Costumed like love

A few years ago I went to the wedding reception of some good friends of mine. It was a beautiful ceremony, nice decorations and wonderful music. The members of the wedding party toasted the bride and groom and handed out sage advice for how to make the marriage last.
There were funny ones like..."You get what you get and you don't throw a fit" and "Cut up her credit card and all will be well."
There were a also more serious advice. "Love each other every day" and "never go to bed angry at one another"
My favorite and the one that has stayed with me is "True love is the way you treat your partner when you're not attracted to them."
What? You're married to someone you're not attracted to?
A shocking idea and one that rubs our sense of love and fidelity raw.
It is, however, the truth.
Over the last 18 years, my ability to be attracted to my husband is based on his voice, his personality, his good nature, sense of humor and patience. He is a man among men unlike any other.
He is also human and imperfect, even though he hides it really well.
It is harder for him though. He has seen me so sick I'm shaking and crying. He has seen me cut open from rib cage to pelvis. He watched his premature son, snatched from my womb which was cut wide open until he could see my lungs and rib cage. He's seen every manner of blood, fluid, puke, tears and pain come through my skin, my body, my scars and my heart. I've had tubes up my nose, down my throat and inserted in every vein in my body. He's held my hand, my hair when I vomited, my legs when they were swollen to twice their normal size and my body flat when I had an allergic reaction to a medication. He's seen in me, through me,  and around my misshapen and malformed body.
If attraction were necessary for us to have stayed married all these years, he'd of left me before we got married.
So often we think that attraction is love. Its not. Its just the costume love wears until the work begins.
When we go looking for the person we'll spend forever with, we look with our eyes and the first thing we find is the costume. It's said. "Men love what they're attracted to and women are attracted to what they love." The truth is Love is hard work, sacrifice, unselfishness, compromise, swallowed pride, being wrong, listening instead of hearing and letting go of being right because its an empty prize compared to being loved.
I always tell my husband that after all he's been through with me, his next wife needs to be a super model or something. He laughs, traces my healed wounds and tells me he loves my scars. They tell our story.
After all he's seen, the crazy part is he's still attracted to me too. Not the costume, the real me. Flawed, broken and imperfect because he looks at me with love, real love. Its the way he treats me, when he's not attracted. Its what makes him the love of my life.

Why Survive?

 A few weeks ago I awoke at 4 o'clock in the morning with a fever of 103 degrees. A bit extreme for most people, but for me...dangerous. I have two transplanted organs and an extremely compromised immune system. A fever of this magnitude requires a visit to the ER. My husband took me in about 6:30 where we discovered I had a raging infection. Antibiotics, rest, and a long series of medication and fluids can take care of it, but not this time. An infection turned to sepsis. Sepsis is where the infection goes into your blood stream and your entire body is basically one live bacterial circus. I got blisters on my face and hands, all of my organs were in such pain I couldn't move, but the pain was so extreme I had to move to keep it from taking over. I suffered from 'riggers' (maybe the wrong word) which is such extreme shaking from the fever that my bones rattled and I curled into a ball to try to keep any warmth. After five days of this, the fever cooled but my transplanted organs received an acute injury...damage done by the fever. After a few more days I was taken by ambulance to the transplant team to check on the organs. I felt pretty good at this point and just wanted to go home. I had a lot of blistering still and the infection wasn't dead so we decided to check on the organs. During this procedure where needles were stuck into the kidney and pancreas and sections were biopsied, I had an allergic reaction to one of the medications. My blood pressure dropped and I couldn't breathe or get my heart to beat at a normal rate. When this happened more than once, the doctors discovered I was bleeding from the biopsied sites into my abdominal cavity. I was moved to Surgical ICU, given a transfusion and pain killers before being watched for another 24 hours.
Now, if you know me, this is pretty normal for my health. When I go down, I go hard and fast. The older I get though, the more I realize the getting back up is harder and harder. I've spent the last week trying to get back on my feet and feeling like I might have been better off to have stayed in the hospital. At times like these, when recovery is long, painful and slow I wonder why I survived?
During this same period of time, a 16 year old boy in the surgical ICU next to me was brought in with a lacerated spleen. He did not survive. A car accident took the lives of a small family in the canyon and my neighbor's granddaughter, just 2 or 3, died suddenly with little or no explanation for what happened.
There were times in the hospital where I cried, begged for relief and gave my will to The Father as far as my transplanted organs were concerned.
So now I ask...Why did I survive?
I don't know the answer. My father-in-law says he stays alive because the devil won't take him and only the good die young. Perhaps its true. Its possible that I'm still trying to find my place between heaven and hell. I don't believe that though.
A part of me feels guilty because I get to stay with my boys, love my husband and fight a little longer. Part of me is grateful that the struggle is going on even though being free of this body would be easier. Most of me however, doesn't have answers.
One day we will all understand why 'The plan' is the way it is. Some day it will all make perfect sense. In the meantime, I live the best I can, I work to get better all the time, and I have faith that The Lord knows Why and for now...its enough.

Bailing Wire and Duck Tape

My two oldest boys find themselves in an interesting, and at times awkward tug-o-war. My oldest is 16, has his drivers permit and is working on his license. My fifteen year old also has his permit and is practicing the age old ritual of crossing into being all grown up, driving.
Neither of them can drive alone and their Dad won't let them drive with me. So we have two budding drivers and only one licensed adult. I drive with my boys occasionally because I'm the financially responsible party and I normally have another sighted person along for the help. Its an area of contention for my husband and I, but it helps sometimes to keep the boys both practicing and learning. God keep watch over us all.
I'm torn for the best, and most responsible way to help them when they're so close in age and are limited in their ability to be supervised. I often lose sleep and hair, worrying about what to do.
My friend, who knew me when I could see and drive, laughed at my consternation.
"You were a horrible driver when you could see," he insists. "You can't be any worse blind."
Could I?
I learned to drive, first with my older brother. If you know my older brother, you know he is brilliant, powerful, giving and an excellent father, husband and all around person. He is however,  NOT a great driver.
He drove in his early twenties, in Guatemala. He fit right into their 'take no prisoners' philosophy of speeding through intersections and around corners and break neck speeds and with various forms of livestock clinging to the doors and windows.
Later, he spent a few years in Malaysia doing the same thing, just without the livestock. He is an Indy-racer, Autobahn-wanna-be and he's fearless.
When I was 16, he took me out in our 1975 Dotson B-210 bomber. It was a conglomeration of rust, cracking vinyl, bailing wire and duck tape, but it ran.
It was also a stick shift and I had to learn to use the pedals and the shifter before I could actually drive. After grinding the gears, nearly pitching him through the windshield while I got the hang of the brake, and annoying him into driving with me, he said very little and gritted his teeth a lot.
When he and I finally got to the point that we drove, he clutched the door handle with one hand and the console with the other, praying for the both of us. He put up with me and my driving for a little while until one day a few months later.
I drove, jerkily, down a back road in the little town I'm from. Proud of myself for handling the clutch, gas and brake, all at the same time, I ignored my brothers all too obvious terror. In the little town where we lived, there were three foot wide canals running along some of the back roads. They were empty sometimes and I didn't worry about them. Unknown to me, these had the potential to be death traps. If the car were to plunge into the water, you could be drowned or washed away or both. Oblivious to this aspect of driving, I tootled down the road without a care in the world.
When the road took a sharp turn and I shifted down to decrease my speed, I forgot to steer the car, so absorbed was I in the transmission.
Now picture, My older brother and I finding ourselves hurtling toward one of these canals. He is screaming at me to stop the car. I'm in full out panic and crush the accelerator to the floor and cover my eyes with my arms.
I'm not sure how he did it, but he cranked the wheel, got my foot off the accelerator and pulled us to a dust-covered stop inches before the canal.
I don't remember what he said, how we got home or why he didn't throw me out of the car, but it was over. He never drove with me again.  I'm still surprised he used to agree to ride with me on occasion. Like I said before, he's quite the crazy driver on his own and I'm afraid some of that is my fault. All these years later though, these are some of my favorite times with him and our car. The car was just an old tin can of a thing, but I loved her, drove her into the ground and eventually turned her over to my younger brothers and sisters. Not before I crashed her a few times and used a lot more bailing wire and duck tape to keep her together.
My Dad eventually taught me how to drive and my time in New York honed, or exacerbated my skills, but I'll never forget that little car.
She was ugly, unsafe, and always on the brink of falling apart, but then so was I when I was 16.
My boys fight over and drive our old clunky Saturn and grit their teeth when they have to share. Trust me boys...It's the best time you'll ever have.

God's Not Dead

 My youngest son has a favorite song he is learning to play on the drums. He found out about it while watching a movie. In the show a  college freshman debates with one of his professor's about whether or not God was a philosophical idea invented by weak minds or if science supported the ideal of
creationists who believe in God. Arguments on both sides were interesting and held merit both for and against the idea of the reality of a higher being.
Perhaps because I've taught him his whole life that God is real, or perhaps because he is 10 and everything is black and white, he listened to the arguments and was convinced God is alive.
Granted, the movie's ending is meant to move watchers to believe God is an actual heavenly being. At 10 years old his thinking and analyzing capabilities are somewhat immature. His faith, on the other hand is light years beyond his tender age.
A few years back he asked me, "Mom how are stars made?"
I gave him my limited information about interstellar actions and the implosions of planets but he was still unsure. We watched a program on Discovery Channel where scientists went through how stars are born due to gravitational pull, implosion and the reality of their 'matter' becoming "space garbage" after such an experience. He looked at me, squeezed my hand and said, "That's where God got  the stuff to make earth."
The program went on to discuss black holes, the undefined reaches of space and galaxies beyond our own, but he was outside playing. It made sense to him and he had all he needed.
Every once in a while he'll ask me some deep, complex question about death, creation or what God looks like.
I do my best to answer him in terms he can relate to and he goes on to blow my mind with his simple factual faith.
He told me the other night he'd dreamed about dying. In his dream he walked across a green field until he stood in front of a very large, tall and smiling man dressed in such bright light he had to squint at him.
"Hello," the man said.
With a quick little wave of his hand he looked at the man and said, "HI God."
The man took his hand and showed him around, Let him play soccer and tousled his hair.
"I felt so good, Mom," he said.
"How did you know that was God," I asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at me before patting my hand. "Oh mom. You just know."
I hope he's right. I plan, pray and work for a time when I stand before that man and call him by name. For the time when he takes my hand, shows me around and like my faithful little boy, I just know.

Someplace You Fall

When I was in my early twenties, a country western music star and his wife sang a song together all about LOVE. It was a beautiful song, made more poignant because they performed it together and you could tell by the way they interacted together, they meant every word. Her voice wasn't great and his was good, but not the best I'd ever heard. He performed a song or two that I liked but this song rang with all sorts of truth for me. When a few years later, this couple  found themselves in a scandal concerning an illegitimate child, I wondered if the silly romantic in me had given it more meaning than necessary. In the midst of scandal, would LOVE be more than just someplace you fall? Could it stand up to the fire and be something they would DO?
It was for them. They worked it out. Forgave each other. Handled the publicity and stayed together. They are still together, still in-love and still Doing what ever it takes to make that love work.
The truth is LOVE isn't just 'something' you do, its everything you DO. Its putting your partner first. Its forming priorities around they're wants and needs. Its walking away from your old life to build a new one. Its listening, not just hearing. Its trusting when you don't trust anyone. Its becoming a better person, for yourself and for the one you love, as well.
Mostly, its letting go of pride, prejudice, power, and the person you used to be. and becoming new. New and better.
When you find yourself falling into that place, brace yourself for the landing. Its a long way down and a tough climb to a better place if you do it correctly. But its worth the ride.

Not How IWas Raised

I had the privilege of growing up next door to my paternal grandparents. Never has any kid been so lucky as to have the people who love you the best and without restraint, in the house just across the back yard. My other set of grandparents lived twenty minutes away and I didn’t realize at the time how fortunate I was to have two sets of grandparents so nearby. I made most of my mistakes with my parents and siblings, but all too often I disappointed or frustrated my grandparents as well. A part of my mind knew this. Yet, my heart did not grasp that same concept.

My grandmother had the kindest eyes, the softest hands and the biggest heart of anyone I knew. She didn’t buy me expensive toys, she simply let me play with her old blocks and dress my dolls in her old doll clothes.

She didn’t take me to McDonald’s for Happy Meals or up the street to Pizza Hut. She simply made the best meatloaf ever and let me choose from her vast array of cold cereal when I was hungry.

My grandfather told my brothers and sisters and I wonderful stories about hiking Three Falls, the legend of Crack Foot and all about what he’d buy when he won Publishers clearing House. I sat through the evening news with him and never understood why he like the weather so much, but I loved being with him.

My fondest memories when I was a kid were centered around my grandparents, their house and their un compromising love.

My children don’t have the same blessing with their grandparents that I did. Both my Dad and Erik’s mom have passed on. My step father is a wonderful grandfather though, and my father-in-law, likewise love my boys. These good men remind me to be patient with young, growing boys. Too love without judgement and to enjoy what I’ve got while I have it.

My mother, the only Grandma my kids know, doesn’t live next door, cook perfect meatloaf or provide a source to whom my kids can escape to find comfort…

She does come to their sports events, make the best funeral potatoes and take care of them with an open heart and endless patience. At times I listen to my boys talk about her and just shake my head. “That’s not how I was raised,” I tell them. “When I was your age she was tough, demanding, and she ruled with an iron fist.”

“Like you, mom?” they ask in all innocence.

“Yeah,” I remind myself. “Just like me.”

Someday, thanks to my mom, my In-laws, my Step Father and My grandparents, I hope to be the Grandma who loves, accepts and nurtures my grand children. And if I’m really good at it my kids will say to their children, “That’s not how she was when I was growing up.”

Then I’ll smile and remind myself, “This is how my Grandparents were. Mission accomplished.”

The Testosterone Triangle

A modern comic tells of his family situation by describing the environment in which he  lives. he says, "In my house there's my two daughters and my wife and I. Next door there's my sister-in-law and my three nieces. Between My girls, my wife's family and frequent visits from my mother-in-law...I live knee deep in the estrogen ocean."
He talks about the hair care products, the multiple lotions, perfumes and polishes. He rants and raves about the clothing, accessories, and hormones that fly around him constantly. I laugh every time I hear him tell about it because I remember growing up with my sisters, friends and cousins ;all of us knee deep in the estrogen ocean. The difference was we were acclimated.
Now, as the only female in a house full of men, I find myself lost in the testosterone triangle.
It is a group of highly dangerous, complicated and nonsensical islands that bring down sane, rational, normal women from every walk of life.
The major islands in this destructive chain are named: socially inappropriate body noises, the 'nothing box', short term thinking, and short circuited brain function.
Between my husband's 'white board' mentality. In his words his brain is a white board. Everything is written down on it, considered for quantity of importance and then wiped clean of everything that doesn't matter. This boils down to what things cost. How much effort is involved. What temperature the environment is and whether or not it will cause confusion for females traveling in the triangle.
Take this mind-set and combine it with boys who #1 know everything. #2 are never wrong and #3 will do it again, stir in a little hormonal imbalance, a touch of immortality and a dash of inflated self importance, and you live in the Testosterone triangle as well.
Its fraught with backward logic...i.e. "Well if I told you i wrecked the car you'd kill me. If you found out about it from someone else, the only person who gets hurt is you.
Its a tangled obstacle course of silence, 'read my mind' don't ask me questions, and What do you mean I can't choose my consequences?
As the only woman, deep in the testosterone triangle, I also get the benefit of awkward attempts at charm, flirtation and sweetness before they go out into the world and try them on 'real girls'. I take my little boys, feed them, clothe them, potty-train them , bandage their scraped knees, wipe away their tears only to have them shut me out, roll their eyes and reduce their vocabulary to 'whatever', while I try to navigate   their world during their ascension  to becoming men.
When they're gone and the shipwrecks of dirty laundry, dirty mouths and dirty bathrooms along with the plane crashes  of broken hearts, totaled friendships and shattered confidence, lie as a pile in the wreckage of my memory, I'll look back with fondness as they become a safe harbor for their little ones and the port of call for the lucky girl they marry.
Then I'll go back to 'the triangle', cry in their rooms and thank my Father-In-Heaven He gave me the chance to crash into their world for a little while.
I Love you boys!

Keep Up!

In the years before we moved to the little town where we now live, my family lived in downtown St. George, Utah. At the time, St. George was about 60,000 people. There was a bus system, taxi cabs, and of course plenty of sidewalks. Good news for a blind person.
When my kids were younger, we explored and entertained ourselves by riding the bus, walking and riding bikes and scooters all over town. I had limited sight then and used my ears to keep track of the boys vs the traffic. We had great fun and adventures together, traveling miles and miles all over town. We picnicked, played in parks, swam and fed the ducks. My kidneys were failing and my diabetes had to be controlled so I was exhausted, but it was a blast.
A few years ago when I shattered my kneecap, those days ended. I could no longer run, scooter or walk very far without horrible pain. The form of exercise I'd always used to stay healthy, in shape and active was gone. The physical therapist told me the best way to keep from becoming unable to walk at all was to keep my knee strong. The knee cap was gone but the muscles in my legs would support my weight and I could keep going as long as my legs held out. I went from walking miles every single day to steps, streets, blocks and eventually working my way back to a few miles. Downhill was a struggle, as my knee couldn't hold my weight. Uphill was also tough, but I figured out how to lift with my good leg and just support my weight for a second with the other.
The pain was the hardest part. Every step felt like someone had driven a knife into my leg and eventually I couldn't walk on it.
This new part of my life brought on new challenges I'd never faced before. I didn't know if I could keep up with my kids, keep up with all I had to do when walking was my only form of transportation, or just keep up my strength.
One day as I struggled down the sidewalk with my youngest, half limping, half walking to get him to his soccer game on time, I started to cry. How was I supposed to function as a mom, a wife, a daughter of God when I couldn't even walk anymore? As I struggled onward, each step painful and slow,  I cried away my frustration with every step until I collapsed on the sidelines of the soccer field. The pain eased, the tears stopped and the soccer game went forward.
Yes, we were a minute or so late. My son cheered with the rest of the team and got on the field a few minutes later. I stretched my leg, rested, and gulped water like I was dying, but it eased until I could walk to the bleachers.
It was at that point, I realized. I'm never again going to ride scooters, run, or walk miles and miles with my boys. I'll never play co-ed softball with my husband or dance like I did when I was in New York.
I will however, keep up. God gave me the strength, the tenacity and the sheer stubbornness to do what ever had to be done. Isn't that what every one of us hopes for? The strength, and tenacity to keep going?
For some people its to keep up with their kids. For others its just to keep themselves out of jail, off the ground, or close to The Lord.
It doesn't matter what bone, or muscle, or body part is missing. It only matters that you have everything you need.
Everything to love, laugh,  and go one more moment further.
I still ride the bus, walk, limp often, and skip some activities. I don't however let what doesn't work determine how happy, loved, or lucky I am. It could be a whole lot worse.
When keeping up with the neighbors, or the other moms, or with anyone else, becomes more important than doing what you can and being happy about it, then you're not keeping up.
God loves you. He has given you all the strength, wisdom and comfort any of us will ever need. More than we can handle if we look around and see how blessed we are. So , the truth is...What else is there to try to keep up with?

The Edge Of The Light

I've learned the lessons of light and darkness over the last 20 years. As I went from sighted, to visually impaired and finally, totally blind, my faith in God and the people around me has grown. A few small steps at first, but by leaps and bounds as I trusted, walked, fell and found my self in His loving arms. I first learned this lesson though, when I was 20 years old.
As  a college sophomore, spring break, held the promise of parties, guys and fun for a week. For the college it was not during the school's break, it was during the high school's. My roommates and I still had to go to class, our on-campus jobs and labs. At night though, the pull of the music and the crowds couldn't be ignored.
In the parking lot of a grocery store a block away from our apartment, there was a crane set up for bungee jumping. It was at least fifty feet in the air and held a spot light on the platform from where kids would jump.
I'd seen it before, I'd watched other  people screaming from the top, plunging into the darkness, only to come up laughing.
One night my roommates and I decided we'd jump. A friend of ours was working the crane and he told us he'd give us one jump for free.
Climbing up the the light at the top of the platform wasn't nerve wracking at all. Our friend was at the top. He was charming, funny, and totally confident. He rigged us all into harnesses, explained what would happen, and warned us to relax and not stiffen during the fall.
We huddled around him and the light as the people in front of us took their turns. One girl was hysterical and had to be lowered down. Most looked either a little impaired or just plain crazy. When it was my turn, I left the circle of light where my friends stood and walked forward on the platform. Chris hooked up my harness, tested the connections and stepped back with a grin.
"Okay, trace, walk to the edge and then just step off."
Easy enough, I remember thinking. Just walk to the edge of the light and then take a few steps into the darkness.This didn't sound deep and profound to me in that moment. I was psyching my self up to jump. Taking those first few steps was terrifying. It was pitch black below. I could hear the people on the ground laughing and talking. I could hear Chris and my roommates behind me. All I could think...Take a step into the darkness.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and walked off the edge.
The drop was a thrill, a terror, and the most fun I had that spring break. I flew for about 3 seconds, got my shoulders wrenched on the landing and never felt more free than during that three second fall.
It was years later when I'd lost my eyesight that the memory of that night came back to me. The feeling of absolute terror before I took the step into the darkness and the adrenaline soaked moments of the fall following.
As more falling moments approached me, I always pulled up the memory of the bungee jump and reminded myself. No matter how frightened I was, I wouldn't give up the ride to stay safe back on the ground. My harness in life, is my Savior. I expect to fall, its part of the ride. I also expect Him to catch me at the bottom, and He always does. Sometimes I wrench my shoulder as He stops me from crashing. Sometimes I end up with broken bones, surgeries and minor injuries, but He always catches me. I never worry about hitting the ground at the bottom, sometimes I never even fall. No matter what happens when I step out though, He is always with me. In His arms I'm always safe and I love the ride.

Reflections

This past weekend, I had a good friend, who took care of me. Perhaps she got tired of looking at my plain, unadorned face. Maybe my mop of brown hair made her want to pull it all out. For whatever reason, she straightened the rebellious curl out and taught me what make-up was for and how to apply it.
It was a lot of fun. I haven't had someone do that for me since I first lost my sight and my sisters tried to help by doing my makeup every day. 20 years without seeing your own face has definite benefits.
The last picture I have in my head of myself was from when I was in my early twenties. Imagine if your mirror worked that way and every time you looked in the mirror, all you saw was the twenty-year-old you used to be. Awesome! Its one of my favorite things about being blind. Everyone, including myself, look like they're in their twenties. They also look like movie stars and supermodels. What a beautiful place the world is!
Logically and sensibly, I know this isn't true. I know I don't have beautiful green eyes, long dark, pretty hair and high cheek bones. Without the mirror's reflection to tell me I'm wrong though...its easy to pretend.
So here's the down fall. If you ever see me, you get just me. No glamour, no style, no hiding of my flaws. Without a reflection to tell me what needs to be different, the flaws and scars and marks are written all over my face.
Worse than the absence of a mirror to look in, is the absence of self reflection.
In our own eyes...we're super models and movie stars, internally though, we feel like bag ladies and street bums. Our spiritual 'make-up' is a physical mask of denial. We're so afraid of the truth beneath the mask, that in all reality we're covering up a road map leading to purity and success.
If the reflection you see haunts you even when your physical appearance is gorgeous. Take off the make-up and uncover the parts of you that would be perfect if you allow The Savior to fill them in.
The cover-up is an illusion of beauty. True glamour is in the loving of others, your self and Him. If you do that, than who ever sees you without your mask doesn't matter. In His reflection you're perfect.