I think about the people as they had boarded a few hours before, the anticipation of romance, new adventures, and the beautiful scenery of The Med. Walking up the gangplank to a cruise ship ignites little bubbles of excitement deep down, filled with the hope of getting away from the drama or normalness of life just long enough to produce a different life. A life that is brighter, cleaner, easier than it was before the cruise. The expectation is that time will slow down, making everything, even ordinary things, sweeter while on the ship.

I can picture the terminal before the Concordia was boarded. No one was standing around saying to their loved ones that the ship would sink and they would experience the horror of panic or the chill of icy cold waters. No one thought they’d never survive the cruise.

That’s not the way we think about a cruise.

That’s not the way we think about life.

If we lived in anticipation of the end of life, we’d behave differently. Blessings would be treasured. Love would be expressed. Relationships cherished. And most importantly, hope would be shared: the hope of Heaven, the joy of salvation.

The Concordia accident won’t stop me from cruising. (even though most of the ships we cruise on look like sister ships of the Concordia).  I won’t even think twice as we walk up the gangplank. But it does make me question how I’m treasuring each day, each love, each relationship, each opportunity.

But then there are times when the emotions are so strong that to try to reign them in would be unhealthy.

The news of a child being abused feels like my heart is being forced over a razor sharp grater; it is a screaming pain in my soul. The type of pain that makes me do everything possible to stop it. To learn that a well-known man only did the bare minimum to report the crime, diluting the value of the hurt, sickens me.

Failing to do his best, as Joe Paterno had coached hundreds of students to do, resulted in other boys being abused…other lives destroyed, scarred, marred. Hiding a wrongdoing only gives it a dark place to grow and evolve into something more hideous. By refusing to do everything possible to stop the abuse, Paterno sanctioned it.

I cannot comprehend what pressures it would take to make it possible to squash down into a secret place the horror of sexual abuse. How does one sleep with the secret hidden within? Does it cause the mattress to feel lumpy, the room to be overheated, the sourness of the secret to rise into the mouth? How long does it take for the secret to diminish to a more manageable size?

Once I described a man as a Godly man, my son who knew the man more thoroughly said, “Mom, he’s a good man but not a Godly man.” There’s a difference. Paterno was a winning coach but being a winning coach does not make him a good man.

My strong emotions arise to shout out protests to the arrogance, the audacity of a man who had a platform to scream out and did not. I wonder how the mother and father of the boys must feel knowing the legend, the superhero of Penn State, did not have the courage to take a stand. And how they must feel even more damaged that Paterno’s testimony conflicted with that of his assistant…. As if their hurt was not enough.

Do the boys turned men now relive the abuse as the whistle blows to start each game? Do they feel the threats made to keep them quiet being made over and over with each down played on the field? Abuse does that, it is replayed over and over in the heart of the victim. The touch, the smell, the coarseness of the act or acts comes back with the slightest hint of remembrance. It’s a hard secret to kill.

Strong emotions. Emotions that are rooted deep down in my soul. Emotions that bring out the victim inside of me… the same emotions that send flares into the sky when I meet a potential abuser. Emotions that make me shout for justice. Emotions that remind me that this is not about football, or coaching, or rankings; it’s about hurts that could have been stopped or prevented.

In our first days of being in love, I never dreamed we would miss each other more the longer we were together. But that’s what has happened. I miss his smile, his twinkling eyes, and his hugs. I miss his ears and heart… the way he listens to me and cares about what I have to say. I miss his brain; his wisdom and his intelligence make my life easier. I can depend on his having the right idea, the right advice, the right suggestions. I miss his humble nature, the way he does little things to make the lives of others easier without them even knowing.

I feel guilty for missing Paul. The mission trip is important; life changing for the people in the village and the team. But the guilt gets smothered when something happens that I’d normally tell Paul, or I need to talk through something and find a solution. We just were not meant to be apart.

That’s the way marriage was intended to be.

When I married Paul, my focus was on the giddy little feelings we had and the idea of a wedding with lots of flowers, gifts, and photo opportunities. I did not think about the marriage that would continue for years, I simply wasn’t capable of thinking that far in advance. I was too concerned with iced peach dresses, the florist sending the wrong flowers, and my dad being late to the ceremony.

Marriage is about falling in love with each over and over again; respecting each other enough that you crave the opportunity to talk through things; and loving each other enough that you put the needs and desires of the other over your own. Marriage is about feeling like you are functioning with only half of your being, half of your brain, when one is unavailable. Marriage is loving so much you feel all sideways and off kilter when your love is missing.

Marriage is complicated until the love of your life is halfway around the world. Then, it becomes very simple. Love is putting things back to the way things ought to be…. Paul and I, 33 years, snuggling, laughing, loving, respecting, talking, and falling in love all over again!

Jared’s birthday was the day I learned to recognize the sweetness of a day. Every breath was an intake of sweetness, a new discovery of how sweet life could be. Katie’s birthday was a sweet break in the midst of trauma. Sweet cuddles and baby sounds helped me through the next months of grief and despair. Sweet.

As life got busy, there were sweet moments that made life fresh. Graduation days, Hawaii days, lake days, picnic days, laughter days, days spent relaxing with the family. Discovery days that taught me where God was leading me. Sweet.

The day Jared and Emily were married, a new level of sweet days began. I sat and sobbed throughout the wedding, overcome by the sweetness of their life together. My dying dad listened by telephone to the ceremony; his comment was all he could hear was my tears. Two people, perfectly complimenting each other is beautiful. Sweet.

The sweetness exploded with the birth of Caroline, processions of sweet days. Days she has cuddled and squealed her way into our hearts. Days she has smiled, reached her tiny slim hands towards us, and danced her happy feet. The sweetness of the Caroline days have been like the smell of Jasmine on a warm summer evening.

With Caroline came the promise of sweetness to continue and make foundational changes to the way Paul and I value our moments. Sweetness brings a freedom to slow down, to not rush decisions, to make decisions that may not make sense to anyone but us, to be comfortable. Caroline’s birth stretched us and brought alive expectations of sweet days. When the Caroline sweet days sugared our world, we restacked life priorities, we fell in love all over again, and put away obstacles that brought bitterness into life. I like us better. Sweet.

More sweet days are on the way. My heart smiles at that.

The wedding was in Tuscaloosa. In the same weekend of celebration, there was the deep sadness of seeing my hometown in destruction. It was a collision of emotions.

The destruction is so thick that in many places there are no landmarks left. I had to stop and look for little indications of what use to be. My heart broke over and over again as we drove through Hargrove Road, Forest Lake, 15th Street, Alberta, and Holt. How did anyone survive such force? The fear that must have been experienced, the grief of losing home, and the daily piercing pain of seeing the swath of scarred town ramshackled my brain. Sympathy for Tuscaloosa residents crowded down on my heart.

From Tuscaloosa, we drove to see Paul’s mom. The drive took us through where Cordova was. I say, “was” because all that is left of the original town is the bank’s vault. It stands alone, looking like an alien in a vast area of nothingness. Cordova experienced two tornadoes in one day. The first took away electricity so there was no warning for the second. People were killed there too.

Cordova and Tuscaloosa were not the only Alabama towns hit. An epic of sorrow was written on April 27th. I thought I was prepared. I had watched videos, seen pictures, read articles and blogs, and checked on friends and family members. I was not prepared for the reality. My mental picture was one dimensional, flat. The reality is deep and wide, as deep as the heart and as wide sorrow.

Southern Girls Love the Beach!!!

I’ve been inundated with bad behavior. Not just on the part of others but on myself. I’ve got thank you notes that are 6 week overdue. It’s not that I lack appreciation; the gifts I received for my birthday and Mother’s Day were the best gifts ever! But my life has been all consuming. There’s been no time for the niceties of life.

There. I’ve confessed it! I haven’t written thank you notes! I’ve shamed my family!

I’m not the only person who ain’t got no Southern Belle in her right now. Seems like a lot of other people in my world have been lacking in the finer points of graceful living too. I’m not justifying my behavior, I’m just sharing a little of my life. I’ve come up with reasons or excuses to justify their behavior, like that people are busy and have no time to consider how their actions impact others or that they are stressed and overwhelmed by their own life therefore they are unable to see how their actions stress others.

I think my daughter is right, “they ain’t got no Southern Belle.” This may not make sense to you if you were born in a place of low humidity and suffer from a lack of drawl. It’s like making an excuse for someone so you can overlook their behavior and still like or accept them as they are. By giving others an excuse for their lack of social grace and manners, it makes it possible to live life without taking up offenses towards others. Offenses against other people cause stress… not for the offender but for the one offended. It’s like getting a double whammy of offended. First by their behavior and secondly by the stress of being offended.

Jesus understood not taking up an offense. He championed forgiveness as a way of life. Jesus wanted us to be freed from the snares of offense so we can focus on the things of life of true worth…. Loving God; Loving Others.

Accompanying the pain has been frustration. It’s still difficult to keep my emotions in check as I type this. The challenges of dealing with insurance and finding the doctors and who accept that insurance are overwhelming. But there was more. The idea of being just a number, just another name, left me wondering where did all the caring people go. The journey began when my orthopedic doctor was out of the country and I was scheduled with another doctor in the practice. After waiting for 2 hours, I was told this doctor did not accept my insurance. The rudeness of the office manager added to my pain.

But it escalated. Calls were not returned. Promises of injections before my travel dates dissolved without apology or recognition. Charts were misplaced and sent to the wrong doctor. The bitterest moment was when I received the call after waiting a week that the doctor didn’t accept the insurance, so I was back at the beginning… no apology even though my chart was marked RUSH and the insurance information was written on the chart.

I waited impatiently, in pain. Feeling isolated and hopeless. The pain became a barrier between life and me. I didn’t update my status about it, didn’t tell many people. I couldn’t. The frustration brought me to tears when I tried to talk about it.

I’m not a pain wimp. I’ve broken 10 bones (plus all my toes), and lived with 4 bulging discs. I’ve had bronchitis and pneumonia more times than I can count. Even delivered two children without the aid of any drugs (I was into natural back then… hippie chic!). It was the lack of hope of any relief, the lack of hope that anyone in the medical community cared enough to help, that overwhelmed me.

I turned to God. Endure. Endure. Endure. That was the answer I received. I have learned endurance. I wish I had learned it quicker. Through the journey, I learned much about myself. I like easy life: A life of fun and everything going smoothly. I don’t like hard. I learned how close the negative feelings are to the surface. When the pain wore away the surface, the meanness and ugliness of me was exposed. How quickly the emotions I thought had been disposed off were revived.

I pray the pain is gone for good, but if it returns, I pray I will be better prepared spiritually and emotionally for the challenges of dealing with today’s health care system. Living in pain reminded me of how quickly I can lapse into unlovely responses and how far I have to go to be a true representative of the love of Christ.

I’m left with the question of how did Jesus endure the pain of the cross, the pain of being misunderstood and isolated?