Yeah, okay. I'll get right on that.

My counselor says I have to grieve.

I've been watching Downton Abbey instead. And Grey's Anatomy. And Modern Family. And reading books. And playing Spider Solitaire on my phone. Basically, whatever I can do with my time that is:

A) not work
B) not school
C) not grieving
D) not thinking about grieving

So I'm avoiding. But to be fair, she might as well have told me that I needed to procure the left front hoof of a unicorn, because I feel equally equipped to do both. The bottom line is that I don't know how to grieve. I don't know how to conjure up feelings of sadness if they aren't already there, or if they are there but are buried deep. And when they do make an appearance (which does happen from time to time), I get so caught up in wanting to do the right thing that I totally over-think it and then the moment is gone. I'm way too cerebral for grieving. And yet, according to the therapist, it must be done.

That's all I have to say about that. I'm labeling this with "transition", because I'm hopeful that's what it is.

Suffering Can Be Communal

Suffering is one of those realities of the human condition that cannot be avoided. We’ve all experienced it at some point, albeit in varying degrees. It is unavoidable, and it is everywhere. Even with its pervasiveness, I’ve noticed of late that there are some tribulations that aren’t handled very well by the community at large. One of those afflictions is infertility. I haven’t experienced this condition for myself, but several of my friends have. One such friend is in the throes of the battle as I write this post.


Hannah’s struggle with infertility is one that I’ve had the privilege of witnessing by way of emails (yes, I intentionally used the word “privilege”; we’ll get to that later). She emails another friend (Addie) and me frequent updates about her condition. Sometimes those updates involve medical information, but mostly they’re about the condition of her heart. These emails have been full of brutal honesty, tearful admissions of fear and doubt, encouraging scripture and prayers, much swearing, and enough socially unacceptable humor to make one nervous about ever allowing the three of us to appear in public together. In short, it’s been awful. And awesome. All at once.

In a recent message, Hannah was test-driving a blog post about how to care with people who are struggling with infertility specifically, but it could also be a reference for how to deal with any sort of deep suffering. In it she describes ways in which she has felt supported, as well as ways in which she has felt...well, not supported. As it turns out, Addie and I have loved her well. She feels comfortable enough with us to be genuinely, recklessly honest. She knows that Addie and I have suffered much ourselves. We know how to bear burdens. We are her safe place.

On a cognitive level, I have known that Hannah feels well cared-for by me. However, on an emotional level, it was vaguely surprising. My knowledge is kind of based on an if-then statement: If Hannah continues to email me, then that must mean she feels supported. She does continue to email, therefore, she feels supported. How I’ve managed to make her feel this way has been sort of a mystery to me.

Here’s the thing about suffering: when we witness it, we want to make it stop. We want to say the perfect words to alleviate pain or find the perfect solution to the problem. We want to make it go away. But you know what? Those perfect words? That perfect solution? Those things don’t usually exist. My friend Hannah might not be able to conceive. That’s some heavy shit. There is not a thesaurus in the world that can help me find words to make her grief go away. I can’t fix her endometriosis. I can’t make a baby grow in her uterus. I can’t make this go away.

When Hannah started down this road, I wasn’t sure how to conduct myself. Part of my own baggage is that I am uncomfortable with emotions. I’m getting better, but it’s a slow process. Obviously infertility is a very emotionally-charged issue, and I was worried that I might be out of my league. Like maybe I just wasn’t cut out to be the kind of friend that she was going to need me to be. But my love for her wouldn’t let me be someone who faded into the background, so I had to do something. The problem was that I just wasn’t sure what that something might be.

In the end, I decided to write her a letter. A handwritten one, because she's worth it. In it, I said that I didn’t know what to say to her...other than how deeply sad I was for her. I didn’t know how to react...other than to pray. Basically, I didn’t know what to do...other than be available. In short, all I had to give was myself. I can offer her my imperfect support, knowing that at times I’m going to say and do the wrong things. Because I’m broken. Because I’m human.

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m being sad. I’m praying. I’m listening. I’m suffering with her. Sometimes, suffering with her means that I listen to her cry. Sometimes it means that the only thing I know to say is how much everything sucks. Sometimes it means that I write profanity-laced haiku about her endometriosis. You take the good with the bad, you know?

Suffering is awful. But in all of its wretchedness, I feel so honored to be on this journey with my friend. It is a deep privilege to hear about her doubts and fears. It is life-giving to watch her wrestle with God over the loss of her dream of what motherhood is supposed to look like. I cannot count how many times I’ve read scriptures meant for her and felt them burning a hole in my own conscience. Hannah’s fight helps encourage me. My faith helps strengthen her. The suffering, while painful, shores up our faith.

The Wringer

 The Wringer

I want to share a quote that's been on my mind for the past 24 hours. Normally I'd just put it in my Facebook status and be done with it, but FB isn't really the best venue for the quote. Here's the context: a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless unless she wishes to identify herself) is going through a crazy-intense rough patch in life. Something that she desperately wants seems to be just beyond her reach, and our human eyes cannot see a way to make her wish possible. On her journey through the discovery of her loss and her subsequent grieving, she's been keeping me and one other friend updated via email.

It so happens that all three of us have been through the wringer. Life has not been kind. God has chosen to allow us to be put through the fire rather than spare us the pain. And while we don't always understand why or see the benefit, we trust that He has a plan, and that the plan is good. Always, the plan is good.

Here's the quote that's got my mind working: "I am grateful to both of you and that your lives have not been perfect, because you are real to me. We're kind of like the Velveteen Rabbit. I guess instead of love making us real, suffering makes us real."

In that quote, part of the goodness of the plan was revealed to me. My suffering makes me real. It makes me authentic, approachable, and not just a little worse for wear.

Hopeful stuff. 


***Update: Research Paper of Doom is finished, submitted, and graded. I got an A. This is more of a testament to the professor's idiocy than my ability to design an excellent research proposal. Was is it passable? Yes. Was it good? Maybe. Was it excellent? No way. The writing might have been excellent, but the proposal itself was not. But whatever, I still have a 4.0.

Picture Day

Friday was picture day at school. Insanity was the overarching theme. 

At the middle school level, picture day is a big deal. It’s hilarious to watch, actually. Students agonize for days over what to wear and get up a bit earlier to make sure they have extra time to spend in order to look nice. One of my kids even went shopping the night before just so she’d have a cute shirt to wear. The boys actually shower to make sure their Justin Bieber hair is swooping just right. The girls bring brushes to class and wear their hair down. All of them wear their best name-brand shirts. Like I said, it’s a big freaking deal.

In Transition

Hey ya'll. It's been awhile.

Since I last posted, I've moved. I've started my research proposal. I've been grieving the loss of my surrogate mother. I've been teaching. I've been sorting my belongings into complex categories (stuff I might need at the new place, stuff I want to keep in our storage unit, stuff to get rid of, stuff to ship to Australia...the list goes on). Oh, and this morning, someone smashed my driver's side window. Let's add that to the list, shall we?

All of that to say that I haven't been writing. But I have been thinking about writing. Posts are forthcoming, I just can't say when.

In the meantime, I have a new love I'd like to share with you: Jamie, the Very Worst Missionary. When I read this blog I am challenged to be more authentic, more hopeful, and more...me. Sarcasm, swearing, and all. Read it. You'll love it.

Me vs. Educational Research

I'm working on my Master's degree. It's something that I've needed to do for a while, and my current position as a teacher of gifted students is forcing the issue. In order to teach gifted classes, one needs a special certification. Since I don't have that certification, I have to go back to school to get it. When I took the job, I was actually quite relieved to be forced to go back to school. I knew I needed to get my Master's done, but I wasn't sure what I wanted to study. This job narrowed my choices to one, which was a relief.

Once the decision was made, I put the pedal to the metal. I started working on my courses last July, and just a year later I have 21 hours of credit. While earning those 21 hours, I worked full-time in a brand new job. Back in March I was filling out a form and I was able to check two boxes: one under "full-time student" and the other under "employed full-time". That was the point when I began to question my sanity.

The beginning of every semester is a stressful time for me because it's when the syllabus is distributed. In my eyes, the syllabus is life and death condensed into document form. The ISTJ in me loves having anything resembling a schedule or list, and a syllabus is exactly that: a list of things we will be doing in class, a list of due dates, a list of things I need to complete in order to earn an A. At the same time, the syllabus intimidates me. I see all of the work I'll be completing, and I mentally start to highlight the ways in which I don't measure up. I'm too busy to do this. I'm not a good enough teacher to complete my own work and care for my students. I can't be a good wife and student at the same time.

But mostly, I hear this: I'm not smart enough. I'm not smart enough. I'm not smart enough. This is going to be the class that defeats me; the one in which it is revealed to everyone that I'm actually pretty stupid. I'll get a bad grade, and everyone will know what I've known all along.

This semester I'm taking my research course. By the end of November, I will have designed and submitted a three chapter proposal for a research study. It will be about 30 pages long. Essentially, it's the first half of my dissertation. Right now, I have no idea how I'm going to get this done. I'm intimidated as hell.

This blog post isn't one with a tidy little ending. I'm not to the point where I can say it's all going to be all right. It probably will be, but I don't feel that way yet. Right now I'm living in the doubt. Maybe I'm smart enough. Maybe I'm not.

Maybe I should stop blogging and start doing my homework. Maybe.

UNhappy Feet

The Missouri Department of Elementary and Secondary Education website does not make me happy. It makes me downright angry. I can never find what I want in a timely manner, and when I do find it, the information is incomplete. The Kentucky website is much better. Boy, that's something I never thought I'd say.

(And let's be honest...unless we're talking about bourbon, basketball, southern food or horse races, one should never be able to say that Kentucky does it better!)