Blogging about not blogging...

There are times when I blog because I feel like I have something to say, and can't for the life of me, not say it.  Then there are the blog posts that come from life, things that make me laugh, or cry, or angry.  Somehow, I have been wired to have a strong desire to share all my notable experiences with others.  My readers can be thankful that I have learned a bit of restraint in this, because really, if it seems like I share too much info in my posts, you should hear what I don't share.  Ask Grace.  And my dearest friends.  They get all the stuff you guys are spared from.  Yeah, I know. Poor them. :)

If you are a long time reader, you have most likely noticed that I have occasional periods of silence on this blog.  To be honest, I don't understand it either.  It's not that my mind, or my spirit are silent.  Sometimes it's because the things that are preoccupying my mind are not things that I am free to share. It may be that I am too sad, or angry, or hurt, or confused or scared to make sense of words on the screen.  Part of my desire to guard my tongue when I am angry or hurt also means I have to guard my keyboard.  Like almost everything else that is given to us, my keyboard can be used to bless, or to hurt. For good or for evil.  Sometimes, my keyboard is silent because I cannot trust myself to write. 

When I am in this place, I could always do a Jean-Luc post, or something similarily light and silly, but I don't.  I think that is because I want to be authentic, and writing something silly to hide the fact that I am struggling with things that I can't express here feels false.  I want my readers to be able to trust that if I post something funny or silly, it is because I find joy in it, and am most likely giggling as I write.  I believe that the humorous posts are as important and meaningful as the more serious ones are.  Authenitcity is important to me. 

In these times, I come here, stare at the empty page, weighing whether or not I can really have fun with a puppy-sitting post, or do I need to close the page and try again tomorrow.  I am puppy-sitting.  Buddy is a 10 week old chihuahua. He is beyond adorable.  And at 6:00 a.m, he had me out on the front lawn in my housecoat, coaxing him to pee.  Trying to figure out if he had already peed.  So that I could go in and pee.

Ah, there I go again. Too much information.  If it's any consolation, that's all I've got.

Until tomorrow. When I try again.

Mothers & Daughters

Tomorrow is Mother's Day.  It has been almost 18 years since I first became a mother.  It has been seven months since my mother died.  I have been incredibly blessed to be my daughter's mother, and to be my mother's daughter.  

I wanted to write some thing special, a poignant tribute to my mom, an ode of joy at being Grace's mom, but I feel strangely wordless.  

As a writer, life happens to me in words.  I joke about there being, within me, a mini-me hunched over a typewriter transcribing my life as I live it. 

This week-end, though, is so full of memories,
thoughts and feelings, and all I really want to do is remember, think and feel them.  My inner secretary is taking a break. So...

Happy Mother's Day, Mum.  Thank you for all that you have been and done for me.  Thank you for allowing me to see your mother's heart for me before you died.  When your life was ending, your thoughts were on us, your children. Our children.  I felt so cared for, so mothered.  I miss you, and I love you.

I also want to thank my beautiful daughter for making me the happiest mom in the world.  Thank you for laughing at my jokes, for listening to me tell the same stories over and over again, for not being too embarrassed of me in class,  for being a faithful, wise, loving disciple of Jesus Christ and for allowing Him to speak and love your world through you.  I am beyond glad to be a part of your world.  I love you, Chika.

Remember when I said that I didn't want to whine?

Well I lied. I have a feeling...something like a gut feeling, only lower down and burning like h*ll...that this is going to be a whiney post. If that's a problem, you might want to skip it and wait for the more chipper one that I am fairly sure will come along eventually. Probably.

I am IC flare again. AGAIN. Or maybe it's "still". I don't know anymore.

 I went to see my doctor last week for a yearly check up and basically just told him how awful the last year has been and how much pain I've been in, and cried. I have no words for how tired I am of this. It has been said, by people who presumably know more that I do about these things, that the pain of IC when it is really bad can equal that of bladder cancer. Except...and I know this sounds insensitive and ungrateful but I pity the fool who dares remind me of that right now...ICers don't get to die. Not from the IC, anyway. It has also been noted that when symptoms of IC were induced in lab rats, some of the rats chewed their bladders out of their body to get rid of the pain. I totally get it.

 So, why do I think these things at times like this? Honestly? Because I am crushed and discouraged by this stupid illness and yet I still feel I have to justify writing about it in my own blog by predicating my right to feel this way with horror stories about rats and cancer victims. I know that this shouldn't be. The fact that I feel this way adds to the discouragement.

 There is an odd disconnect between what my brain knows and what my heart feels. I have been literally mocked for being chronically ill, called a liar, a fake, lazy, even crazy. As I stood up for myself and proclaimed it all lies, even as I asserted that being sick wasn't a sin but mistreating someone who was sick was a grave and serious sin, tiny seeds of doubt and shame were dropped into my heart and I think that they have taken root.

 The result is, I can't feel comfortable talking about how difficult it is to live with IC without first offering some sort of proof that the suffering is real, proof from sources other than myself. That's just not right.

 I have been praying lately that God would help me let go of all sources of unhealthy shame in my life. I recognize the role of healthy guilt, but there are so many places in my life where I just don't feel adequate, or I feel shame that has nothing to do with anything that God would concern Himself with. Things get all twisted around, and I end up feeling ashamed of being so sick (which is absolutely NOT something that God wants me to feel ashamed of) and my accusers feel proud and self-righteous about tearing down and wounding someone who is already suffering,(something that God, according to Jesus' example, seriously goes all "fire and brimstone" over).

 Letting go of unhealthy shame means being more honest about how I feel. Even with myself. It means knowing who I am in God's eyes and only His eyes. It means allowing others to be themselves as well, to be as patient with other peoples journeys as I know God is with mine. It means learning to say that I am hurting, even if I am saying it for the umpteenth time in as many weeks. It means understanding if others are tired of hearing it, but saying it anyway. This disease sucks for everyone, including those who are close to me.

 The people who have gotten angry and hurtful about it are people who were close to me, and resented the fact that IC touched their lives the way it did, through me. They took their anger out on me, as if it were my choice.

 In fact, the "Christians" among them asserted that it WAS my choice, as I obviously did not trust God enough for Him to heal me. I know, I know...how verbal abuse and condemnation were supposed to strengthen my faith or lead to healing is beyond me, as well. I think prayer is the usual path to take for this stuff. You know, the whole bearing each other's burdens thing.

 In any case, I understand that living and loving someone with IC is hard. I also understand that God, my Father, does not take kindly to people who purposely hurt people who are already hurting. So I let Him handle that. It's not mine to hold. And that is the point. Living with this pain is mine to hold. Sometimes, being able to hold it means talking about it. How others react to that is NOT mine to hold.

 And I know I am not writing this for you, my dear friends and family who love me and are so incredibly supportive and nurturing. I am writing this for me, to me, so that I can read it in black and white.

 I am in a lot if pain. I feel discouraged and weepy and weak, and am so tired of being ill.

 Yup. That's about it for today. Good night, all.

I was reminded recently that it has been a while since I have updated my blog. I have to admit, I appreciate reminders like this. It lets me know that people are reading, and are interested, not just in what I write but in how things are going in my world. This makes me feel loved, which is always a good thing.

There have been a few changes since I last wrote, nothing earth shattering but still significant to me. For one thing, although one wouldn't know it from looking out the window today, Spring has sprung. The days are longer, warmer and full of hope. Walking in the neighbourhood is an opportunity to enjoy the flower gardens in the yards of the neat little houses.

Although I am not a power gardener, this time of year always awakens a desire in me to plant things and to nurture them to fruition. This year, my older sister gave me a great idea for planting a garden in the little back yard of my rented apartment. Using pallets, black gardening paper and imported dirt (and hopefully a few shovelfuls of a friend's compost pile), I am hoping to be able to create a little garden. Isn't this a great idea?

I've also made a special Mother's Day request for flowers to plant, and I want to try to put together a little memorial flower spot for Mum.

Other changes aren't so pleasant, and basically involve car problems, relationship issues, health miseries and a vague sense of anxiety that has settled into my stomach and seems to have made it's home there. Still, I am learning to keep plodding forward, doing the tasks that today holds and doing my best not to trip over tomorrow.

I'd elaborate, but to be honest, I don't want to be whiney. The truth is, I'm starting to annoy myself. I can't stand the perky, pollyanna, "smile through the pain and pretend no-one can see my gritted teeth" thing. Nor can I listen to any more of my own "sharing" about how sick and tired I am of being sick and tired. *shrugs*

One especially nice change is Mycroft, our new kitty. He showed up a few weeks ago, lurked in the back yard by the fence for a week, watching the house. He showed up at on our steps on afternoon, I pet him and he never left. I ignored him for the first day, but when he spent the entire night sitting on my step staring hopefully up at the door, I gave in.

He fits in really well. Best of all, he's a good buddy for Jean-Luc. He's young, has lots of energy, and participates gleefully in Jean-Luc's wild, racing rampages. Together, they sound like a herd of elephants charging around upstairs. I love it.

He's not fixed, and he heads out to prowl the streets every night. Which is okay, because when he is inside, his favorite sleeping spot just happens to be Jean-Luc's as well - the foot of my bed, on my legs. Because it's not like, in my double bed, there isn't a whole half of the bed that they could lie in without getting kicked in the middle of the night. Silly cats.

Grace named him Mycroft. For Sherlock Holme's brother. Because she is obsessed.

My mostly, almost...okay, kind of silent retreat

I've spent days trying to write this blog post. That is unusual for me, as my posts tend to be written in one sitting, and posted on the same day. But it has been a very busy week, with my nephews coming to visit and helping my daughter plan an 18th birthday party for her best friend. In hindsight, given the activity of the past week, the subject of this post seems all the more relevant.

Last week I met with some great people from my church, and we made plans to start a Bible study. While we were there, one fellow was talking about having gone on a silent retreat. I was intrigued. Of course, I have heard about silent retreats. My best friend was given one as a gift from her children and she loved it. The thing that intrigued me, though, was a thought that I had while he was talking. I wondered about the possiblility of doing a silent retreat at home.

Usually retreats are done at retreat centres, places that provide a room, meals, a chapel, beautiful, meditative grounds and other retreatish sorts of things. Still, if the point is to get away from the world and spend quiet, alone time with God, in quantity and well as quality, I should be able to do it at home. To be honest, my finances dictated that if I was going to do it all, it had to be at home.

I think the idea of a retreat appealed to me because I have been feeling a little unsettled lately, a bit scattered and disconnected. I've been having periods of nameless anxiety. My nerves have felt frayed, but with no clear reason. There are some things happening in my life that concern my future, and there is uncertainty about it all. Some of it is exciting, promising new paths and challenges for both Grace and I. Some of it may be painful. Most of it will be difficult.

I needed some time to focus and connect more closely with the One who holds our future in His hands. I've never tried to do any sort of retreat on my own before, but this felt like something I needed to do. I knew that if I needed it, then God would make it possible.

So He did. Friday night I announced to Grace and Madison that I would be spending Saturday in a silent retreat. I would spend the day in my room. I love my bedroom. It is a calm, peaceful, comfortable place. Every time I go in there, even just to drop off laundry, I think about how much I like being in it. It would be a perfect place to nestle into for a day of intimate time with God.

I told the girls that I would be trying not to talk for the day. Of course, I would be available if I was needed, but I was aiming for silence. Yeah. I don't think they thought I could do it, either. I put Grace in charge of answering the phone and door should the need arise, and prayed that the day would be an uneventful one.

It just makes sense that the first thing I discovered when I tried to be silent is how un-silent I am. I was communicating verbally before I even opened my eyes on Saturday morning. Jean-Luc came into my room early, as is his habit, and trilled at me. And I trilled back. This happens every day, as Jean-Luc starts the "getting Kelly out of bed" process at about 5:00am and continues until he succeeds. It usually takes a few hours. If I don't answer him, he stands on the pillow beside mine and pats me on the fact until I do. It was at this point that I determined that a "silent" was aiming too high, and that I would try for a mostly silent retreat.

I spent the day cocooned in my room. I had chosen a book by Max Lucado, When God Whispers your Name. I had my Bible, an Oswald Chambers devotional called My Utmost for His Highest, a notebook and pen. I told God that I just wanted to be alone with Him. I told Him some things that were concerning me, and asked Him a few questions. He showed me some things about myself that I needed to know. He also showed me some things about Him that He needed me to know.

I did come out of my room occasionally, for bathroom breaks, food and tea. At noon I went downstairs and made soup for lunch, which Grace and I ate together. I couldn't just not talk to her while we were together, but I did try to talk as little as possible. I realized, as she talked to me, how often I jump into our conversations with advice, ideas and comments about what she is saying. It took a lot of effort to simply listen.

By early evening I was feeling that it was time to come out of hiding. I felt relaxed, connected to the Source and ready for the upcoming week.

Often, because of my health, busy weeks are hard weeks. I can't say that I sailed through physically, as my IC flared on Monday. It had settled down by the time the boys arrived on Wednesday, but the busyness still affected my bladder by the end of each active day. I don't think the retreat was a physical thing. It was to rebuild my mental and emotional strength by building up my spiritual connection to God. For me, the only way to transcend the physical struggle is to be empowered by God to greater levels of devotion to Him, and love for others. By myself, I would have been a bear. Not a silent one, either.

I would absolutely do it again. In fact, having done it just once has made the time I spend with God every day even more personal and...retreatish. Still working on being a better listener, though...

Kony 2012 and Our Amazing Youth

Most of you are probably already aware of Kony 2012. If you've spent any time on-line and on social networking sites in the past few days, you've been inundated with pleas to watch and share the Kony 2012 video, as well as commentaries on why you shouldn't, such as this, and this.

Whether or not you agree that dealing with Jospeh Kony is something that we in the West should be addressing, or can actually do anything about, one thing is clear. North American young people are reacting to the crimes of Kony with outrage and passion. They want to do something. They need to do something. They care. And this makes me proud. For a generation that is routinely characterized as indulged and self-focused, interested only in the latest fashions, entertainment and themselves, they are proving to be refreshingly open to the troubles outside their own little worlds, and willing to do what they can to help.


Many of the young people I know who are responding to the call to help stop Joseph Kony are already active helpers in their own communities. They have the energy, stamina and heart to do what is needed, and when they see the needs around them, they react. I have to admit, some of the reaction against the Kony 2012 movement has sounded distressingly like world-worn adults, shaking their heads at the idealism and naivety of young people who have yet to become jaded and discouraged by the sheer size of the issues involved, the duplicity of government officials, and the fact that this action is unlikely to completely solve the problems in the areas involved.

I hear a dull, cold note of discouragement trickling down, and I don't like it. You won't be able to solve the problems. You can't trust these guys, anyway. What about this, and that, and those things, and what these people say? Who's going to do this, carry that, pay for these, fix it all? You can't do it, they can't do it, no one can do it. Don't even try.

Invisible Children, the organization responsible for the Kony 2012 video and campaign, has written a response to their critics. It is worth checking out.

When I watched the Kony 2012 video with my daughter, we cried. Not because we are weak or easily fooled, or sentimental. It is not sentimental to weep for children who are brutally abused, murderously orphaned, used as sex-slaves and child soldiers. It is compassionate. It is human and at the same time, it is divine. We need to be proud that we have raised a generation of young people who care so deeply. We need to encourage them to read and listen to everything they can on the subject of Jospeh Kony and the Invisible Children organization, including the critics. We need to teach them to think critically, with intelligence and thoroughness, but without cynicism and scorn. If we don't think that Kony 2012 is an appropriate means of helping, we need to offer alternative solutions, so that the energy, passion and strength that our young people bring to the table will not be lost in a fog of discouragement.

Last week in our college Humanities class, we watched a BBC documentary called How Facebook Changed the World - The Arab Spring. It documented the incredible story of how a new generation of Arab citizens used social networking to try to bring down the tyrannical dictators that ruled their countries. We saw that the energy, courage and strength of people can make a difference, can accomplish what was once considered the impossible. I have to admit, I cried while watching it. I was especially moved by their successes. So much hope. So many possibilities. Such courage.

I want to encourage our young people to study the issues, think about the consequences of action, to count the cost, to pray for guidance, to be wise and thoughtful. And I want to do it in a way that leaves no doubt that I are so very, very proud.

"Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings"

The LORD will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

Isaiah 58:11-13


I woke up this morning feeling really down. Sad. Worried. Afraid. Wounded.

My thoughts kept returning over and over to hard words and accusations that have been cast at me in the past. Harsh words hurt. Harsh words from loved ones crazy hurt. And they linger. I know what they are. I know their intent, and it was not so much to hurt me as to justify outrageous, abusive behavior. The words meant that I deserved it. It is not so shocking, so ugly, so evil to abuse someone who deserves it. The words were never about me. They were about the abuser. I know that.

Still, some days those words feel like they have been permanently engraved on my heart. In my mind. There have been times when, in desperation, I have taken sandpaper to those words, scrubbing at them frantically until the pain stopped me. They are written too deeply. All I was got for my efforts was more words - crazy, drug addict, alcoholic, cutter. More justification for more abuse.

There is only one way to permanently erase these words. I need new words. And they need to be from someone higher than I am. I could tell myself that I am a good person, but what if I am not? Abusers tell themselves that they are good people. The most powerful deception in the world is self-deception. I need to hear it from a higher authority, someone who knows me better than I know myself.

Yesterday, I was going through some papers and I came across a few old sermons that I had written and preached years ago. One of them was called, "Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings." It was from a passage in Isaiah. New words. My hope today is as it was then, to be a repairer of broken walls, a restorer of streets with dwellings. To live my life for God, in His service, doing His heart's desire. Bringing His restoration, His healing, His hope and love to my world.

It is not enough to simply try not to think of the ugly words. They need to be replaced with something better. Something true. So, today, I am a child of God, a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a helper, a writer, and a Repairer of Broken Walls, a Restorer of Streets with Dwellings. I am flawed, but growing. My land make feel sun-scorched at times, but my needs are always met. There is life in the garden of my heart, my soul. There is Life in my spirit. I fall, but I get back up. I try. And because of God's love and mercy for me when I fall, every time I hit the gravel face-first I have more compassion for others who trip and fall.

Most of all, I am loved. Passionately. Eternally. Gracefully. Totally. Intimately.

There. That feels better.