that hug, my head hanging down in disbelief, my ears ringing, and tears welling in my eyes. I could hear the drama teacher shouting, telling my dad he needed to leave.

“I think he punched Mr. B.” my friend whispered into the top of my head. “You’d better go,” he said.

I left quickly and quietly with my dad that night, without saying a word to anyone, and then had to return to that same school the following Monday. I was only a freshman. I remember the continued embarrassment of hearing the drama teacher retell the story in the hallway several times over the next few weeks. Visiting alumni, other teachers, administration, all got to hear about how Mr. B. feared for his safety when a student’s dad came charging in following an exhausting run of performances. When your dad storms into the high school in your freshman year and punches the drama teacher in the face, it’s pretty obvious to everyone you know that you’re not living with the most stand-up guy.

No one mentioned that incident in my yearbook. No one talked about how I was shy, or quiet, or closed off. Instead, friends mentioned specifically that they appreciated that I continued to smile even though it seemed like my life was hard. I know that I am blessed to have had many reasons for joy during that season. I always felt loved and supported by extended family, friends and teachers throughout that very confusing and abusive time. I participated in a variety of activities, because being at school was certainly better than being at home. My faith grew during that season, and I found strength in believing in a God who loved me.

When I consider it now, I also believe the fact that others were completely aware of my reality influenced my optimistic perspective. My friends knew the facts of my upbringing and home life, yet they were still my friends. Having support in the face of such tremendous difficulty gave me the space and freedom to be myself without fear of rejection. My friends understood that circumstances were hard, but they didn’t judge me based on those circumstances. They regarded me separately from my dad’s actions, and they gave me tremendous grace. I can’t even explain to you the incredibly positive influence that my peers had in that short season of my life. When things were difficult, they sent letters and cards and notes of encouragement. When things went well, they had barbecues in my honor. They were high schoolers. Just kids themselves, really. But they supported me in ways that have anchored me ever since.

Maybe it was because I was surrounded by so many caring people that I found the strength and determination to regard myself as separate from my circumstances. I became defiantly opposed to being like my dad; I wholeheartedly refused to believe that I was as bad and shameful as he often labeled me. I made it my mission to become the opposite of what my life appeared to be. Daily life was hard, but I was hopeful. Shame abounded, but I found strength. The story did not look like it was going to end well, but I became the surest optimist.

In more recent years, I lost that sense that things would turn out well. I started to think in terms of my failures, rather than my successes. Maybe it was becoming a mom, and feeling terrified that I was doing it all wrong. Perhaps it was seeing others around me fall into old patterns and cycles repeating themselves, as they often do. The messages in my head told me that I couldn’t be better than where I came from, that I was incurably messed up, and that no matter how hard I tried, things would not end the way I wanted them to. I felt as though I no longer had control over the person others would see in me and that I couldn’t influence or change the inevitably negative comments they would leave about me in my yearbook.

Since I have been openly sharing personal stories of my past and experiences on my blog, I have felt a lightening taking place in my life. Learning to walk without shame over my past, or even my present and the ways my past has influenced me, is unbelievably freeing. Deciding that I am unwilling to hide what I am dealing with, or make excuses, forces me to address the real roots of my exasperation, my stress, my cynical heart. It is only by facing those issues head on that I can break free from them. Acknowledging the truth, being unable to hide, is terrifying for sure. But for the most part, if I am being honest, finding tremendous support from so many who either identify with or find new ways to empathize through my stories has been an incredibly uplifting experience for me personally. It is helping me find my way back to that high school student who was known, and not ashamed. I am once again feeling pretty optimistic these days about how my story ends. After all, I play a major role in determining that outcome.

I was thinking that it might be nice to do some yearbook signing again. Consider this a note from me to you, telling you to stay cool. Thanks for reading my story. You matter to me, and you have helped me feel known and unashamed, and are aiding me in shifting my view back toward optimism. I really do hope you have an amazing summer and you keep in touch. But I want to take it even further. I want to be the supportive friend who isn't hiding her truth, and makes room for others to share honestly when they are struggling. I want to acknowledge your struggles, and be able to point out that you are not your circumstances.  I want to write for you a note telling you all the good I see in you that you might not see in yourself. I want you to believe that you can change your future, today, and be the kind of person that you want to be, no matter what you're battling or where you come from. That's what I'm writing in your yearbook today, friend. LYLAS.

The Thief Will Not Win

After posting so many difficult stories recently, I find myself asking why on earth I am doing this. I don’t really think people want to spend their precious time reading about trauma, and I would guess that those who know me might feel a little bit uncomfortable with the amount of personal information I am disclosing. I know that I am on a journey, and getting part of my story out there in this way is one small part of my process. So much of what I have shared so far has been facts, information about the realities of my own past and history. But sharing the facts is not the whole of the story I am trying to tell.

What I really want to share is that while there is a level of brokenness that impacts my life continually, there is a tremendous level of grace that impacts it more completely. In the book of John, Jesus tells a story. It is a beautiful parable about how a shepherd cares for his sheep. The shepherd is portrayed as kind and gracious, looking after his sheep tenderly and calling them to himself.  The sheep know their shepherd, and follow the sound of his voice. The shepherd is calling his sheep away from those that would harm them. John 10:10 says “The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life.”

Here is what I know to be true. I know that there is a thief at work in this world.  I can see the work of the thief stealing, killing and destroying in my life, and in the lives of those I love. So much has been stolen—my innocence, my trust in those who should have cared for me, my childhood. So much has died—my relationships with my biological parents and extended family members, my children’s relationships with grandparents. So much has been destroyed—the life of my abuser, my brother’s life, the lives of other victims.

This week I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this is not how it is supposed to be. This feeling produces tremendous grief. I want things to be different; I long for it. At times, the realization of the present level of destruction threatens to crush me. I cannot explain all that I feel other than to say that it is incredibly painful.

Yet in the midst of all this destruction, this intense pain, I can hear a shepherd calling as well. I can see his work all around me. While he did not prevent the thief from coming in, he was there with me and he called me away from that place of darkness. By some miracle, I heard the voice of a shepherd who loves and cares for me, and I can honestly say that I believe he was calling me all throughout those challenging days. By believing in that truth and following his voice, I have found myself led into a completely different life than the one I knew when I was a child.

I cannot explain why I have been given the opportunities I have throughout my life, when I see others whose suffering is greater than my own. I can only keep listening for the voice that guided me away from destruction. That voice continually encourages me to stop allowing my own bitterness to steal my joy, my lack of forgiveness to kill my future, and my hatred to destroy my chance to feel and express love. When I listen to that message, I find peace.

So I return to the original question: Why am I sharing these difficult stories? Why not leave the past in the past, and enjoy peace in all that I have today? I am telling these stories because it is evident the thief came with a purpose in my life, and he made it his mission to steal my future from me, to kill my faith, and to destroy my hope of something greater. I am telling these stories so that the thief will not win. For me, that means that the story of my past will become a story of redemption. It means that what the enemy meant to use to harm me, God will be able to use for good. It means that I cling to the belief that I have been brought through much so that another sheep might hear the echo of a Good Shepherd calling them away from destruction, into a rich and satisfying life of their own.

This blog is only one part of the work that God is doing in me, but it is something that I feel strongly that I have to do. I know that in this process I will make mistakes. Sometimes, perhaps I will share too much. Other times, it’s possible I will disclose too little. For all of those mistakes I will make, I ask forgiveness from those who read. Truthfully, I am doing all of this as an act of obedience to my shepherd, and that is reason enough.

I believe God has a purpose and a plan for these events, these stories, these heartaches I have experienced. The opportunity to speak up and use my voice to reflect back on my story reminds me of his grace covering me, his light shining through the darkness, his love bringing forgiveness and healing to the broken places. In order to find that place of healing and peace, both the darkness and the light need to be shared openly.

The Good Shepherd promises me that the thief will not win. That promise is enough for me.

You Are My Sunshine: A Lullaby for Mothers

It is almost Mother’s Day. This year, I will celebrate that I have been a mom for over a decade. I will honor the various women in my life who have supported and helped me along the way to becoming a mother. I am fortunate to have my amazing grandmother in my life, as well as aunts who supported me throughout my childhood in place of a mom, a wealth of friends who have cared for me and shown me the art of mothering through the years, a stepmom who was on the scene at just the right time, and an incredible mother-in-love who raised one helluva man that I am blessed to call my husband. I recognize that it is an abundant blessing to have so many women in my life that care for me, yet I still feel an absence in that area of my life. I do not have much of a relationship with my own biological mother. Although I rarely speak to her, I think about my mother often.

I have complicated memories of my mother. Many of my memories are confusing, and I have far more questions than answers about her choices throughout my childhood. Many of the memories are painful, frightening or sad. Some of them still cause me to feel angry, or hurt, or disappointed. The memory that causes me the greatest ache, however, is that of my mother singing to me a lullaby. It comes to me in flashes. I can picture myself as a toddler, standing on the side of the crib calling out, and then see her enter the room, lay me down, and bend over the rails while she sings. I can feel myself cradled on her lap, slowly rocking back and forth while she is smoothing my hair to calm me. I think of her sitting on the side of my bed when I had the flu, and the words flood my mind again.

“You are my sunshine,” she sang, “my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It is a song that many mothers sing to their children. I have sung it often to my own. And yet every time I utter the words I hesitate.  My eyes grow wet with unshed tears and my chest aches with pressure as I softly make my way through the chorus, thinking of my mother, thinking of my children.

 I think about my mother rocking me to sleep, looking in on me as her baby at night.  I think how the lyrics to that song were an echo of the life in front of us.  "Please don't take my sunshine away," my mother begged over my sleepy head.  It is the cry of so many of us as mothers when we rock our little ones.  "Don't grow up too fast," we plead.  "Don't leave me too soon," we cry out, when we look up and realize that they have grown inches taller and years wiser.  "Please be mine always," we ask, hoping that even when they do grow up and go away, they will still be our babies.

The chorus of You Are My Sunshine feels like it is part proclamation of love, part codependent threat.  You are my sunshine, so please don't ever leave me, because if you go I will have nothing.   And yet that chorus seems to reflect one aspect of a mother’s love and heartache pretty well. You are my everything, little one. Watching you grow makes the bleakest day seem lovely. You light up my life. I don’t think you can ever really know how much I love you with this powerful love, the love of a mother for her child. And yet, my heart breaks because I know that my greatest responsibility in life is to raise you so that you can go out on your own one day. But not yet, please. Please don’t take my sunshine away just yet.

Perhaps I feel this pull more acutely than some, because I do not have an adult relationship with my mom. I cannot ask her if she felt the same intensity I did on the day we brought our oldest home from the hospital. I was sitting on the side of the bed in our apartment, sunlight streaming through the window, my beaming husband standing over us, proud as could be. I looked up at him with tears pouring down my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

Holding my sweet, chubby bundle in my arms, through gasping sobs, I told him what was bothering me. “He’s just going to grow up (sniffle, sob) and meet some girl (gasp), and leave me (boo-hoo-hoo)!” With the patience of a saint, my husband kissed my forehead. “Honey,” he said calmly, “let’s just figure out how to feed this little guy and get through the night. Maybe let’s not worry about the next 18 years just yet.”

But as the years fly by, I feel this tension of motherhood deepen. This love that is so overwhelming is accompanied by a heartache that knows that it cannot hold on to a ray of sunshine forever. That little bundle has places to go, people to meet, and a life of his own to live. And I constantly fear that if I mess this up, my little man may not come back to me after he is grown. Embedded in this ache that accompanies watching my children grow is the deeper ache over my own mother who missed so much of my childhood. Most people never sing the verses of You Are My Sunshine, perhaps because they are heavily coated with sorrow.  My mother always sang the first verse to me.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, and so I hung my head and I cried.”

I don’t think my mother could have possibly known how this verse would soon echo in her own life. I can only imagine that those words did become truth when her children were taken from her.  The gray skies of navigating abuse and poverty and brokenness managed to blot out any ray of light for years. I don't believe my mother wanted me to be hurt, but I don't believe that her desire for things to be better acquits her of responsibility.  How do I balance her possible love for me, her daughter, with the terrible and traumatic events that transpired, and her apparent powerlessness to change the course?  There is evidence that my mother asked me repeatedly if I was being hurt; it seems I never felt safe enough to tell her the truth.

My mother only sang the chorus and the first verse to me, that I can recall. But the verses of You Are My Sunshine continue in this way. Once, I dreamed I held you in my arms, but it was only a mirage.  You have left me to love another, and you have shattered all my dreams.  I wonder, is this song about love, or is it about grief?  I love you, the song proclaims, you are everything to me. Don't leave me, the verse threatens, you will regret it.  I love you, come back to me, blame me, I will forgive you.  I cannot decide if this song is a story of love, or a story of loss. Perhaps, as is so often the case, the answer isn't either/or.  Instead, it is both/and.

Motherhood is like that. It is love, and it is grief. It is this intense loss of self, where each day I must find a way to give more and more and more of me over for my children. I must learn how to put their needs before my own, and yet I must also take care of myself just enough that I have the strength to love them well. I must prepare myself for the day when I will allow my children to step outside my love, and consider the grief I may experience. At its core, You Are My Sunshine perfectly conveys the all consuming love that being a mother becomes, along with recognizing the ways in which mothers may endure tremendous loss.

The questions I ask myself about motherhood do not have easy answers. When I think of my mother, it seems easier at times to move forward if I believe that she allowed the abuse in my life to occur because she didn't care, she valued only herself and her own interests.  The harder truth to endure is the belief that most likely she loved me deeply, and the hurt I experienced pained her too.  Our shared sorrow results in our shared brokenness and inability to find our way to reconciliation.  The gray skies take over, the storm is too great, and the sunshine of our connection has all been taken away.

I believe that You Are My Sunshine should be the lullaby for mothers, rather than a song we sing for children. It is the song of mothers whose little ones brighten every day, even though at the same time those women are battling the stormy gray clouds of all that life sets before them. It is also the cry of mothers who lost their babies far too soon, who may wake at night dreaming of their children somehow taken from them. You Are My Sunshine is the chorus of mothers whose babies are grown and walking around without them, mothers who are simultaneously proud and lonely. The song fully reflects the intense love and the overwhelming grief that some stages of motherhood may place into a heart. You Are My Sunshine is my lullaby; it is the song that allows me to feel the weight of mothering and the hope of love that will endure. You Are My Sunshine is the lullaby my own mother sang over me, when she didn’t even realize the depth of its truth.

This Mother’s Day, I choose to remember that my mother sang to me.  I choose to believe that in those moments, the words she sang were true.  I choose to believe that my mother loved me, even if she didn't know how to exercise that love to protect me.  In that belief is more sorrow than comfort, knowing that the choices made years ago have altered our relationship forever.  Still, this Mother’s Day I also choose to keep singing You Are My Sunshine to my children, because it always is both/and. Life will always be both/and, my story will always be both/and, motherhood will always be both/and.  Love and pain, hurt and healing, sunshine and gray skies all tangled up together.

You can listen to a beautiful and true version of You Are My Sunshine performed by The Civil Wars here.