"'Each beat of your heart is a small miracle, you know, so don't get carried away. It's a fragile, makeshift repair. Things should get better as you grow up, but you'll have to be patient.'
"There's no doubt that my clock causes me a worry or two...But mostly I'm worried about being always out of kilter. By evening, the tick-tock that reverberates through my body stops my from sleeping. I might collapse with exhaustion in the middle of the afternoon, but I feel on top of the world in the dead of the night."
--from The Boy with the Cuckoo Clock Heart by Mathias Malzieu
I wonder if this explains why Himal wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, bursting with energy, and will want to play from about midnight until 5 am with scary wide-eyed alertness...the fact that due to my heart issue, I can feel sleepy after walking up the stairs, but wake up at 1 am not tired at all, heart racing as if the whole world were about to begin anew.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
That Time of Year Again
Picking out a Mother's Day card has always been a little traumatic for me. Not only is my family not the "I love you" or the give-you-a-hug-when-they-see-you type, but my mom has always been a bit touchy about Mother's Day in general.
First of all, she hates Mother's Day cards that mention any sort of housework/domesticity, portray a harried mom, or make jokes about how much work a mom does. She hates Mother's Day cards that contain jokes, such as quips about how hard it was to raise me, or how cute and lovable I turned out to be because of her. In fact, she dislikes any Mother's Day cards that draw attention away from her as a person and make her child (ie, me), once again, the focus. On top of this, she absolutely cannot stand any of those mom-friendship cards, like the ones that say "you're my best friend." My mom has always made it blatantly clear that she doesn't think a parent's role is to be their child's best friend, or even friend in general.
Combine this with a general reticence and distate for overly-sentimental sap (which I find to have little meaning anyway), and you've basically excluded every Mother's Day card out there. There are years I have gotten desperate and given her a blank card, with a picture totally unrelated to the spirit of Mother's Day, and written my own message in. There was one year where the only card I liked was from the "Mahogany Collection" (or maybe it was the Ebony Collection)--and while my mom is not racist or even prejudiced, I could see a brief pause as she wondered why the card pictured an African American family and mentioned something about soul jazz.
In more recent years, I've gone with safe cards, like ones with flowery teapots on them and a message simply stated inside. You know, classy yet feminine, implying quietude and individuality instead of gush-n-mush or a chaos of laundry or a blinding spray of pink flowers.
This year, I faced the wall of cards before me, and giving a cursory scowl to those in either direction, marched up and started cringing with each card I read (there may have even been a time I gagged) until I found this year's choice--nice and safe, yet meaningful:
On the outside are a couple of hummingbirds milling about orange (not pink!) flowers, nicely balanced by restful green leaves. The title reads "From the two of us" (safe, because it's easier for me to hold forth to my mom when I have Shawn as my ally--you can't really get mad at your son-in-law for expressing gratitude, right?).
It opens to read "Nothing else can light our way, warm our hearts, shape our dreams...nothing else can touch our lives quite like a mom's love." Ok, this is good, Nice and universal, yet sincere.
Finally, it unfolds to "You bless our lives with a caring touch--we both hope and know that you're loved very much. Happy Mother's Day." Score!! In saying "we hope you know..." I've side-stepped a blatant and direct declaration of love.
Cuz that's how me and my mom roll.
First of all, she hates Mother's Day cards that mention any sort of housework/domesticity, portray a harried mom, or make jokes about how much work a mom does. She hates Mother's Day cards that contain jokes, such as quips about how hard it was to raise me, or how cute and lovable I turned out to be because of her. In fact, she dislikes any Mother's Day cards that draw attention away from her as a person and make her child (ie, me), once again, the focus. On top of this, she absolutely cannot stand any of those mom-friendship cards, like the ones that say "you're my best friend." My mom has always made it blatantly clear that she doesn't think a parent's role is to be their child's best friend, or even friend in general.
Combine this with a general reticence and distate for overly-sentimental sap (which I find to have little meaning anyway), and you've basically excluded every Mother's Day card out there. There are years I have gotten desperate and given her a blank card, with a picture totally unrelated to the spirit of Mother's Day, and written my own message in. There was one year where the only card I liked was from the "Mahogany Collection" (or maybe it was the Ebony Collection)--and while my mom is not racist or even prejudiced, I could see a brief pause as she wondered why the card pictured an African American family and mentioned something about soul jazz.
In more recent years, I've gone with safe cards, like ones with flowery teapots on them and a message simply stated inside. You know, classy yet feminine, implying quietude and individuality instead of gush-n-mush or a chaos of laundry or a blinding spray of pink flowers.
This year, I faced the wall of cards before me, and giving a cursory scowl to those in either direction, marched up and started cringing with each card I read (there may have even been a time I gagged) until I found this year's choice--nice and safe, yet meaningful:
On the outside are a couple of hummingbirds milling about orange (not pink!) flowers, nicely balanced by restful green leaves. The title reads "From the two of us" (safe, because it's easier for me to hold forth to my mom when I have Shawn as my ally--you can't really get mad at your son-in-law for expressing gratitude, right?).
It opens to read "Nothing else can light our way, warm our hearts, shape our dreams...nothing else can touch our lives quite like a mom's love." Ok, this is good, Nice and universal, yet sincere.
Finally, it unfolds to "You bless our lives with a caring touch--we both hope and know that you're loved very much. Happy Mother's Day." Score!! In saying "we hope you know..." I've side-stepped a blatant and direct declaration of love.
Cuz that's how me and my mom roll.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Blind Spots
Every mammal (along with reptiles, birds, amphibians, and many fish) has blind spots in their eyes. Our eyes compensate for our blind spots, so that most of the time, we don't even know we have these ocular dead zones. Our brain fills in the blanks with a continuum of light and pattern from the rest of our visual field.
We all have our own subconscious mental blind spots, as well--things about ourselves that we don't see and don't really need to see--unnoticed areas that we fill in with the patterns of the rest of our lives and what we believe about ourselves. Usually, we don't perceive that they're there until something breaks the pattern--often when we view an unexpected mirror of ourselves in others. That revealing mirror is held up to an aspect of ourselves that challenges our assumption of contiguous pattern and seamless coherence.
I became conscious of both of my blind spots (at least, 2 of them--are there more?! Oh dear, how would I know?) right around the same time recently. The first one occurred after a conversation I had with someone about the people we used to go to church with--way back when. Whatever happened to them? What were they doing now, these working class kids from a tiny-but-sincere group of strong Christians, my first introduction to evangelical-style religion, whose names I can still easily recall after all these yers, who gave me first glimpse into what it meant to be on a spiritual journey?
In a wave of nostalgia, I did the unthinkable: I looked them up on facebook; I found a few. I brielfy tinkered with the past, as I knew looking into their lives would challenge the safe memories of them, where they remain quaint, young, charmingly earnest in their church clothes, before wearing blue jeans to church was ok, before cell phone and internet and power point made church hip.
I did not request any of them as friends. It's not that I wouldn't like to see them again, to talk to them sometime. But to actually let them in--to the person I've become--the gulf seems too wide. And here's the blind spot: the fact that I don't use my real name on facebook, whereas virtually everyone else does, is to avoid situations exactly like this one. If I used my real name, maybe 1 of them would have found me by now, and then they all would've found me...the alias is not to keep pesky high school reunion people away after all. Rather, it protects the sense of self I have created, have carved out, keeps it separate from the one of 5, 10, 15, 20years ago. It's the assumption that others who knew me then but not now can't possibily understand how I'm a Bilbo Baggins in non-hobbit form...to explain how I got There and Back Again seems like a monumental task. And so, like Bilbo, I stay a little remote and prefer to write about my adventures on the side :)
The other blind spot involves not being completely honest with myself in the area of shutting a part of myself down. You hear, from time to time, confessions of how a person, a friend or family member maybe, walled off a part of themselves in light of an event. Usually it was due to emotional trauma, a sort of betrayal, or a contradiction that proved too big for the human mind. I always find confessions to such emotional deadening incredibly tragic--like the time a friend told me when he/she went off to war, they shut a part of themself off forever. I always thought I would never let this happen to me, no matter what.
It did--sort of. Although Esposo and I always wanted just one child, I have to admit that I suddenly realized that part of what reinforces that decision is the fact that after Himal's HLHS, I walled off the part of myself that would ever chance going through something like that again. Even if I were inclined to have another child (which I'm not), there is no way I would ever allow myself to experience even the possibility, however remote, of having another child with a heart condition. I took this fear, this anxiety, and put it in some locked place so that it feels completely separate from me now. It's like it's there, but it's in such a thick leaden box that even if it tries to cry out, I am completely deaf to it. When I think of it, I picture it as a cold little lead box on the right side of my heart...like my heart is beating, the rest of it is warm, but there's this cold icy lead thing there that doesn't feel. I will never have to deal with it, ever, because I cannot deal with it, I cannot even bear to think about it other than when it's in its safe prison.
So, I'm not superior in any way to those who build their defensive walls against love, friendship, selfless and heroic wide open leave it to chance expanse, after all.
We all have our own subconscious mental blind spots, as well--things about ourselves that we don't see and don't really need to see--unnoticed areas that we fill in with the patterns of the rest of our lives and what we believe about ourselves. Usually, we don't perceive that they're there until something breaks the pattern--often when we view an unexpected mirror of ourselves in others. That revealing mirror is held up to an aspect of ourselves that challenges our assumption of contiguous pattern and seamless coherence.
I became conscious of both of my blind spots (at least, 2 of them--are there more?! Oh dear, how would I know?) right around the same time recently. The first one occurred after a conversation I had with someone about the people we used to go to church with--way back when. Whatever happened to them? What were they doing now, these working class kids from a tiny-but-sincere group of strong Christians, my first introduction to evangelical-style religion, whose names I can still easily recall after all these yers, who gave me first glimpse into what it meant to be on a spiritual journey?
In a wave of nostalgia, I did the unthinkable: I looked them up on facebook; I found a few. I brielfy tinkered with the past, as I knew looking into their lives would challenge the safe memories of them, where they remain quaint, young, charmingly earnest in their church clothes, before wearing blue jeans to church was ok, before cell phone and internet and power point made church hip.
I did not request any of them as friends. It's not that I wouldn't like to see them again, to talk to them sometime. But to actually let them in--to the person I've become--the gulf seems too wide. And here's the blind spot: the fact that I don't use my real name on facebook, whereas virtually everyone else does, is to avoid situations exactly like this one. If I used my real name, maybe 1 of them would have found me by now, and then they all would've found me...the alias is not to keep pesky high school reunion people away after all. Rather, it protects the sense of self I have created, have carved out, keeps it separate from the one of 5, 10, 15, 20years ago. It's the assumption that others who knew me then but not now can't possibily understand how I'm a Bilbo Baggins in non-hobbit form...to explain how I got There and Back Again seems like a monumental task. And so, like Bilbo, I stay a little remote and prefer to write about my adventures on the side :)
The other blind spot involves not being completely honest with myself in the area of shutting a part of myself down. You hear, from time to time, confessions of how a person, a friend or family member maybe, walled off a part of themselves in light of an event. Usually it was due to emotional trauma, a sort of betrayal, or a contradiction that proved too big for the human mind. I always find confessions to such emotional deadening incredibly tragic--like the time a friend told me when he/she went off to war, they shut a part of themself off forever. I always thought I would never let this happen to me, no matter what.
It did--sort of. Although Esposo and I always wanted just one child, I have to admit that I suddenly realized that part of what reinforces that decision is the fact that after Himal's HLHS, I walled off the part of myself that would ever chance going through something like that again. Even if I were inclined to have another child (which I'm not), there is no way I would ever allow myself to experience even the possibility, however remote, of having another child with a heart condition. I took this fear, this anxiety, and put it in some locked place so that it feels completely separate from me now. It's like it's there, but it's in such a thick leaden box that even if it tries to cry out, I am completely deaf to it. When I think of it, I picture it as a cold little lead box on the right side of my heart...like my heart is beating, the rest of it is warm, but there's this cold icy lead thing there that doesn't feel. I will never have to deal with it, ever, because I cannot deal with it, I cannot even bear to think about it other than when it's in its safe prison.
So, I'm not superior in any way to those who build their defensive walls against love, friendship, selfless and heroic wide open leave it to chance expanse, after all.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sources of Inspiration
Several years ago, the phone jangled the early evening and I was jarred from the pile of articles and papers in which I was buried. Chai's voice was charged with odd excitement as she asked, "Guess what? There's the famous photo of Alice Liddel on display at the Art Institute!" "In Chicago?" My brain felt fuzzy, as if I'd left it in imaginary scholarly discussions.
"You know who that is, right? The photos of Charles Dodgson are on display!" She pressed.
"Hmmm...well, do you want to go down there? I could drive."
"Lewis Carroll. Alice in Wonderland." I could sense Chai was trying to be patient, as as if leading a child to understanding.
"Oh! Ok, really? Sure, let's go!" I finally got it. I could hear a mental "geez" going off in my friend's mind.
And so, on a brisk, cool day, we drove to Chicago and travelled to the basement of the Art Institute to examine the works of this mysterious figure--Dodgson. At the time, I didn't know a whole lot about him, or about the real Alice, and I as perused the photos, I could not find even a hint of the famous Wonderland they created. My conversation with Chai mostly revolved around the role of youth and childhood in the Victorian era, and what the girls' parents might have thought about Dodgson photographing their pre-pubescent daughters. Were they flattered? Uneasy?
Since then, I've read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. While Dodgson and his photographs and stories make some others I know uneasy, scared, or even offended, I find them all fertile ground for thought.
Recently, I read Melanie Benjamin's captivating new historical novel (almost a biography, but better), Alice I Have Been, about Alice Hargreaves (nee Liddell). Benjamin is from Chicago, and in the afterword, she confesses that she found inspiration for her book at the very same display of Dodgson's photographs--the basement exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute.
What Benjamin's novel does so well is to allow Dodgson and Alice's relationship to remain somewhat liminal. While the rest of the world questions whether Dodgson was a full-blown pedophile or whether the two were "just friends," Benjamin blurs the two extremes and allows us, the readers, to keep believing the best of them--that relationships can and do exist outside of the quick labels society is so ready to assign them.
For many years, Chai was one of my best friends, starting in 9th grade and until we had a falling out in graduate school, after which I have never seen or heard from her again--a friendship span of about 10 years. She certainly is one of the closest friends I've ever had. Ours wasn't the proverbial "female friendship" of shared giggles and shopping--we didn't talk very much about men (or boys) at all. I can count the number of times we went shopping on one hand--or maybe one finger. Instead, we went to obscure foreign films, art exhibits, poetry readings, ridiculous things like country music concerts and biker bars, college hockey games once I moved to Madison. Despite living in the same city (or same state when I went to college)--we eschewed phone and email for letters--lots of them--long letters sent by snail mail. There was nothing really too "strange" about it, but we were not immune society's desire to categorize and label even female friendships--we were often mistaken for a same-sex couple. I'm not sure whether this was due to our apparent utter lack of interest in the men around us, or whether it was indeed the fact that our friendship didn't exhibit stereotypical "shop, gossip, and giggle" behavior--but I suspect it was the latter.
It was a friendship based on a lot of shared thoughts, goals, and dreams--not of love and romance, or marriage and children--but of travel, education, and self-betterment. From the time I was 18, I did go on to travel--a lot--and pursue education. But unlike Chai, I started to open myself up to the world of love relationships, dating, and marriage.
By the time we were both in grad school, we had both undergone wild transformations (college, travel, and one's early 20's will do that to a person). Chai had not travelled or worked full-time like I had, and was instead pursuing an MBA with some vigor. I was just beginning to go back to school for a master's in social sciences, something she had come to see as utterly impractical.
The fight began with a text message. I was in a business class (earning a concurrent certificate in nonprofit management) and bored to tears when I decided to see how text messaging worked, and sent one to her about not being able to meet her later that week afterall. To my surprise, I received a furious email in response. "What's wrong with you? A TEXT? Is this what our relationship has come to? TEXTING?"
And that pretty much distilled things: we had changed so irrevocably that we could not go on without addressing it. I accused her, rather tactlessly, of becoming ruthless in her desire for career and success, of feeling like she had to forsake the things we both used to love in order to present herself as a Type A. She spat back that I was melodramatic and self-centered, my head was in the clouds, and that I was selling myself short by "being in love with a white guy from Iowa." Well, I thought. That's it. So what if he's white. And I happen to like a lot of people from Iowa. It struck me as rather ironic--afterall, when I'd married a non-white guy from Nepal, I received a lot of negative reactions from others, and here I was about to marry a white guy from Iowa--and receiving negative reactions.
It was a prime lesson that no matter what we do in life, not everyone will be happy for us. In hindsight, although I am not climbing my way up a career ladder or making a competitive salary, I have become a better person. A much better person. And I am becoming a better person all the time. And who knows, maybe Chai has too. But at the time, we could not see the "better--" all we could see were the changes. If we truly, truly love someone, we desire to see them grow, change, come closer to realizing their fullest potential for well-being. Yet some relationships have so much passion that any change that we perceive takes away from our loved one's treasured qualities seems automatically bad in our own biased eyes.
Since that day, I have never seen or heard from or about Chai again. It's as if she simply vanished, but I did not dream her. Several of my friends (and husband, the white guy from Iowa) met and remember her--but they never talk about her either. It's as if her memory is little more than a fanciful tale of an imaginary best friend who accompanied me on almost every adventure from the time I was 15 until I was 25.
Dodgson and Alice also had a falling out, or at the very least, a sudden, wide, and mysterious separation. There are many theories about what caused their spectacular rift, but my personal belief is that they both "merely" underwent changes. Yet, the legend of their unconventional relationship has lived on in our culture for over a century, giving people like me the hope that something beautiful, enduring, and life-changing can happen if we are courageous enough to befriend bravely.
I find an interminable amount of inspiration in both liminality and special friendships/relationships.
Since our falling out, I think of Chai with surprising rarity--a year or more has elapsed between calling her to mind. I have no desire to find her, see her, learn what she's up to now--but reading Alice I Have Been, and the thought of our visiting the same exhibit together that inspired Benjamin's novel, has made me put the pieces of thought together. This is a relationship from which I can draw inspiration for the rest of my life.
"You know who that is, right? The photos of Charles Dodgson are on display!" She pressed.
"Hmmm...well, do you want to go down there? I could drive."
"Lewis Carroll. Alice in Wonderland." I could sense Chai was trying to be patient, as as if leading a child to understanding.
"Oh! Ok, really? Sure, let's go!" I finally got it. I could hear a mental "geez" going off in my friend's mind.
And so, on a brisk, cool day, we drove to Chicago and travelled to the basement of the Art Institute to examine the works of this mysterious figure--Dodgson. At the time, I didn't know a whole lot about him, or about the real Alice, and I as perused the photos, I could not find even a hint of the famous Wonderland they created. My conversation with Chai mostly revolved around the role of youth and childhood in the Victorian era, and what the girls' parents might have thought about Dodgson photographing their pre-pubescent daughters. Were they flattered? Uneasy?
Since then, I've read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. While Dodgson and his photographs and stories make some others I know uneasy, scared, or even offended, I find them all fertile ground for thought.
Recently, I read Melanie Benjamin's captivating new historical novel (almost a biography, but better), Alice I Have Been, about Alice Hargreaves (nee Liddell). Benjamin is from Chicago, and in the afterword, she confesses that she found inspiration for her book at the very same display of Dodgson's photographs--the basement exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute.
What Benjamin's novel does so well is to allow Dodgson and Alice's relationship to remain somewhat liminal. While the rest of the world questions whether Dodgson was a full-blown pedophile or whether the two were "just friends," Benjamin blurs the two extremes and allows us, the readers, to keep believing the best of them--that relationships can and do exist outside of the quick labels society is so ready to assign them.
For many years, Chai was one of my best friends, starting in 9th grade and until we had a falling out in graduate school, after which I have never seen or heard from her again--a friendship span of about 10 years. She certainly is one of the closest friends I've ever had. Ours wasn't the proverbial "female friendship" of shared giggles and shopping--we didn't talk very much about men (or boys) at all. I can count the number of times we went shopping on one hand--or maybe one finger. Instead, we went to obscure foreign films, art exhibits, poetry readings, ridiculous things like country music concerts and biker bars, college hockey games once I moved to Madison. Despite living in the same city (or same state when I went to college)--we eschewed phone and email for letters--lots of them--long letters sent by snail mail. There was nothing really too "strange" about it, but we were not immune society's desire to categorize and label even female friendships--we were often mistaken for a same-sex couple. I'm not sure whether this was due to our apparent utter lack of interest in the men around us, or whether it was indeed the fact that our friendship didn't exhibit stereotypical "shop, gossip, and giggle" behavior--but I suspect it was the latter.
It was a friendship based on a lot of shared thoughts, goals, and dreams--not of love and romance, or marriage and children--but of travel, education, and self-betterment. From the time I was 18, I did go on to travel--a lot--and pursue education. But unlike Chai, I started to open myself up to the world of love relationships, dating, and marriage.
By the time we were both in grad school, we had both undergone wild transformations (college, travel, and one's early 20's will do that to a person). Chai had not travelled or worked full-time like I had, and was instead pursuing an MBA with some vigor. I was just beginning to go back to school for a master's in social sciences, something she had come to see as utterly impractical.
The fight began with a text message. I was in a business class (earning a concurrent certificate in nonprofit management) and bored to tears when I decided to see how text messaging worked, and sent one to her about not being able to meet her later that week afterall. To my surprise, I received a furious email in response. "What's wrong with you? A TEXT? Is this what our relationship has come to? TEXTING?"
And that pretty much distilled things: we had changed so irrevocably that we could not go on without addressing it. I accused her, rather tactlessly, of becoming ruthless in her desire for career and success, of feeling like she had to forsake the things we both used to love in order to present herself as a Type A. She spat back that I was melodramatic and self-centered, my head was in the clouds, and that I was selling myself short by "being in love with a white guy from Iowa." Well, I thought. That's it. So what if he's white. And I happen to like a lot of people from Iowa. It struck me as rather ironic--afterall, when I'd married a non-white guy from Nepal, I received a lot of negative reactions from others, and here I was about to marry a white guy from Iowa--and receiving negative reactions.
It was a prime lesson that no matter what we do in life, not everyone will be happy for us. In hindsight, although I am not climbing my way up a career ladder or making a competitive salary, I have become a better person. A much better person. And I am becoming a better person all the time. And who knows, maybe Chai has too. But at the time, we could not see the "better--" all we could see were the changes. If we truly, truly love someone, we desire to see them grow, change, come closer to realizing their fullest potential for well-being. Yet some relationships have so much passion that any change that we perceive takes away from our loved one's treasured qualities seems automatically bad in our own biased eyes.
Since that day, I have never seen or heard from or about Chai again. It's as if she simply vanished, but I did not dream her. Several of my friends (and husband, the white guy from Iowa) met and remember her--but they never talk about her either. It's as if her memory is little more than a fanciful tale of an imaginary best friend who accompanied me on almost every adventure from the time I was 15 until I was 25.
Dodgson and Alice also had a falling out, or at the very least, a sudden, wide, and mysterious separation. There are many theories about what caused their spectacular rift, but my personal belief is that they both "merely" underwent changes. Yet, the legend of their unconventional relationship has lived on in our culture for over a century, giving people like me the hope that something beautiful, enduring, and life-changing can happen if we are courageous enough to befriend bravely.
I find an interminable amount of inspiration in both liminality and special friendships/relationships.
Since our falling out, I think of Chai with surprising rarity--a year or more has elapsed between calling her to mind. I have no desire to find her, see her, learn what she's up to now--but reading Alice I Have Been, and the thought of our visiting the same exhibit together that inspired Benjamin's novel, has made me put the pieces of thought together. This is a relationship from which I can draw inspiration for the rest of my life.
And Easter Sunday
I thought I should write a follow-up to my last post, because Esposo and I did end up going to church yesterday, and from it I received a sense or message of healing.
While there is a place for re-telling the crucifixion of Jesus, it should be with a spirit of awe and gratitude, not one of guilt and sorrow. Because the story does not end with Good Friday. The story does not end with suffering, death, and weeping. Without suffering, the end of the story would be more death. But the Story has already been written and is known to us. The story ends in joy and life--not just life, but eternal life.
While there is a place for re-telling the crucifixion of Jesus, it should be with a spirit of awe and gratitude, not one of guilt and sorrow. Because the story does not end with Good Friday. The story does not end with suffering, death, and weeping. Without suffering, the end of the story would be more death. But the Story has already been written and is known to us. The story ends in joy and life--not just life, but eternal life.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Good Friday...
is a bit of an ironic name for the day on which Jesus died on the cross. Esposo and I also found out about our son's HLHS on Good Friday...2 years ago. That Easter Sunday, my parents dragged my stunned self to church with them, thinking, I'm sure, that exposure to God's community would strengthen my spirit. Instead, it had the eerie effect of feeling like the entire service was mocking my situation...songs about "a baby born to die," Mary the mother weeping, outwardly whole and healthy families bouncing babies on their laps in my general pregnant direction...sigh.
I have not been to church since, with the exception of going to see a friend give a sermon at her Unitarian Universalist congregation.
Easter has always been a holiday of utmost spiritual importance for me, and the one day of the year I would make an absolute point to attend services. I haven't stayed away from church because I'm angry at God or anything like that...but going back to an Easter service just seems to weird, too surreal. I want to go, however...but I'm a little nervous. Not about the message, sermon, Biblical event...it's the memories of the songs and the families of that day two years ago that haunt me, by no fault of their own. Sigh.
I have not been to church since, with the exception of going to see a friend give a sermon at her Unitarian Universalist congregation.
Easter has always been a holiday of utmost spiritual importance for me, and the one day of the year I would make an absolute point to attend services. I haven't stayed away from church because I'm angry at God or anything like that...but going back to an Easter service just seems to weird, too surreal. I want to go, however...but I'm a little nervous. Not about the message, sermon, Biblical event...it's the memories of the songs and the families of that day two years ago that haunt me, by no fault of their own. Sigh.
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