Thursday, September 6, 2012
Being Nice in a Coma
I did a garage sale with a good friend last weekend. It was Purgeville x 2, and she lives in the greatest location ever to attract people. As always with such events, people of all genres floated in and out - some chatty, some silent. One woman in particular seemed familiar to me, but I didn't say the standard 'do I know you from somewhere?' because people say it to me all the time, and I rarely actually know them. Apparently, I have the universal face. (I wonder if the rest of my clones are growing these funky age spots on their cheeks, and if they know how to get rid of them). Anyway, she left with no comment from me except usual pleasantries.
The next day, at the very end of the sale, she returned. I concluded she must be a neighbor of my friend, and that's why I'd seen her before. I have brilliant deduction skills. She milled around a little bit, talked to my friend about her scrap-booking stuff and then turned and looked at me.
"I know you", she said. "You were at a different garage sale a couple of years ago- with kittens." Crap. Was she going to give one back? I may have had a cat over-population issue for a while.
"Oh yeah?, that was my house." I said. "Did you take a kitten?" pleasenopleasenopleaseno.
"No. I was there with my son who had an ankle bracelet." Interesting. "You were really nice to us. I was in a really bad place in my life, and you told me my son was a 'real gem'." She was getting teary now, but kept going. "He wasn't a really bad kid, but he'd made some really bad choices, and I was at my wits end with him. Nobody ever had anything nice to say about him. Over the past two years I kept telling myself 'he's a gem, he's a gem that lady said he's a gem'. It got me through the past two years."
Oh my. I did remember her. And he was a nice kid. He was very kind to my sons...who can be a pain in anyone's hiney, and he was also gentle with the kittens. She and I had talked about homeschooling, because she'd just pulled him out of school. Of course, I had no idea why, but that wasn't important.
I had not been in a very good place myself. I've gone in and out of depths of pain and anxiety over the years, and I know I wasn't really doing more than functioning at that point. But, I do remember her eyes. They were wounded. Once you've had a hole blown right through the middle of you, you can spot others who are there...or have been. It's like a little secret club. It's called the 'please don't shatter me, I've had everything I can handle' club. The initiation process is brutal, and as far as I can tell, nobody wants in. But there are lots of us. Nobody's tragedy trumps anyone else's, and it really doesn't matter why you're in. You just are.
I'm really glad I came out of my coma to talk to her. It wasn't me...it's looking back at things like this incident is when I realize where God was in the pain. I couldn't see Him myself, but I know He lifted my head enough to see this woman and say something nice about her son. It carried her for two years, and it really had nothing to do with me. Now I know in hindsight that He did the same for me through others. Not the ride on His shoulders I kept looking for, but sustinance for the moment. I think He was carrying me more like a momma cat carries her kittens. Kinda dragging me around by the nape of my neck.
Be nice. Even if you're hurting. Hold open a door, smile, buy lemonade from some kid for a quarter. You could be the reason they keep going that day...or even that year.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
My husband thought I should write a blog. I'm not sure if it's because he thinks I'll babble at him less, or if he really thinks I have something to say. He claims it's the latter. I'm not convinced, but ultimately, it doesn't really matter. It was a nice thing to say.
Does everyone start out their blog by introducing themselves? I'm Eva; I'm forty-something, and I've got eight children. First four girls, then four boys. Five of them are biological, and three are adopted. I thought that raising eight kids within 8 years of one another was the biggest challenge I'd ever face, and it was for a few years.
Two of our girls have been sexually assaulted. While that does not define me or them, it is a huge piece of our lives, as God continues to bring wounded people to us - mostly because we just don't judge. All of the Judgey McJudgerpants (thank you Maureen) has been kicked right out of us. We just have no room to talk. Personally, I spend way too much of my life thinking about where I'd hide the bodies if given the chance. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as worse than what most people struggle with.
Since the statistics are now that 1:2 girls and 1:3 boys will be sexually assaulted by their 18th birthday, I suspect this is a pretty relevant issue. Yet, people don't talk about it. Many still view the victims as the ones who brought it on themselves. Some think if you ignore it, it goes away. Others feel like people just need to get over it and move on...and of course there are those who think Jesus will fix it in a day. I kind of hate them all. Sexual assault is so complex, so intimate, so all-encompassing and the effects are just on and on and on. Memories lurk in every smell, sound, taste. My girls can be completely fine for months, and then something, somewhere completely sends them back into fetal position. Often, they don't even know what it was.
Their siblings have also had their share of pain from it all. They've been moved, been told they can't talk to certain people ever again, and had to deal with tears and rage of their sisters, often having no idea what was wrong. It isn't fair. It really isn't. All of it. Nobody asked for it, and yet it gets to be in our house every freaking day. It doesn't defeat us, but it lurks.
You don't want to be a 13 year old boy in this house. I have two, and they get eaten alive if they even think of letting their hormones out. You forget to put deodorant on in this house, three people tell you how bad you smell before breakfast, and a couple more will catch you on your way downstairs to put it on. You grow a hair anywhere other than your head, you better not let anyone find out, or it is totally dinner conversation. My oldest son called a girl 'hot' when he was about 9, and he had four sisters down his throat declaring him a male chauvenist pig within a nano-second. Poor guy had no idea what he had even done. But women aren't objects in this house. From very early on, our girls (and boys) were clearly told not to settle, ever. They are worth more than that.
At this point, we are a household of extremely imperfect survivors who try, screw up, fall, get up, and we desperately want to honor God with our lives. Some days we do( I hope) and others He is doing the world's most profound eye roll at us.
If you are hurting, I hope you can find some rest here. You can know that as least in this house, we aren't in a hurry for you to get your act together. Don't be whiny or annoying, but you can ache here. We all do. But we laugh a lot, too.
Does everyone start out their blog by introducing themselves? I'm Eva; I'm forty-something, and I've got eight children. First four girls, then four boys. Five of them are biological, and three are adopted. I thought that raising eight kids within 8 years of one another was the biggest challenge I'd ever face, and it was for a few years.
Two of our girls have been sexually assaulted. While that does not define me or them, it is a huge piece of our lives, as God continues to bring wounded people to us - mostly because we just don't judge. All of the Judgey McJudgerpants (thank you Maureen) has been kicked right out of us. We just have no room to talk. Personally, I spend way too much of my life thinking about where I'd hide the bodies if given the chance. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as worse than what most people struggle with.
Since the statistics are now that 1:2 girls and 1:3 boys will be sexually assaulted by their 18th birthday, I suspect this is a pretty relevant issue. Yet, people don't talk about it. Many still view the victims as the ones who brought it on themselves. Some think if you ignore it, it goes away. Others feel like people just need to get over it and move on...and of course there are those who think Jesus will fix it in a day. I kind of hate them all. Sexual assault is so complex, so intimate, so all-encompassing and the effects are just on and on and on. Memories lurk in every smell, sound, taste. My girls can be completely fine for months, and then something, somewhere completely sends them back into fetal position. Often, they don't even know what it was.
Their siblings have also had their share of pain from it all. They've been moved, been told they can't talk to certain people ever again, and had to deal with tears and rage of their sisters, often having no idea what was wrong. It isn't fair. It really isn't. All of it. Nobody asked for it, and yet it gets to be in our house every freaking day. It doesn't defeat us, but it lurks.
You don't want to be a 13 year old boy in this house. I have two, and they get eaten alive if they even think of letting their hormones out. You forget to put deodorant on in this house, three people tell you how bad you smell before breakfast, and a couple more will catch you on your way downstairs to put it on. You grow a hair anywhere other than your head, you better not let anyone find out, or it is totally dinner conversation. My oldest son called a girl 'hot' when he was about 9, and he had four sisters down his throat declaring him a male chauvenist pig within a nano-second. Poor guy had no idea what he had even done. But women aren't objects in this house. From very early on, our girls (and boys) were clearly told not to settle, ever. They are worth more than that.
At this point, we are a household of extremely imperfect survivors who try, screw up, fall, get up, and we desperately want to honor God with our lives. Some days we do( I hope) and others He is doing the world's most profound eye roll at us.
If you are hurting, I hope you can find some rest here. You can know that as least in this house, we aren't in a hurry for you to get your act together. Don't be whiny or annoying, but you can ache here. We all do. But we laugh a lot, too.
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