When things don’t go right

 

I’ve been writing again.  Writing as in writing novels.  It’s both magical and terrifying.  I’m not exactly sure why this is but I think with anything that you love there is the potential of both healing you or breaking you.  It’s the risk of caring and hoping.

Last night as I was brushing my teeth and dealing with a very upset stomach, I thought about all the things you don’t write about in your stories.  Upset stomachs and the results of them being one.  Or brushing your teeth or going to the bathroom or burning breath or blisters or BO or a million other unpleasant things.  But in reality those uncomfortable, messy, ugly, smelly parts are what make up a good portion of our lives.  Why don’t we write about them?  I mean, no one wants to read about a good bout of diarrhea do they?  

Or do we?  

Maybe we do.  I mean, not the nitty gritty details, but maybe we want to know we aren’t alone in our imperfections.  That is actually why I think we do read or watch or vlog—so we know we aren’t alone in our periodic lameness.  That maybe we have hope for a happy ending (that if course is assuming you’re reading a happy book) or that you aren’t the only one whose ending didn’t go according to plan.

Also . . . I think that when sometimes things really don’t go well, there are bright spots.  Or at least the good stands out in stark contrast to the misery you may be in.  When I got food poisoning in NYC a few years ago, barely making it back to our airbnb in time to spend literally hours walking the ten feet between the bed and the toilet (I can literally see every detail of that porcelain bowl—it was thankfully very clean), I realized how comforting my own children are to me.  So crazy huh? When JOhn went off to find food and I was alone, very ill, in the dark apartment as great flakes of snow fell down, they called.  Just hearing their voices and laughter and life made my body sigh and feel better.  Their love, over thousands of miles, on a broken up connection, healed me.  Had I been well and we at the show we bought tickets for, I would have never picked up the call.  I would never have known how much they meant to me in that moment.  I hated barfing up everything in my belly for hours and hours, but that epiphany, that pouring of love and healing I realized my children brought me, kind of, sort of worth it.

I have been much better about calling my own parents since then.  And I hear in their voices a relief and a joy I now understand.

This summer has been on the surface so wonderful—lots of trips, lots of visits, healthy babies, and lots of beach and swim time.  But below, there have been some serious set backs and heartbreaks.

I woke up this morning and have spent hours folding clothes and walking around my yard feeling the weight of the things that are not going well.  Most of them are “wait and see” things where you literally just have to hope. I’ve thought over my forty-six years and how many times things have looked bleak and most assuredly have not been going well.  What did I do then?  How did I deal with it?  What helped me over the years?  I had to laugh because a)I did not deal with it well and b)I didn’t believe anyone when they tried to tell me it would be ok.

So yeah, I was not great when things didn’t go right.  I was angry and bitter and frantic and a HOT MESS—honestly, thank you everyone who put up with me.  I don’t think I could have been more entitled.  So embarrassed about that.

It’s made me wonder, why we all think we can escape sorrow?  Why do we think it unfair that we don’t always have a smooth path? Why are we so angry when we don’t get our way?  Or our luck turns? Or straight up bad things happen to us?  

I did.  I thought all of those things.  I had this crazy notion that I would sail through life without a bump.  If I studied hard, worked hard, was really nice and careful and kind, my life would be filled with unicorns and perfectly cooked dinners.

And guess what?  

I was, as I often am, it turns out, dead wrong.

It think it’s like 50/50 on dinners and definitely haven’t seen any prancing unicorns around—though the deer around here love my plants—eat them down to nothing!

But the funny thing is, that I don’t think I would want that life of sweet ease.  I mean, I would have missed out on so much.  Just like that horrid night of violent illness that woke me to the power of love, each set back, each heartbreak and moment or weeks or months or emotional or physical illness has ultimately been the worlds best set up for something beautiful.  

Would I have chosen that beautiful?  Never in a billion years.  

And that leads me to God.  I know, it’s like talking about vomit or something, you just don’t go there, but I am.   (Sorry, God, for comparing you to vomit).  That’s what this post is right?  A lot of honesty.  So I’m behind honest and I really believe He has a hand in all our lives.  I believe that there is a purpose for each and every tiny thing that happens to us.  

I didn’t used to.  Most of my life I’ve believed that God doesn’t really care what happens to us, He just cares that we are kind and that we don’t do really horrible things to each other.  Mostly, I believe, we were on our own.

But I don’t believe that anymore.  I’ve had too many experiences over the course of my life to hold onto that silly notion.  He’s in the details.  He’s God and he knows the beginning from the end—so glad someone does!  And I know that each time things don’t go well, it’s horrible and hard and dreadful, but also . . . they are actually going according to plan.  

No, that doesn’t mean that people around us can’t make our lives more miserable or take actions that hurt us.  I believe that, but even then, I believe there is always a way, a source, of comfort and guidance that can lead us through the miserable.  That can and will illuminate the path—even if it’s just one tiny flicker of light and we need to inch our way forward.

And that’s what has changed over all these years.  I don’t expect things to go according to my plan—oh yes, I definately want them too and pray mightily for that outcome, but I also realize that I don’t really know THE PLAN.  And I want THE PLAN to happen more than even my plan.

As I was driving down to help Hero and the twins, I prayed.  

I know it’s so silly, I whispered to God in my heart, an old lady like me trying to start up her career again. I know I’ve probably missed the boat and it’s too late, but I have those stories and words inside me and I feel like I’m flying when I write.  It’s wonderful and mysterious and glorious and I love it so much.  

Please, please, if I’m supposed to watch babies and help my parents and neighbors and clean toilets the rest of my life, fine.  Just take this weight of unfulfilled dreams away from me.  I’ve been waiting and waiting and I thought it was the right time, but . . . I can’t get to the computer.  I can’t write when the house is a mess and kids are begging to go somewhere and guests are visiting and I want to be with them and the yard has weeds and the garden needs to be harvested.

I can’t do this all.  I can’t.  So just please, take this away.  Let me forget the stories and the joy and let me just be fine with this life I lead.

I arrived at Henry and Chloe’s and ran in (I was late) and almost forgot I even said the prayer because I didn’t have one second the rest of the day to even think about it.  And really, I thought I knew the answer.  I had given my book to about six people.  The first time I did this years ago, everyone read it within a few weeks and came back with lots and lots of ideas and thoughts and comments.  This time around, I’ve given it out and not one person has gotten back to me. 

NOT.  ONE.

Point taken.  I stink at writing.  I have no place even trying to even attempt at this silly dream.  How many people do you know are writing a book?  

A billion.

And how many get published?

Almost none.

And of those that get published, how many even get read?

Even less.

So, the answer seemed obvious right?  Give up now, woman before you waste another minute of your time.  Honestly, GIVE UP.

Well, guess what? The word “brave” keeps running through my head all that day and the next and the day after that.  “Be brave.” I keep hearing in my mind.  Be brave be brave be brave.

What does that even mean? I asked myself.  And I started thinking about what on earth being brave meant.    I looked it up.  Here it is: ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage.

Shoot.

I realized in that moment, that was my answer.  Don’t give up on any of it—my helping, my writing, my dreaming.  Be brave.  Be ready to face whatever is coming and show courage and I will add hope that it’s the right choice.

I feel like I’ve got HIM behind me.  That completely over used, but utterly true phrase, With God Nothing is Impossible. Well, I believe it.  I trust it.

And guess what?  I got feed back.  When I came in after her hand surgery (yep, just another of those fun things that happened this summer)  to make sure she’d been taking her medicine, Celia told me she stayed up all night reading my book.  She told me it was good.  

Hallejuah.