On Emotions and Instrument Panels

I am an emotional person. If you have read any of my other posts, you will laugh at this and say that I am merely stating the way too obvious. When I took the lengthy test for the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, I tested out a high "F" (for Feeling, as opposed to Thinking). In fact I tested out as high on the "F" scale as possible. My husband calls me one bundled up raw nerve ending. Sigh.

Being a feeling person is not without its benefits. I tend to be compassionate and caring and understanding in an often dog-eat-dog world. I guess God made me that way for a reason. But feeling things so deeply can have its down side. Sometimes life just plain hurts.

I think the hardest thing about feeling so deeply is that, at times, my emotions can completely hijack my life and carry it off  to some umpteenth level of  hell. What gives? There ends up being much more than sheer emotion going on.

A few years ago I watched a science video about flying airplanes. This video went into detail about the difference between flying by sight and flying by instrument. When the fellow started talking I assumed that he was going to say that flying by sight is crucial to master because instruments in airplanes can be wrong and you need to learn how to fly without them. That's not the case at all.

Some of y'all remember back in 1999 when John F. Kennedy, Jr., along with his wife and sister-in-law, disappeared. John was trained to fly by sight. It turns out that you learn how to do that first, before you learn how to fly by instrument. People who fly by sight are to fly only in daylight and only in clear weather conditions. Why? Because without the visual cues, your body loses its ability to determine where it is in space. It is called spatial disorientation. 

A few months ago I read the book The Day John Died by Christopher Andersen. In it he recreates the last few minutes of John's life as he flew his Piper Saratoga toward Martha's Vineyard. He describes what likely happened. The vertigo. The disorientation. The plummeting plane. He describes how one instinctual move can result in what is called the "graveyard spiral," sending the plane toward the surface of the ocean at ninety-nine feet per second. 

Interestingly, this is what Andersen says:

Even as the Piper Saratoga dropped from the sky, there remained one slender hope. John might yet regain control of the plane. It had been done before. "If you believe what your instruments are telling you and focus on getting your wings level, " [veteran military pilot Edward] Francis said, "you can recover—even at the last minute. But the degree of concentration it requires is total." 

Well, the wreckage and the bodies of all on board were found a few days later. JFK Jr.'s confidence in his own ability to fly in poor conditions and his ignorance of the instruments proved disastrous. 

I don't know if you are seeing the parallel yet, but I sure do. I seem to spend my life flying by sight. I spend my life believing all the input going on around me. Sometimes that input is coming from the world at large, sometimes from my own insecurities or desires, and sometimes that input is coming from the pit of hell itself. I get disoriented. I think up is down and down is up. I jerk my plane right and left to no avail. And sometimes I throw myself into the dreaded graveyard spiral. All because I am failing to fly by the instruments.

The conditions out there are bad. I can't do it on my own. These people who say "Just believe in yourself" . . . I just want to say that is bull****. I would use the actual word but some would be offended. But I call 'em like I see 'em. No. I will NOT believe in myself. I have no ability within myself to know when up is down and down is up. I can only trust in what doesn't fail. Ever.

God has given me an instrument panel. His very word. Truth. So when my emotions have run off with me, I have to stop and ask if I have taken my eyes off the dashboard. Sometimes I haven't and my heart just hurts because a lot of time life just hurts. But other times I have gotten myself into deep trouble because I am flying by the seat of my pants and trusting more in my own assessment of the situation than in what the instruments are saying.

Sure, there is pain in life. There are plenty of examples in the Bible of sadness and mourning and grief and anger. These are not wrong, in and of themselves. But there are also plenty of places where we are told NOT to fret, NOT to fear, NOT to worry. When I find myself doing just that, I'm not trusting the instrument panel.

So the next time my emotions run off without me and send me into a graveyard spiral toward the pit of despair, I need to stop and focus on the instrument panel. What is God saying about this? Where is the gospel in this situation? What is true? Maybe that is what Paul means when he tells us to "think on these things" (Phil.4:8).

We cannot trust our own perceptions and what seems right. That will prove disastrous every single time. Praise God he has provided a better way.

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The Slippery Slope of Doom

Last Thursday I crossed a Rubicon of sorts. Until then I could still say that I was closer to 49 than I was to 50. Not anymore. I have crested the hill and am headed, lock, stock and barrel, full speed ahead down that Slippery Slope of Doom.

I haven't always dreaded aging so. Being the youngest of four siblings, I spent at least a couple of decades just trying to catch up with everybody else. Now I've turned and I'm trying to run back the other way, fast as I can, and it isn't working.

I entered adulthood still lookin' like a kid. So did my husband. People pointed and giggled when we were on our honeymoon and even after we had a couple of kids, people assumed we were just babysitting. Then something happened. I call that something THIRTY.

I remember quite well the day I realized where this aging thing was heading, and I didn't like it one bit. It was February 1994. I was sprawled out on the bed watching the Winter Olympics while Baby #3 did jumping jacks on my bladder and the rhumba on my sciatic nerve. The varicose veins throbbed to the rhythm of it all while there, right there on the television before me, were athletes. Skiers were skiing, and skaters were skating, and bobsledders were bobbing, and all over the place these sleek, fit, attractive athletes were doing all sorts of stuff that young people dream of doing one day when they grow up. And I was just lying there like a hormonally infused Jabba the Hut and it hit me. "I'll never do that." It was the technicolor thought balloon of reality speaking. "I'll never do that." There it was again. I wasn't a kid anymore. I was a 30 year-old mother of soon-to-be three children and my body was plum tired. All that dreaming of "someday" and those somedays had come and gone. Sigh. I was old.

That was over nineteen years ago and now I am even older. Time has marched on, without any orders from me, leaving its tracks all over my body, my mind and my soul. I waved goodbye to my uterus, watched in disbelief as my muscles turned to Jell-O, and sent out an APB when my hormones skipped town in cahoots with my brain cells. I don't like it. Not one bit.

Ours is not a society that embraces aging. It's just not ok to get old. And it is out and out wrong to LOOK old. The ads, oh the ADS. "How does Katie Holmes look so young? Find out her secret!" Katie Holmes looks young because she IS young, you idiots! Even "More," the women's magazine that targets the over-40 crowd, lauded some star who is "62 and still looking great in a bikini." When will it ever stop? No. When will I stop? When will I realize that it is OK to quit working and striving and trying so hard to be something that I haven't been for decades?

God tells us that there are good things in growing old. Even gray hair is considered a crown rather than a rag of shame. But the physical is the least of it. With age comes experience and wisdom and perspective and, strangely enough, humility. With age comes the good stuff. I guess that I don't have to dread that after all.

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Zeal Without Knowledge

I have been on Facebook for 5+ years now. When I started out, Facebook seemed like a great place to reconnect with old friends, keep tabs on current ones, and spy on your teenagers. I discovered the status update feature and I fell in love. "Ginny Wilson Barker was attacked by a bag of frozen blueberries" and the like became the carefree and fun-filled banter of the day. They added the comment option to the status update and the fun took off, big time. I could connect with others via this level of informal chit chat and not feel so isolated in my work-from-home-if-I-have-work-at-all (this was about the time that the housing bubble burst) lifestyle.

But somewhere, somehow, things have spun out of control. No longer is Facebook a place for mutual encouragement and humorous wordplay. It has become a living, breathing bumper sticker theme park of warring factions and political and cultural agendas and there are days when I cannot stand it any more.

The divisions are huge now. The divide is wide. This doesn't just apply to politics. It applies to just about any and every decision you can make about your life and the lives of those you love. People will go toe to toe, fight tooth and nail, and go so far as to insunuate evil intention or pure old home-grown ignorance or laziness on the part of those who disagree. . . or who just don't care to jump on their particular bandwagon.

It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way. — Proverbs 19:2

Just today someone posted one of those photos on Facebook. It is of the back of a t-shirt with this gracious little ditty: "I take Aspirin for the headache caused by the Zyrtec I take for the hayfever I got from Relenza from the uneasy stomach from the Ritalin I take for the short attention span caused by the Scopederm Ts I take for the motion sickness I got from the Lomotil I take for the diarrhea caused by the Zenikal for the uncontrolled weight gain from the Paxil I take for the anxiety from the Zocor I take for my high cholesterol because exercise, a good diet, and regular chiropractic care are just too much trouble."

I understand the premise: We take too many meds to treat what ails us instead of choosing a healthier lifestyle. That may be true for a certain segment of the population. That may be true with certain conditions. But this very statement is a slap in the face for many people who live very healthy lifestyles and still, STILL need medication for one issue or another. The insinuation that people who take medication are just plain dumb and/or lazy is downright arrogant in its zeal without knowledge.

I have had to learn the hard way that there are very few bandwagons worth jumping on and that most people do what they do and believe what they believe for a reason. I know I have offended others with my hasty posts and I have had to ask forgiveness for airing my opinions rather than speaking the truth in love. 

We live in a world of zeal without knowledge because we are finite and cannot know everything. We cannot even know most things. Tomorrow, the tide may turn. The news may change. The evidence to support our choices may prove faulty. We might find we were wrong. There is so very little trustworthy information out there. Where will we put our trust?

We must hold to our earthly sensibilities humbly and loosely, and cling to what we know.

Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. — 1 Timothy 1:15

That is good news, indeed. And news worthy of our zeal.

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Brainless Wonder

Yep! That's me. A brainless wonder. I don't know how it happened really, I just know it did. It may not be fair but I blame it on my kids. Best I can tell, each time I gave birth it cut my IQ in half. Four kids later and I probably shouldn't qualify for a drivers license.

I wasn't always this way. In years past, like really way past, I was the smart one. My older sisters were pretty and popular but I was just smart. My favorite toy was our set of World Book Encyclopedias, 1965 edition. I would just pick up off the shelf and sit there for hours, poring over maps and charts and lapping up facts to my heart's content.

Of course, I spent my high school years making no use whatsoever of my gray matter, but I did manage to dig it out of the closet in college when I took to memorizing scripture, lots and lots of it. So much so that I was told nobody would ask me out on a date because my Bible knowledge intimidated them. This was not the result I was going for, I can assure you. God, in His goodness, eventually sent me a husband anyway.

But then something happened. I think it started around the time I got pregnant but, to be honest, I can't remember. That is just the problem. I can't remember anything and haven't been able to for well over 20 years. Basic grammar? Gone!  Four years of college? Gone! Those Bible verses? Gone!

I know the real reason has something to do with oxytocin (AKA the "dumb" hormone). From what I was told, some women eventually get their brains back after the childbearing years are over and, well, some don't. I just assumed that my brain cells were sucked out during year after year after year of breastfeeding and that those missing brain cells are safely parked inside my offspring who, for their teenage years, assumed I was an idiot.

No, I never did get my brain back. Things have only gotten worse. I have gone so far as to look up signs of early onset Alzheimer's. I read recently that the only symptom of menopause to be documented across every culture and ethnic group is memory problems. The only menopausal symptom that cannot be remedied by hormone replacement therapy? Yep, memory problems. I think it is hopeless.

But at least I'm not alone. My husband is getting there, too. One day we came out of Wal-Mart and couldn't find our car. Every single car in the lot was either silver or gold or white. We stumbled around aimlessly for what seemed like hours, like a couple of old codgers freshly escaped from the dementia unit. WE ARE NOT EVEN FIFTY!

Oh, well. I guess part of growing up and growing old is making do with what you got....or don't got, in my case. I read the Bible. I really do. I just can't tell you a couple hours later what I just read anymore.

Whenever I begin to despair, one of the few verses I still remember is what the Psalmist says in Psalm 119:11, "I have hidden your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you." I am thankful that I can still hide God's word in my heart, because I certainly don't have a brain.

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Good Friday Balm

Yesterday was a rough day. Nothing in particular happened but the same old guilt reared its ugly head. I ended the day feeling like a total failure. Condemned for what I hadn't done and the mother I hadn't been. Despair set in. Despair I couldn't shake.

In the middle of the night I was wrestling with God. One more day of not being who He made me to be or doing what He called me to do? How much more would he put up with? There must be a limit. But wait. . .

"His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. . ." — Lamentations 3:22-23

And indeed they are new every morning. My brilliant and insightful friend Rebecca (who will always have a place in my heart for driving my husband home from work when I was in labor with my 4th child. . . he was going to WALK the 45 minutes home) apparently woke up this morning with the same struggle. Facing another day of failure.

You can read her blog post here. Her cry is my cry.

"I'm going to fail. Father, show me! Please show me that you will love me, even when I fail today. Make me believe it."

She brought the truth of Good Friday to me on the day that I needed it most. And that is good news and balm for my soul.

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Coping (HA!) Strategies

I asked on my Facebook page what people wanted me to blog about and somebody mentioned the stressors of new parenthood and coping strategies. Coping? You funny! I am sure that those other mothers, the ones with standards and ideals and skills laughed at what I considered coping as they compared their serene little cherubs to my shrieking monkeys. . . but yes, I guess I did cope in my own way. These aren't the tips you will find in most parenting blogs or Martha Stewart magazines but they worked for me. We are all still alive on the planet, after all.

1.) Sleeping: I do not want to start a debate here (remember, this is what worked FOR ME) but I would not have made it past 6 weeks of parenthood without pulling my baby in bed to nurse. The first night home from the hospital with her I sat up in a freezing bedroom with a nasty cold and a throbbing caesarean incision and thought if I had to do this every night I would surely die. Once I figured out the lying down and nursing thing it all fell into place. Sure my kids had cribs and sometimes they actually slept in them, but for the most part, my nursing babies nursed and slept right next to me and so we all got much needed sleep.

The older kids would still wander in on occasion to join the party with the baby so, after our hand-me-down queen size mattress died (see Fit For a Queen?), Matt and I put two twin mattress together to form what seemed to be about an acre of sleeping space. It was not uncommon to wake up to several kids asleep between us, piled up like puppies. Some may cluck their tongues and shake their heads but, hey, it worked.

2.) Walking: I get incredibly stir crazy. Thankfully, we had the privilege of living in walkable neighborhoods for the first 15 years of parenthood. Almost every single day I would toss however many babies I had in the stroller and go. One baby, easy. Two babies, no problem. Double strollers rock! Three kiddos? Sure, why not. You just lay down the back seat of the double stroller and you can fit two back there. Four? Yep, I did that, too. You lay down BOTH seats and just line 'em up. Yes, by the time my youngest was born, my oldest was 6 and others shuddered and thought she should be required to walk. Are you nuts? I needed exercise! Endorphins! (Besides, when she walked, she made turtles look like Olympic sprinters.) If the daily walk met with resistance from the peanut gallery, I would bribe them all with the tantalizing treat of a "Little Round Thingy,"—more commonly known as a York Peppermint Patty—from the local convenience store. There came a point when the combined weight of the four children plus the uber-sturdy stroller was more than I weighed myself but, man! I was in good shape.

3.) Libraries and books: And books and books and books. We read constantly. Not a lot else got done but we read—and lost—more library books that you can imagine. A few books even got baths. Maybe I should say we read and lost and BOUGHT more library books than you can imagine.

4.) Appliance boxes: There is nothing to compare to the appliance box for absolute fascination and joy for hours and days. Whenever I would see an appliance delivery truck in the neighborhood I would leave the kids to whatever mischief they were up to, chase down the delivery man, and drag home the Toy of the Century. Throw in some markers and a steak knife or two for sawing and you have danger and adventure all in one. This house, school, train, car, hospital, zoo. . . or whatever they turned it into, was good for several days until it was so beaten down and flattened there was no vertical function left at all. At that point the slab of cardboard went into secondary toy mode (told you it was the Toy of the Century) as a slide. We had a two-story house and there is nothing like sledding down a flight of old, hardwood stairs on a cardboard toboggan. (Unless it is sledding down stairs inside a sleeping bag or a pillow case. Those work, too!)

5.) Goals: Or maybe I should say GOAL. I only had one. Getting through each day. I know there is an awful lot out there about training up your children and teaching them important things and such but I have to admit that, FOR ME, rightly or wrongly, getting through each day (and some days seemed to last FOREVER) was a challenge in and of itself. Any special meals other than pancakes or spaghetti or cereal over and over and over again, any enriching activities, any educational opportunities, and any teachable moments were just icing on the day-in-and-day-out cake.

I know that doesn't sound like much. I know I maybe should have aspired for something more. But I was in WAY over my head. God was merciful to me. He still is.

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One Lost Wagon Wheel

Some posts you have to write, not because of any moral issue or spiritual truth or heartfelt confession, but because something really, really bugs you and you've got to get it off your chest.

Old Crow Medicine Show has a song named "Wagon Wheel." (Darius Rucker just released his own cover of it, which was a really bad idea, but I digress.) It is everything bluegrass and folk and homespun that I love, plus it includes references to places I know. It is a regional song and that warms my heart. But there is something about this song that drives me positively mad. It is geographically inaccurate.

Now I am not the nitpicky type of person. I am more of a big picture, wing-it, seat-of-my-pants soul. This causes my husband to tremble when I pick up a paint brush or offer to finish sheetrock. When it comes to sewing, I give zig-zag a whole new meaning. And you should see my desk!

But there is one place where I am a real stickler, and that is with the facts. I see factual errors everywhere. I would probably see more factual errors if I knew more facts. Geographical facts are my big pet peeve. Enter "Wagon Wheel."

OK, you've got this fellow up in New England and he is wanting to see his honey who is down in Raleigh so he sets out to hitchhike down there. According to my Google Maps, a trip from Boston, for example, to Raleigh is 704 miles and should take 12 hours and 22 minutes, but seeing how this dude is thumbing it down the road, I think 17 hours is pretty good time. 

We know that he is on foot a bit because he tells us that he is "walking to the south out of Roanoke." Best I can figure he has to be talking about Roanoke Rapids, NC. He already said he "made it down the coast in 17 hours" and Roanoke, VA is clear on the western side of the state and nowhere near the coast. So let's assume that he just left the Rapids part of the town name off for syntax purposes. It makes perfect sense that that is where he is, given that Roanoke Rapids is just 90 miles northeast of Raleigh. He's GONNA see his baby tonight.

But here is the problem. He meets this trucker. He has a "nice long toke." Perhaps it scrambled his brains. Or maybe the people writing the song just didn't know what they were talking about. "But he's a headed west from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City, Tennessee." 

Now anybody who knows anything about the region knows that the Cumberland Gap and Roanoke Rapids, NC are miles and miles away. A full 400+ miles, in fact. There is no way, unless the trucker himself had had a nice long toke, that anybody should be in eastern North Carolina, thinking they were at the Cumberland Gap.

To make matters worse, he says he was headed WEST from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City. You don't get to Johnson City by heading west, you get to Middlesboro, KY (which has a Taco Bell, by the way). You have to go EAST from the Cumberland Gap and continue through beautiful and historically Melungeon-filled country for a good 100+ miles to get to Johnson City.

Sheesh people! There are these things called maps. Pick one up before you write a hit song. If you don't, you are going to have one lost wagon wheel.

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