fever pitch

When I began a social media fast nearly ten days ago, I honestly thought I'd spend time writing and writing and writing. That's not what happened though.

I did rediscover my habit of writing in my journal—with pen and actual paper. I'd accidentally let it go in the move when the journal got packed and I couldn't find it for like eight months. I guess I could have/should have started a new journal, but I didn't. It's been nice to reflect each evening on the day's events without any thought of what other people think except for whenever I die. That'll be fun. Or maybe it'll all end up in the garbage. Who even knows.

So anyway. I wrote in my journal. I thought about writing stuff. I even began a quick jotting down of the beginning of a romance novel I am considering writing, but there certainly could have been more time and effort put into that quick jotting down.

Oh, and I played a ton of crossword puzzle games with people. I decided that wasn't part of anything potentially wounding my soul, so I had some fun there. I was reminded how much I love words and word games. So very fun! But I digress.

You know what I really thought would happen? That I'd burn through the completion of my dad's book I'm writing due to be published in DECEMBER. Let's just not talk about how I did absolutely zero of that. Zero. I feel like panicking now even though that's not anything I was planning on discussing.

What I did do is get comfortable with quiet. I sat and thought about things I want to do. I missed sharing some of my thoughts about things I did and accomplished, but overall, the peace and quiet soaked right into my soul. I cancelled plans that ended up not mixing well with my quiet routine. I made fresh plans and did things that felt perfectly aligned with this quietness. I connected with friends and family in additional ways. Spending time thinking about and praying for my family helped me to connect.

I want to recognize that I am always reaching out to others and trying to be a genuine friend and loving family member. This social media fast just rerouted some of my pathways to continue being my caring self. And I loved it.

One of the most wonderful surprises from my social media fast is how I've enjoyed making time for family history work. I've chipped away at it here and there in the past, but this quietness opened up more room for me to get excited about it, to feel for my ancestors, and want to get to know them by connecting them on our family tree.

The intensity of it threw me off actually. I caught myself weeping when I'd see a baby's burial record. I cried allowed with deep sorrow when I first saw the record of one of my ancestors who had gotten divorced. The other divorce records I discovered were hard to bear too, but that first discovery hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt the sorrow within me as if I truly knew each of them. Much of my emotion can be chalked up to putting myself in their shoes and projecting my own experiences with life, but I cannot ignore how very connected I have become with many of the people I've discovered. I took time to read obituaries and birth and death records and various "memories" attached to records by very distant cousins and such.

At this point, I hardly want to slow this fever pitch created by quiet, loving work. Alas, I cannot clear my schedule of all else every single day forever; I do need to keep a job and take care of my children, who are part of this peace I've found. I intend to find ways to make space for this intense quiet. Because of it, I've found my new favorite hobby—loving my family.

things i didn't mean to do

Leave
Stay
Run
Sleep
Love
Hate
Reject
Blindly accept

Trust
Distrust
Cry
Smile
Forget
Backstab
Attack
Snort laugh

Stop to think of
The difference we can make
If we become aware
Intentional
Acting with purpose
We can change the outcome
Of our world
We can become more
Just by doing something differently

this [blank] year

While writing in my journal, I ended the page with, "I am glad this year is nearly over." I set down my pen and thought that I don't think I've written a truer sentence in my life. My next thought was about my word of the year: compassion. At the time, I didn't quite understand why that word found me and needed to be something I come back to throughout the year, but after writing that sentence in my journal, a flood of understanding came.

This year, 2018, has been one of enormous sacrifice and change. I realize how I needed to focus on having compassion for others, most importantly my children, but then also, I needed to focus on showing myself compassion. Many, many times over the past several months, I have stopped myself from pushing so hard to get over and out and through so many hard things. I have had to show myself some compassion and understanding as I lead my family through each new day filled with new challenges and changes. I have allowed myself to just be in these moments and stop worrying about what is so wrong. It just is. And it must be what we need to grow. Or that's what I tell myself.

All the sacrifice and change has been our story. It is truth. We are learning how to love and be loved by giving up things and moving ahead as our family changes. Our family is becoming more sacred to me as I live through and witness all we have come through, scathed and unscathed. It is awe inspiring when compassion and love are my focus.

When I think of this year so far, I could make a negative list of adjectives to describe it, yet I could also make a very positive list as well. However, I keep leaning toward the negative list like an old friend I can count on but who isn't a very good influence. Therefore, I won't even attempt to write out all the words to describe it because I really just want to say crappy and write a poem describing how utterly exhausting it has been and lie down and cry. But none of that! Because I've already done that and more, and it's time to turn that corner and not look back.

Can I just add how difficult it can be to show compassion to yourself? To let yourself slow down and not get things done and stop being the planner and doer and giver all the time? To let yourself heal and learn how to be happy again? It is really difficult. Or, at least, it has been for me.

I am genuinely glad this year is nearly done. I need to turn the page, and I feel very ready for the good things on the horizon, very, very ready.

cold turkey

When speaking about Dad with some of my brothers, we reminisced about the period of our lives when Dad was higher than a kite on pain killers. I'd bet good money just about all of my and my brothers' friends have the most off the wall stories about the bizarre and maladjusted garbage Dad would say and do. However, this story isn't about any of that, this story is about how Dad took control when everything about life was completely out of control.

There were some really hard times leading up to Dad kicking the pain killer habit no one blamed him for having. The man was completely broken from his work accident and in constant, grueling pain. But the hard times weren't just saying and doing some mean and stupid stuff. I'll never forget the night our bishop and home teacher (a friend from church) intervened in the middle of the night.

My parents were yelling at each other—like crazy. I don't know what it was about, but all of a sudden, right there in the living room, my dad had a gun to my mom, and I was freaking out. And then next thing I know, Jack Eggington is at the house and talking with my parents. The next thing that happened was the bishop coming over to haul off all of our guns until Dad could figure things out, I think. Mom had taken charge, leading the intervention, getting help, and working through very serious problems. She amazed me.

I'm not sure the span between the gun incident and when Dad realized what was going on with him, but my brother, Joseph, said there was a 60-Minutes segment on the addictive nature of painkillers or something of that nature, and that's when Dad realized that was his reality. He needed to get off his pain meds as soon as possible. He was in pain still, and the bit of relief from the pain wasn't worth the cost of his sanity and the safety of everyone around him.

Dad didn't go to the doctor to get help, no. He went into the medicine cabinet, got those bottles out, and dumped their contents 100% into the toilet, and flushed them all. And never looked back.

I recall there being a few days where my mom wouldn't let us go into their room, and I was encouraged to "go have fun" with friends. They needed some quiet, so Dad could get through the withdrawals. It wasn't easy—he was sick and in incredible amounts of pain—but he did it. Cold turkey.

I don't know many people who are that brave.

overcoming

I wonder if he was afraid. I never saw him showing fear, but that doesn't mean he wasn't feeling it. I'm pretty sure I get my sense of fearlessness and lack of ability to get fully embarrassed from him (maybe we should call it self-assurance?), so I wonder where he got it from.

My father grew up not really knowing his father. He told me once that the only real memory he had of his father was at the funeral where he was taught the lesson of how not to treat each other after the death of a family member by his father's family. They fought over possessions. My dad was the youngest of his family and he was given his father's shoeshine kit to remember him by.

But also, maybe the stories about his father from his older sister, Mona, helped give him some lessons on how to be. But maybe he inherited some of it—or all—from the West Texas towns of Ballinger and San Angelo.

Can the land we live in teach us things about ourselves? About what we are made of? The summer heat and the brutal societal upbringing taught Dad a few things. He learned how to starve and survive on Campbell's tomato soup and saltine crackers. As he got older, he learned to bow hunt from bows and arrows of his own making, shooting rabbits and other creatures to help feed his family. He learned about survival from the land he inhabited.

He faced challenges and troubles and sin. He battled against his upbringing and anger and lack of self-control. I am sure he struggled, as we all do, with feelings of great inadequacy. With every apology after an angry outburst, with every admission of his guilt and terrible side of himself, he showed his weakness and severe imperfection. Nevertheless, he didn't ever seem to be afraid.

I never saw a fearful look on my father's face—ever—until the night he lost my mother. I saw how much he loved her and feared being left without her companionship, her good influence, her calming and caring friendship and love. The poor boy from West Texas who had to fend for himself sat crying in his chair in the home they fought to establish for their family.

In his grieving time before he passed away, I saw how weak things become strong. I got to see him overcome many of his worst traits in his final days. He needed to have his life's comfort removed to know true courage. It takes a big man to face his sins, claim them, and work to make things right. He felt small and helpless and hurt in his final days, but I saw him as a warrior overcoming his worst self and someone I wanted to be like. He taught us all to not be afraid of saying we are sorry no matter if the person will forgive us. He taught us to not be afraid to keep trying even after the thousandth time repeating the same mistake. He taught us that anyone can overcome their circumstances and be their best self.

volunteer

This past month, I spent a couple of Sundays volunteering, so adult special needs residents at a state facility could attend church. Due to confidentiality laws, I can't really tell you all that went on, but I do want to share my thoughts surrounding the experience.

The first Sunday, there was a four-to-one ratio of volunteers to residents. Quite a sight to see. So much love and helping others. It was special. And then this second Sunday that I just attended, not so many people came to volunteer. And I began to consider how much I would hope others would volunteer if my special needs daughter outlives my ability to care for her and I need to seek help like at this facility.

My daughter loves music and singing and socializing in her way at church. She is so good that she doesn't need church for the same reasons most people do. But she loves it. It is something she can count on each week. I can't imagine her not being able to go just because not enough people volunteered or there was such a staff shortage that they couldn't leave the campus. My daughter deserves to have happiness even if I'm not around to facilitate or advocate for it.

Maybe I'm worrying too much about things I can't change. Maybe so. But it was all such a time for reflection to put myself in their shoes and see just how valuable a two-hour outing to church can be for some individuals. And they don't even need church like most people. They are so amazingly good. It showed me how everyone needs church for different reasons.

Maybe, if I start just a thought or some conversation about this worry, more people will reach out to give some time to the people who can't go places unless they have our help. Maybe I will remind myself to keep on finding ways to make my daughter's life better. Maybe I will find some comfort from my worries.