**This is a repost from my AUTHOR BLOG**
After more than a month of struggling with my concussion recovery, I've finally figured out what I am.
I'm a one year old with burned hands.
Just over 6 years ago, while I still had my day care in UT, I received a
phone call from one of my day care moms. "What do you do about burns?"
she asked.
The conversation evolved. Her sweet little girl, who I tended from her
first weeks of life, had put both hands on the hot barbecue grill while
Dad was cooking outside. Both of her hands suffered second and in some
places third degree burns. They took her to the local hospital where her
hands were treated and then tightly bound.
The next time I saw her with her mummified hands, it was all I could do
to keep from crying. I love that little girl so much. She stole a piece
of my heart and has carried it around with her all this time. But back
then, we had practical issues to figure out.
Remember I tended her every day. She was just over a year old, an early
walker, and fiercely, FIERCELY independent. She wouldn't let me hold the
bottle for her. She figured out how to do it herself. She wouldn't let
me feed her. She had to do it herself, or she'd really get testy.
Mind you, there are certain things you just can't explain to a one year
old. Like how she should relax and let people do things for her while
she healed.
I wasn't long before her parents took her to the children's hospital
where they were given proper care instructions for letting her hands
heal. That involved changing the dressing at least three times a day.
When I had her, I did it twice a day and her parents did the rest. We
were in this together--doing everything we could to help her heal. (I
want to add here that she did heal with almost zero scarring and full
use of both hands)
It took weeks. She adapted to her new reality and dealt with it as best she could--but she was still a baby and did too much.
And now we're back to me and my "post concussion syndrome." I've
struggled with my new reality, tried to keep doing regular things, and
tried to adapt to my new limitations.
In doing so I've learned that one year old baby was not the only
fiercely independent girl in the equation. My injuries aren't visible,
and you can't see them, and I know that makes it harder for people to be
patient about them.
Still, for all intents and purposes, I am a one year old child with burned hands.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Sunday, July 26, 2015
The Dialogue That Needs to Change
*Disclaimer* These are my thoughts based on my own personal train ride. Yours will, and probably are, different. But that doesn't invalidate mine. This is going to be pretty raw, so if you've a weak stomach, you may want to skip this post.
I am not a victim of depression. I refuse to be labeled with the term victim--because, to me, it means that I am helpless to control my circumstances or my reactions to them. That is simply not true. I was a victim of an armed robbery--to a point. I am not a victim of depression.
I was diagnosed with depression at age 16. Growing up was kind of rough and it affected me deeply, profoundly, in ways that I could not control. My doctors put me on medication and I balanced out a bit. The medication came after the suicide note, the realization that I could not make myself better, and the asking for help.
I was lucky--and I don't deny it. Too many kids don't ask for the help they need because of the negative way depression is characterized in our nation. They either don't recognize what they're going through for what it is, or they are too afraid to voice it aloud because of what people will think of them. Or they fall into the trap of believing that they can just "get better" on their own.
I'm here to tell you that it doesn't happen that way. I've struggled with depression for 23 years. There have been good bouts, long stretches where I'm doing pretty good, and other moments where I have considered blowing my brains out. I'm not exaggerating--rather, I wish I was. In dark moments I imagine the sweet relief that would come from ending it all. In dark moments I think that my loved ones would be better off without me dragging them down. That they don't need me, or that they would be far better off without me.
But I can't talk to anybody about those moments because they're scary. I tried once, to open up to my husband about how those thoughts do creep into my mind. It freaked him out, rightly so, but it confirmed my harbored suspicions that this was not a 'safe' topic that we could discuss. We can talk about our kids, the right and wrong choices we've made, we can over-analyze to death everything else in our lives.
I cannot talk about the Darkness. Darkness is off limits.
And while I understand why, because it *is* frightening to hear someone you love occasionally entertains thoughts of suicide--even for a fleeting instant. We all know that no action comes without first being a thought.
Before you freak out too, let me clarify. My life is beautiful. I love my life. But for me, and I suspect millions like me, Darkness will ALWAYS be there. When things get super challenging, or we face yet another huge life upheaval, Darkness is there, whispering, taunting, urging. It was there when I lost my baby. It was there when I got my first publishing contract--on the heels of foreclosure. It was there for that year and a half we crammed our family of 7 into half of a duplex and I felt like a colossal failure as a wife, mother, and provider. It's there now, looking at my two beat up cars and a future of part time jobs and schooling, near adult children, and not knowing when I can provide better transportation--or if the cars we have will last long enough for me to save the money.
Darkness is there. In all of us, really. It's just got a louder voice in some than in others. Here's the dialogue that needs to change.
People, individuals, those you love, need to know that they have a safe place where they can express even their darkest thoughts without judgment. Without condemnation. Sometimes we just need to get them out. Darkness is less scary when exposed to light.
We need someone to talk to. We need coping skills for when the Darkness speaks. When I'm having a good day, it's easy for me to tell the Darkness to shut up and go away. When I'm having a bad day, the Darkness's whisperings are comforting and difficult to pull away from. It would be great to have a therapist, or a psychologist, to meet with once a week or so and talk it out. But not everyone can afford that, and many insurances don't cover it, or enough of it.
We need to talk about depression. We need to be open about the fact that we can't control the Darkness--it's there, inside of us. All we can control is how we react to the Darkness, and, sometimes, we can't even control that.
I don't talk about my depression much. I don't admit to people that I'm on medication for it. I'm a private person, and I don't feel it's anyone's business. But, again, that's part of the problem. If we always keep it a secret then we risk missing opportunities to help one another.
Denying the Darkness, trying to pretend it doesn't exist, is exhausting. Eventually we just can't run anymore, so people choose to turn and embrace it instead. So many of us are afraid that if we share the deepest parts of ourselves, those we love will turn away. They will leave us. They will prove our darkest fears true.
We aren't freaks. We aren't losers. We can't just pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and soldier on. We are wives, mothers, fathers, husbands, parents, children, doctors, lawyers, writers, artists. We are neighbors, friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings. We are worthy. We have value.
Sometimes we struggle to get out of bed. At all. Sometimes we struggle to go to work. Sometimes we struggle to have a conversation. But we are intrinsically tied to your human experience. We are family. We are part of you. We are you. We.
I am not a victim of depression. I refuse to be labeled with the term victim--because, to me, it means that I am helpless to control my circumstances or my reactions to them. That is simply not true. I was a victim of an armed robbery--to a point. I am not a victim of depression.
I was diagnosed with depression at age 16. Growing up was kind of rough and it affected me deeply, profoundly, in ways that I could not control. My doctors put me on medication and I balanced out a bit. The medication came after the suicide note, the realization that I could not make myself better, and the asking for help.
I was lucky--and I don't deny it. Too many kids don't ask for the help they need because of the negative way depression is characterized in our nation. They either don't recognize what they're going through for what it is, or they are too afraid to voice it aloud because of what people will think of them. Or they fall into the trap of believing that they can just "get better" on their own.
I'm here to tell you that it doesn't happen that way. I've struggled with depression for 23 years. There have been good bouts, long stretches where I'm doing pretty good, and other moments where I have considered blowing my brains out. I'm not exaggerating--rather, I wish I was. In dark moments I imagine the sweet relief that would come from ending it all. In dark moments I think that my loved ones would be better off without me dragging them down. That they don't need me, or that they would be far better off without me.
But I can't talk to anybody about those moments because they're scary. I tried once, to open up to my husband about how those thoughts do creep into my mind. It freaked him out, rightly so, but it confirmed my harbored suspicions that this was not a 'safe' topic that we could discuss. We can talk about our kids, the right and wrong choices we've made, we can over-analyze to death everything else in our lives.
I cannot talk about the Darkness. Darkness is off limits.
And while I understand why, because it *is* frightening to hear someone you love occasionally entertains thoughts of suicide--even for a fleeting instant. We all know that no action comes without first being a thought.
Before you freak out too, let me clarify. My life is beautiful. I love my life. But for me, and I suspect millions like me, Darkness will ALWAYS be there. When things get super challenging, or we face yet another huge life upheaval, Darkness is there, whispering, taunting, urging. It was there when I lost my baby. It was there when I got my first publishing contract--on the heels of foreclosure. It was there for that year and a half we crammed our family of 7 into half of a duplex and I felt like a colossal failure as a wife, mother, and provider. It's there now, looking at my two beat up cars and a future of part time jobs and schooling, near adult children, and not knowing when I can provide better transportation--or if the cars we have will last long enough for me to save the money.
Darkness is there. In all of us, really. It's just got a louder voice in some than in others. Here's the dialogue that needs to change.
People, individuals, those you love, need to know that they have a safe place where they can express even their darkest thoughts without judgment. Without condemnation. Sometimes we just need to get them out. Darkness is less scary when exposed to light.
We need someone to talk to. We need coping skills for when the Darkness speaks. When I'm having a good day, it's easy for me to tell the Darkness to shut up and go away. When I'm having a bad day, the Darkness's whisperings are comforting and difficult to pull away from. It would be great to have a therapist, or a psychologist, to meet with once a week or so and talk it out. But not everyone can afford that, and many insurances don't cover it, or enough of it.
We need to talk about depression. We need to be open about the fact that we can't control the Darkness--it's there, inside of us. All we can control is how we react to the Darkness, and, sometimes, we can't even control that.
I don't talk about my depression much. I don't admit to people that I'm on medication for it. I'm a private person, and I don't feel it's anyone's business. But, again, that's part of the problem. If we always keep it a secret then we risk missing opportunities to help one another.
Denying the Darkness, trying to pretend it doesn't exist, is exhausting. Eventually we just can't run anymore, so people choose to turn and embrace it instead. So many of us are afraid that if we share the deepest parts of ourselves, those we love will turn away. They will leave us. They will prove our darkest fears true.
We aren't freaks. We aren't losers. We can't just pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and soldier on. We are wives, mothers, fathers, husbands, parents, children, doctors, lawyers, writers, artists. We are neighbors, friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings. We are worthy. We have value.
Sometimes we struggle to get out of bed. At all. Sometimes we struggle to go to work. Sometimes we struggle to have a conversation. But we are intrinsically tied to your human experience. We are family. We are part of you. We are you. We.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
At Sixes and Sevens
Stress is a killer. We all know this. But, I think we tend to underestimate the many, many ways stress wreaks havoc with your life.
Bryan lost his job at the end of April. He got another one right away, so I didn't worry too much. But then they kept stringing him along, taking their time, and then ultimately said no thanks. After almost a month of thinking he'd be starting any day now, he found out he needed to keep looking.
That really shook his confidence, as did the "thank, but no thanks" rejections he got from two other places. So, at the end of two months, he was still jobless, still waiting to hear on applications, still whittling down his options--and trying to figure out how never to be in this situation again. Because you know, if you've followed our story at all, that this happens every few years. And it totally stinks.
Right after he lost his job I got sick. Stress. Then, just when I was thinking I needed to start job hunting myself, I got sick again. That was about the same time he got the official *no* from the first place. After I got better, I put in applications. Then my grandma died, and my brother paid for me to go out for the funeral. I got the first interview call while I was in Utah, and had to explain to a total stranger why I couldn't make the interview that day.
Contrary to Bryan's experience, I've been offered every job I've applied for so far. I had to turn down the video store job when being there gave me a continual creeped out feeling. Not a good indicator for a job. Then I worked at the second place for about three or four days, if you count the day they sent me home because their computer systems didn't recognize me as an employee yet. I can only describe that incident as soul-sucking. It felt damaging to even be there. I'm still piecing that together in my mind. But I only quit AFTER I got another, part time, job cleaning 3 nights a week.
Today, I got another call for an interview for a full time day job. I'm going for it. We need it. Bryan and the boys are working part time at a ranch, which is great (right now anything is great), but it's not enough to sustain the family. We've lost our car. The other two cars aren't going to last much longer. The dogs need their shots. Things are basically falling apart.
All of this chaos has wreaked havoc with my creativity. I want so badly to be writing, but the stress is killing me. I'm speeding headlong into my deadlines with nothing to show for it. And I don't know how to get back on the wagon. I'd been doing so well these last months--finishing projects, getting edits done, publishing completed works. And now I'm stagnate. I haven't done anything since I finished the edits on Birthright and put it up on Kindle Scout. I don't know how to reactivate my writer mojo.
I know that you know that I'd rather be writing and publishing. But, right now, those pesky survival needs come first. We've got to pay rent, utilities, keep our kids clothed and fed, etc. I haven't given up on my writing, but for a while it may have to take a back seat. Again.
And that really hurts my heart.
Bryan lost his job at the end of April. He got another one right away, so I didn't worry too much. But then they kept stringing him along, taking their time, and then ultimately said no thanks. After almost a month of thinking he'd be starting any day now, he found out he needed to keep looking.
That really shook his confidence, as did the "thank, but no thanks" rejections he got from two other places. So, at the end of two months, he was still jobless, still waiting to hear on applications, still whittling down his options--and trying to figure out how never to be in this situation again. Because you know, if you've followed our story at all, that this happens every few years. And it totally stinks.
Right after he lost his job I got sick. Stress. Then, just when I was thinking I needed to start job hunting myself, I got sick again. That was about the same time he got the official *no* from the first place. After I got better, I put in applications. Then my grandma died, and my brother paid for me to go out for the funeral. I got the first interview call while I was in Utah, and had to explain to a total stranger why I couldn't make the interview that day.
Contrary to Bryan's experience, I've been offered every job I've applied for so far. I had to turn down the video store job when being there gave me a continual creeped out feeling. Not a good indicator for a job. Then I worked at the second place for about three or four days, if you count the day they sent me home because their computer systems didn't recognize me as an employee yet. I can only describe that incident as soul-sucking. It felt damaging to even be there. I'm still piecing that together in my mind. But I only quit AFTER I got another, part time, job cleaning 3 nights a week.
Today, I got another call for an interview for a full time day job. I'm going for it. We need it. Bryan and the boys are working part time at a ranch, which is great (right now anything is great), but it's not enough to sustain the family. We've lost our car. The other two cars aren't going to last much longer. The dogs need their shots. Things are basically falling apart.
All of this chaos has wreaked havoc with my creativity. I want so badly to be writing, but the stress is killing me. I'm speeding headlong into my deadlines with nothing to show for it. And I don't know how to get back on the wagon. I'd been doing so well these last months--finishing projects, getting edits done, publishing completed works. And now I'm stagnate. I haven't done anything since I finished the edits on Birthright and put it up on Kindle Scout. I don't know how to reactivate my writer mojo.
I know that you know that I'd rather be writing and publishing. But, right now, those pesky survival needs come first. We've got to pay rent, utilities, keep our kids clothed and fed, etc. I haven't given up on my writing, but for a while it may have to take a back seat. Again.
And that really hurts my heart.
Jobs
I quit a job last week. Pretty sure I know what you’re thinking.
How could I quit a job when I was the only one working?! After 2 months of
unemployment? I got a job, barely gave it a chance, and quit.
The good news is I got another job, which is why I quit the
first job.
Have you ever worked at a place that made you sad just to go
inside? I’m not even sure I can properly explain the way it made me feel to go
to work, or plan to go to work, or get ready for work, or think about going to
work.
It wasn’t the job itself—everything they asked me to do I
was willing to do, and I did it. I worked hard. Tuesday I was stocking and
facing shelves. Nothing I haven’t done before. It’s not like I felt like the
job was beneath me—when your family is struggling to make ends meet you’d be
surprised what you’re willing to do. I guess I’d have to put it down to the
atmosphere. I knew when I took the job that it was wrong for me. One might argue, if I knew that, why did I take the
job in the first place? I didn’t have to accept it. Again, family needs, dire
straits, no job for over 2 months.
I kept my ear out, my applications moving. I looked into
every alternative I had, and one quickly presented itself. When I got that job
(the second one), I was so relieved tears
came to my eyes. I’m not even exaggerating.
Sometimes you have to go through a situation in order to
learn how deeply you feel about it—for good or bad. I had no idea I was so
deeply opposed to working for this company until I accepted a job from them.
Are they evil? No. Are they bad? Not that I found. I just knew with every fiber
of my being that the job was wrong for me. I wish I understood why, exactly.
I’m still trying to work it all out in my head.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
My Grandmother
That must have been a wonderful heavenly reunion, when she was reunited with her son, my father, who died in 1983. Alfred James Rohan was born April 22, 1941 and died May 9, 1983. He was her first born.
Now, I'm not going to run through the entire family history because let's be honest, I have no idea of all the details. I wasn't even born until 1975. I do know my grandmother married quite young, had three children, and then divorced. She met my grandfather, Walter Charles Rohan, and it was my dad who asked him when he was going to marry his mom. Walt formally adopted Ella's three kids, which is why my maiden name is Rohan. I was 16 when I learned that I wasn't a Rohan (descended from royalty, btw) by birth, but by adoption. :)
Grandma took care of Grandpa during multiple health crises, often giving up church service and attendance opportunities to care for him. He died December 23, 2003, at age 90. They were good together and I loved them both very much.
It wasn't weird to me, growing up, that I had two sets of grandparents. Everybody did. It wasn't until I was an adult that I recognized the strength, caring, love, and openness that it took for the adults in my life to maintain family relationships after my parents' divorce. We got care packages from Grandma and Grandpa every Christmas, full of treats and gifts. Grandma made me dresses, skirts and blouses, hand crafted crochet items, hand made bead and wood curios, and sketches and drawings. I grew up thinking my grandma could make anything, do anything, and at her funeral my aunt only confirmed that. She said, "My mom could do everything but two things--drive and knit."
Ella never drove. She never learned. She relied on Walt to drive them anywhere until his eyes got bad, and then her kids stepped up. She loved music and art, could play the organ and the piano, and sing like an angel. I have many fond memories of Grandma at the piano, but even fonder memories of her at the organ.
She was always loving and welcoming to us whenever we visited. She never differentiated between my mother, her ex daughter-in-law, and her other kids. She talked of my dad often. I never, ever doubted their love for us. Ever. She was uber supportive of my writing and always bought books to distribute to family, as much as she was financially able.
Grandma lived a full life, and she went quickly. She didn't linger or suffer, which is a blessing. I was really okay with her passing, even though I will miss her presence in my life. I did really well during the viewing--until the closed the casket. Then it became final. Real. And I started bawling. We didn't really do a traditional funeral for grandma, but a viewing and then brief graveside service. Grandma's favorite hymns were part of the graveside service, we sang at the direction of my incredibly talented aunt Lori, Grandma's youngest daughter. And I couldn't contain the emotions that welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks.
Grandma always struck me as being very private about her own life. And the details that slipped through the family cracks are how many sibling she had, where her parents were buried, anything about her parents at all, or her nieces and nephews. I met a bunch of them at the funeral and I'm counting that as another blessing, another gift Grandma left me. I was able to take pics of my great-grandparents' headstones for our family history, and I got to reconnect with that side of the family. It even led to a job lead for Bryan (we've been unemployed since the end of April), another blessing. Another gift.
Yesterday was a beautiful, spiritual, emotional day. And I'm so grateful that I was able to come. I only wish I could have brought the entire family along.
Goodbye, Grandma. Thank you for being incredible. You've left a legacy in which I think you can find joy.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Because She's REAL
You know what? Sometimes my daughter screws up. And because she tends to lead a dramatic life, she screws up in epic proportions. But I guess I missed the memo that says all of our interpersonal interactions have to be perfect.
You're not going to get that from me, either.
Each of us only sees a fraction of what our friends and loved ones go through. Think about it. Even when you spend hours a week with someone, there are still hours and hours that you're not there, and these may be the hours that they are most themselves.
My daughter is working on her filter--that thing that tells us there are some things we can't say or do in public, or to other people. She hasn't fully developed it yet. And yes, I have wondered how she can be part loving human and part sociopath.
What I've figured out? SHE'S A TEENAGE GIRL.
I'm not blind. I know that's not the end of it. I've had more calls about this child than all of my others combined. I know she's got issues. And you know what? She knows it too. SHE STRUGGLES. EVERY DAY. And we do, too. Constantly being there for her is exhausting. But I'm not going to quit because it's hard. She's my daughter. I don't get to quit. I don't even want to. No matter what, I'm going to have her back.
Fitting in is hard for her. She longs for acceptance and adoration, she longs to shine. But other people are better at shining than she is, so she gets hurt. And then she messes up--by lashing out, by being cruel, by doing all those things she should have learned by now NOT TO DO. And yes, I wonder how I can have 4 incredibly impressive, well behaved kids and then this one that struggles with maintaining friendships, getting along in school, church, and elsewhere, and constantly says and does the wrong thing.
Her mistakes don't make her less than. And yes, she's very tender and gets hurt easily. I'm sorry that it's inconvenient for you. I'm sorry that her mistakes interrupt your plans, your schedule, or make more work for you. I truly am. I don't want my child to make things harder for others.
It's not like we don't talk to her. Heavens, we have heart to hearts with her more than any of our other kids. We pray over her. She gets blessings. We work with her, actively, ALL THE TIME. And when she falls short we feel it. Deeply. Keenly. Because it feels like we're failing at teaching her what she needs to know.
I've considered the equivalent of shutting her up in the tower until she's mature enough to handle life, but guess what? That's not going to teach her anything. Experience has taught that we learn more from our mistakes than from our successes. So think of it this way: she's REALLY learning a lot.
But here's where I'm going to stick up for her, because when she looks me in the eyes and promises me that she never said that thing others are saying she said, I HAVE to believe her. It's my job. My child is being open and direct with me. I have to believe that she's telling me the truth.
So while she screwed up, and I'm not going to deny that she did, she's not the only one blowing things out of proportion. Please cut her some slack. I have to believe that someday she's going to figure all of this out. None of us are perfect. Please don't penalize her because her mistakes are more public than yours.
You're not going to get that from me, either.
Each of us only sees a fraction of what our friends and loved ones go through. Think about it. Even when you spend hours a week with someone, there are still hours and hours that you're not there, and these may be the hours that they are most themselves.
My daughter is working on her filter--that thing that tells us there are some things we can't say or do in public, or to other people. She hasn't fully developed it yet. And yes, I have wondered how she can be part loving human and part sociopath.
What I've figured out? SHE'S A TEENAGE GIRL.
I'm not blind. I know that's not the end of it. I've had more calls about this child than all of my others combined. I know she's got issues. And you know what? She knows it too. SHE STRUGGLES. EVERY DAY. And we do, too. Constantly being there for her is exhausting. But I'm not going to quit because it's hard. She's my daughter. I don't get to quit. I don't even want to. No matter what, I'm going to have her back.
Fitting in is hard for her. She longs for acceptance and adoration, she longs to shine. But other people are better at shining than she is, so she gets hurt. And then she messes up--by lashing out, by being cruel, by doing all those things she should have learned by now NOT TO DO. And yes, I wonder how I can have 4 incredibly impressive, well behaved kids and then this one that struggles with maintaining friendships, getting along in school, church, and elsewhere, and constantly says and does the wrong thing.
Her mistakes don't make her less than. And yes, she's very tender and gets hurt easily. I'm sorry that it's inconvenient for you. I'm sorry that her mistakes interrupt your plans, your schedule, or make more work for you. I truly am. I don't want my child to make things harder for others.
It's not like we don't talk to her. Heavens, we have heart to hearts with her more than any of our other kids. We pray over her. She gets blessings. We work with her, actively, ALL THE TIME. And when she falls short we feel it. Deeply. Keenly. Because it feels like we're failing at teaching her what she needs to know.
I've considered the equivalent of shutting her up in the tower until she's mature enough to handle life, but guess what? That's not going to teach her anything. Experience has taught that we learn more from our mistakes than from our successes. So think of it this way: she's REALLY learning a lot.
But here's where I'm going to stick up for her, because when she looks me in the eyes and promises me that she never said that thing others are saying she said, I HAVE to believe her. It's my job. My child is being open and direct with me. I have to believe that she's telling me the truth.
So while she screwed up, and I'm not going to deny that she did, she's not the only one blowing things out of proportion. Please cut her some slack. I have to believe that someday she's going to figure all of this out. None of us are perfect. Please don't penalize her because her mistakes are more public than yours.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
On Opposition in All Things
Whenever I post here I feel like I should apologize for neglecting this blog, which is essentially my public journal. But my posts would get boring if I did that every time.
Lately there's been a lot of mess going on in my personal life and in my extended family, and it's hard to process all the feels. But last night something happened that I needed to share, except it comes with a bit of back story so here we go.
Those of you who have been here before know that my parents divorced when I was a tot, and my dad died before I turned 8. My childhood memories of him were always associated with negativity, and I had no memory of him expressing love for me. Because of this I grew up rough, and it was a long time (I was almost 30) before I stopped treating his death as something that happened to me, and realized it was something that happened to him. Think about that for a second. I was finally able to look beyond myself and understand that, had he lived--which was my selfish wish--his quality of life would have been miserable. And, as I know now, he is able to do much more for us from the other side of the veil.
A year or so ago I received a priesthood blessing, which is essentially direct communication/revelation from God to me. We can all get them, but they are predicated on our faith and belief. At any rate, I was told that my dad was proud of me, and that he'd love to be part of my life but Heavenly Father is holding him back for reasons we were not privileged to know. I can speculate all I want, but I choose not to second guess God's plan. Seems a little arrogant, you know?
Yesterday I was talking in some depth with one of my brothers via text, and he told me he'd had a dream about Dad. Dad told him that he was there to offer support and my brother, in the dream, said that he was fine. See, look? Life is good.
And then he woke up, showered, dressed, went downstairs and was served with divorce papers.
I admit it freely--I was a little jealous that my brother gets to hear from Dad and I don't. During our discussing my brother said that he'd had the same impression I'd been given, that dad wanted to be part of my life but could not go against God's will.
I told him that there's a lot we don't understand. It's God's will and His timeline. But I thought about that the whole rest of the day, and late that evening I was alone and contemplating and imagined my dad talking to my brother. "Tell your sister that I love her."
And I heard it in my heart as well as in my mind, and was overcome with emotion. Explaining what happened is akin to trying to tell someone who'd never tasted salt what salt tastes like. You know it, but you struggle to put it into words. Suffice it to say that I was overcome by the Spirit, much in the way I was overcome when I got my visit from my daughter, which you can read about HERE. It's an overload of the senses and you just can't explain it to someone who's never experienced it.
But it happened. And tears started rolling down my cheeks and I said, "I love you too Daddy." Because I do. We've had probably the most dysfunctional father-daughter relationship you can imagine, but I love him and I know he loves me. And, someday, I'm going to see him again.
And I don't envy my brother his contact with Dad. God knows best, it's His party and we're just the guests. The *why* of it all doesn't matter. Dad is one of my brother's tools to cope with life on Earth. I have other tools. We're living different lives and we need different tools, and I'm okay with that.
I have to be.
Lately there's been a lot of mess going on in my personal life and in my extended family, and it's hard to process all the feels. But last night something happened that I needed to share, except it comes with a bit of back story so here we go.
Those of you who have been here before know that my parents divorced when I was a tot, and my dad died before I turned 8. My childhood memories of him were always associated with negativity, and I had no memory of him expressing love for me. Because of this I grew up rough, and it was a long time (I was almost 30) before I stopped treating his death as something that happened to me, and realized it was something that happened to him. Think about that for a second. I was finally able to look beyond myself and understand that, had he lived--which was my selfish wish--his quality of life would have been miserable. And, as I know now, he is able to do much more for us from the other side of the veil.
A year or so ago I received a priesthood blessing, which is essentially direct communication/revelation from God to me. We can all get them, but they are predicated on our faith and belief. At any rate, I was told that my dad was proud of me, and that he'd love to be part of my life but Heavenly Father is holding him back for reasons we were not privileged to know. I can speculate all I want, but I choose not to second guess God's plan. Seems a little arrogant, you know?
Yesterday I was talking in some depth with one of my brothers via text, and he told me he'd had a dream about Dad. Dad told him that he was there to offer support and my brother, in the dream, said that he was fine. See, look? Life is good.
And then he woke up, showered, dressed, went downstairs and was served with divorce papers.
I admit it freely--I was a little jealous that my brother gets to hear from Dad and I don't. During our discussing my brother said that he'd had the same impression I'd been given, that dad wanted to be part of my life but could not go against God's will.
I told him that there's a lot we don't understand. It's God's will and His timeline. But I thought about that the whole rest of the day, and late that evening I was alone and contemplating and imagined my dad talking to my brother. "Tell your sister that I love her."
And I heard it in my heart as well as in my mind, and was overcome with emotion. Explaining what happened is akin to trying to tell someone who'd never tasted salt what salt tastes like. You know it, but you struggle to put it into words. Suffice it to say that I was overcome by the Spirit, much in the way I was overcome when I got my visit from my daughter, which you can read about HERE. It's an overload of the senses and you just can't explain it to someone who's never experienced it.
But it happened. And tears started rolling down my cheeks and I said, "I love you too Daddy." Because I do. We've had probably the most dysfunctional father-daughter relationship you can imagine, but I love him and I know he loves me. And, someday, I'm going to see him again.
And I don't envy my brother his contact with Dad. God knows best, it's His party and we're just the guests. The *why* of it all doesn't matter. Dad is one of my brother's tools to cope with life on Earth. I have other tools. We're living different lives and we need different tools, and I'm okay with that.
I have to be.
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