No Mistakes

God doesn’t make mistakes. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve questioned that theory many times. Recently I’ve been going back into the files in my head and bringing out old memories that need to be dealt with. Some weren’t as bad as I thought they’d be. Some still fill me with so much rage that I file them away again, afraid to deal with them. These last few weeks, I have been taking them back out, one by one.

It’s funny, the things a person remembers and what they forget. I’ll always remember that day in 1^st grade that we were supposed to be quiet and another kid asked me about my new watch. I told him to put his head down and be quiet. It was my name that ended up written on the board that day, not him. However, I can’t remember the marching band performance during halftime of the Homecoming football game my freshman year in High School. I was there…I was in it. There was even a video recording to prove it. I remember going to practice day after day. I remember walking onto the field and back off the field afterwards, but I don’t remember the performance.  I’m blaming it on stress induced amnesia.

“The dark years”, as I now call them, were not too long ago. I managed a string of bad relationships that I needed to get out of, but my self-esteem level kept me prisoner and wouldn’t let me build the nerve. I managed to escape one during an unusual surge of strength and run right into the next loser. I was abused mentally, verbally, emotionally, and physically by these jerks.

I let it happen. I needed to face that fact. I had plenty of support on the outside, although no one knew what was really happening until years later. I had every opportunity to get out, but I didn’t. I was terrified to be alone. I had no self-esteem and was severely depressed. I wanted too badly to fit in and be “cool” and I have finally come to the realization that that will never happen. I must embrace being an outsider.

Now, I’m not going to do a major gothic overhaul on myself (no offense to those who like the look), however, I needed to realize that I am unique. I have a weird sense of humor and find great amusement in other people’s stupidity. I don’t understand how Stephen King’s books are supposed to be scary. I actually felt sorry for Carrie White in Carrie and rooted for the ghosts in Rose Red. I have a slightly off kilter obsession with vampires (even before I read Twilight). Tim Burton is my favorite director and I think Johnny Depp is the most talented actor on the Silver Screen. I thought the Saw series was brilliant and own every single installment. Now, tell me honestly, is this the profile of a normal person? Probably not, but I kind of like it that way.  

I woke up today and looked at myself in the mirror. When I look deep into my reflection, I can still see that scared girl I used to be. She’s still in there; she’s just buried under excess pounds of depression and hatred. I’ve been trying to coax her out little by little and let her know that it’s going to be ok. What happened was for a reason. I have to let the hatred go.

If you could go back and change your life…would you? I would say no. Each person I have encountered in my life has impacted me a different way. I have learned what I want and don’t want;  the things I need and don’t need; who really loves me and who I really love. I have also learned how strong I can be. I don’t think that I would feel compassion for other people if I didn’t know what it was like to want compassion. I wouldn’t know how to empathize with someone if I hadn’t gone through their problem myself at one time. I wouldn’t have such a deep gratefulness for my family if I didn’t realize how quickly they could be taken away.

I believe there is a design. God knew that I would have a flair for the theatrical and, when I look back, my life kind of plays like a romantic comedy/horror film. I can only smile when I imagine God sitting up there just waiting for me to get it through my thick skull and then, when I did, He probably smiled and thought “There she is. That’s my girl.”

God doesn’t make mistakes. My life is not a mistake.  I am not a mistake.

An Unexpected Hug

It has been several months since my final day of work. I have already gone through every emotion in the grieving process. Twice. The depression hit me hard this time. I was struggling with my self-worth, taking care of the kids, guilt, and disbelief over how long it was taking to find a new job. It's been a rough winter.

One night I was up late and was praying. I was getting angry with God. I had so many "why" questions and wasn't getting answers. I'm pretty sure He was answering me somehow, I just wasn't getting it. I was too deep in self-pity and depression to notice. I asked God to please send me a sign.

A few days later, I received a phone call from my Mom. She said that she was told to get me something from my Grandma. Now, just so you understand, my Grandma means the world to me. She is sweet, kind, loving, and generally just plain awesome. She is retired and lives on the other side of the country from me. I miss her every day.

When I received the item, it was not what I had expected. I figured it would be some sort of figurine or household item that we might have needed. Instead, it was a holding cross. A holding cross is a hand carved cross that is slightly off kilter so it fits in your hand perfectly while you are praying. It is a beautiful natural wood color with no paint. This item is used often in hospice centers so that the people have something to hold onto while praying or are being prayed for. It's a comfort item. Obviously, I was appreciative of the fine gift, but I was mad at God and didn't want to use it right away.

I left it on my nightstand for a couple of weeks. Each night I looked at it and cried while begging God to answer me. Finally one night, while laying in bed, I quietly prayed again. I told God that I was angry and that I didn't understand how I was supposed to feel comforted by Him. At that moment, I decided to try holding the cross that my Grandma had sent me.

I put the cross in my left hand and laid down on my right side with the cross in front of my heart. Doing so forced me to hold my right arm out in front of me and as I bent my right elbow, my right forearm and hand crossed my body in front of my left hand. The end result, I realized, looked like I was hugging the cross. I was finally able to release everything that was built up inside me. I cried harder than I had cried in a long time. That night I slept well and woke up the next morning with a new perspective on our situation.

I am not sure where she heard it from, but my Mom has always said, "God doesn't give us what we can handle, He helps us handle what we are given." The problem was that I wasn't allowing Him to help me by being angry. So, He went to my Grandma and put it in her heart to send the cross to me. He helped me handle what I was given by sending me a hug through the heart of a woman from across the country.

Note: Here is a link to a site for holding crosses. http://www.holdingcross.com/

Cradling a Dream

Have you ever walked through an antique store, picked up an item, and wondered where it was from? If it could talk, what would it tell you? What has it seen? Where has it been? Who did it meet? Someday, I hope someone will want the bassinet as badly as I did.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was like every new mom: scared, excited, anxious, nervous… There really wasn't a word to describe exactly how I was feeling. I still can't find a suitable word. We set up the baby's room. There was a crib, dresser, clothes, blankets, toys, stickers on the walls of the stars and moon, a brand new linen set with the same décor, and a cradle in the corner ready to be moved into our bedroom for those first few precious months of life.

I would day dream of laying in bed in the wee hours of morning and reaching over to rock the cradle ever so gently to lull my sweet baby back to sleep. I was going to bring the cradle out into the living room with me while I read books or watched movies. It was going to be just like I dreamed when I was little and put my dolly in her little bed. It was going to be perfect.

Six and one-half weeks before his due date, my water broke. I spent the weekend in the hospital waiting for something to happen. I was hooked to monitors, IVs, and medicated from Saturday morning until Monday evening when he was born. He had size to his advantage, but still struggled to breathe. Twenty days after his birth, our son came home with an apnea monitor, danny sling, sleeping wedge to attach the danny sling onto, and reflux medication.

My heart broke when I quickly realized that the special sleeping arrangements wouldn't work in the cradle. That dream went into the garage for storage until we found a new home for it. My husband had to tear down the crib and reassemble it in our room. When we had everything set up, it reminded me so much of a hospital room. Wires, monitors, medicine, special sleeping apparatus's. It was a scary few months. Every time the monitor would beep, our own hearts stopped. On Valentine's Day, the doctors told us we could stop using the monitor. In March, we could do away with the danny sling and sleeping wedge. In April, we stopped the reflux medication. By the Grace of God, our son was healthy.

Almost two years later, I was pregnant again. This time, the only word to describe what controlled my pregnancy was fear. I read everything and anything I could on what to do and what not to do. I was terrified of a repeat of my son's birth. Even though the final outcome was a healthy little boy, I feared the heartache and pain we all went through to get to that point.

I was hesitant to buy anything for the new baby, especially the one thing I wanted the most: a bassinet. The bassinet represented a baby that didn't need wires, monitors, special sleeping arrangements, and medicine. It wasn't our son's fault and I do not love him any less. In fact, he made me a stronger person. It was just a dream that I longed to fulfill.

A few months before the due date, my mother-in-law told me she wanted to get a bassinet for the baby. There was much discussion on the part of my mother-in-law, my mother, my husband, and me. None of us could agree on anything. This one was too soft. That one was too hard. This one might fold up. That one is too big. This one is too small. Sigh. Gary and I decided that we would just pick one up when I found one I liked. We went to a local consignment shop and right there in the front of the store was a bassinet. It was dirty and broken. The green and white Winnie the Pooh pattern was dingy and dusty. The wheel was broken and bent. The bottom storage compartment was torn. Kind of like my dream had been. We bought it.

On the way home, we stopped at a hardware store bought new wheels. Then we got a new mattress. We ripped the whole thing apart to get the fabric off and washed it with disinfectant and a lot of elbow grease. Gary put the new wheels on it. I spent hours hand-sewing the storage compartment back together. What emerged from that dusty heap of fabric and metal was the most beautiful bassinet I had ever seen. It was the perfect size and shape. It rolled effortlessly from room to room. It had a canopy that would lay flat or stay up to shade the baby's face from the light. The storage compartment held extra diapers and clothes. It had our heart and souls put into it. It was perfect.

A few months later, our daughter was born. She was healthy. Her birth went almost exactly as planned. She was nursing like a champ. After spending one day in the hospital for recovery, we brought her home. After the initial meeting of family members and getting settled, I brought her into our room. Even as the tears flowed, I smiled as I laid my baby girl into her bassinet and stepped back. No wires, no monitors, no sleeping contraptions, and no medications. Our son stood on tip-toe and peeked over the edge and into the bassinet at his new sleeping sister. I was overwhelmed with completeness.

She slept in the bassinet until she was about 4 months old and then we transitioned her into her crib. The bassinet stayed in a corner until I found out my cousin was pregnant. I offered her the bassinet for her first born baby. I don't know if she'll ever know how much that small piece of furniture really meant to me. The day it was taken away, and as odd as it sounds, I thanked the bassinet for bringing me closure to my silly dream. Then I shed a few tears as I watched it leave my driveway in the back of a van to bring sweet dreams to a new baby.

Sometimes I wonder what memories are stored inside those old antiques. If that dusty old item was meant to heal a broken heart. I wonder if I'll ever see that bassinet again sometime when I'm old and searching through antique shops. It has a story. It was mine.