Run. . . And Be Weary. Run Anyway

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

                                                                                -Isaiah 40:31

~

 

On the Fourth of July I ran in my first road race. I ran in the Freedom Run 5K, held in Provo, Utah. 

This has been the year of trying new things. I have been a physical education teacher (see previous post). In conjunction with teaching that class, Shawn and I started a five day a week aerobic workout regimen.  That was a first for both of us.  And though we decided to switch to walking after about a month and a half, it got me thinking.  If I could physically do the aerobic workouts, perhaps I could start running. Although I have rheumatoid arthritis it is under very good control right now. But because of my diagnosis I have avoided strenuous exercise.

Could I even do it? 

The only way to know was to try.  Thankfully, a few of my friends here in Chapel Hill had blazed the trail.  (Shout out to Kim Price, Chantel Nelson and Margie Hamberlin).  Margie has been running for years, but Kim and Chantel started more recently. I have watched them go from not running at all to competing in 10K’s. When I asked for advice on how to start they were more than happy to help out. Chantel Nelson pointing me to a training program called “The Couch-to-5K Running Plan. ” Now I had a training plan. Not wanting to run alone, I invited my husband to join me—he was willing, ready, but like me, not completely convinced he was able to run.

Our training program basically starts you off with baby steps. Instead of trying to run 3.1 miles the first day—and failing miserably, we started with a sixty second run, walking for ninety seconds, then repeating the same run/walk intervals for a total of twenty minutes. Over the course of eight weeks, we would gradually increase the run to walk ratio until we could run 3.1 miles straight.  That was the plan. 

Things haven't exactly worked out according to our original timetable, but we are making progress. Here are some things I have learned these past weeks.

Running is harder than I thought it would be, but hard work is its own reward.

Running is definitely harder than walking because running required leaping off the ground with each stride—becoming momentarily airborne.  Even at my snail-like pace I end each run exhausted.  On our first training day after having run a grand total of eight minutes I had sweat literally dripping off of me. And the payoff seemed far away. There has been no runner’s high—just muscle strain and feeling out of breath.  I am hoping that this mythical runners high actually materializes in the future, though I imagine I will need to get past the “I think I am going to die” feeling. 

But I have found the sweat and the heavy breathing to be worth it, as slowly I have increased the time I could run without stopping. By focusing on the value of work instead of an immediate reward, I feel like I am better able to deal with the difficulties I experience in life. I don’t feel cheated or mad if things don’t go my way right now as long as I have tried my best and worked hard. I believe that over time the benefits of this hard work will accrue naturally, regardless of any short term pain.

Comparing my running ability to others isn’t very helpful. 

We decided to start training on the Pumpkin Trail, a local off-road trail through the Carolina North forest--my reasoning being that our pathetic running ability would be hidden from the general public—plus it was much cooler being in the shade. It turns out to be a popular running trail. Most days we would be passed by other runners—packs of lean shirtless young men who seemingly ran without effort—like gazelles; or the older more seasoned couples who would lap us on occasion. In comparison, we ran with all the grace and effort of hippos on dry ground.

Fortunately, I haven’t let myself dwell on how bad we are in comparison. My job as I see it is to do my best and to keep training.  I know that eventually we will get better, be able to run farther and faster. But that will come only after a lot of work. Thinking I should be able to run like someone who has been training for years would be setting myself up for defeat. 

I think we often want to feel like we should have instant success. We see successful people all around us making very difficult things look effortless. What we don’t see is the hours and hours that person has put into becoming great at something. I can’t remember where I heard this, but it was from an author who was giving advise to new writers. He said it was important not to compare ourselves to seasoned writers who have been honing their craft for years. In addition, he said that since our appreciation for great writing exceeds our ability to produce it at first, it’s easy to get disappointed and quit because we know our work can’t compete. Instead, we need to remain patient with ourselves. With time and hard work we will get there. 

Ignoring problems doesn’t make them go away.

Our training went fairly well for the first five weeks. But then we interrupted it with a week at WDW for a family vacation. That was expected. What I didn’t anticipate was injuring my left heel—on my very first twenty minute training run.  It hurt so bad I had difficulty walking on it.  Because if hurt so much, I couldn’t run. For a week.

I didn't know how I had injured my foot. One moment I was running fine, the next, my heel felt like I had a deep bruise on it.  I thought about simply resting my foot and resume running after it felt better and hope it wouldn't happen again. But I figured, without knowing the cause, the chances of it reoccurring were fairly high. So, I began looking for answers.

I asked my running friends if they had had similar issues.  Chantel Nelson asked to look at my shoes. She correctly pointed out that they were worn out and that they could be responsible for my injury.  I did an online search for heel pain and self-diagnosed my injury (pulled Achilles tendon) and started doing more stretches, iced my foot and began taking Aleve.  I went to a running store to have my gait evaluated to rule out heel striking as a cause (A heel strike is when you run and land heel first). I bought new shoes and inserts for better arch support. My foot feels better, thankfully. If it hadn’t felt better after another week I was going to make an appointment with a podiatrist.

Ignoring problems do not make them go away.  We need to understand what is causing a problem before we can hope to find a solution. Sometimes the causes of our problems are complicated. Sometimes they are remarkably simple.  But refusing to look at the root causes will not change anything. If I had not begun an investigation into how I hurt my foot, even if I rested my foot until it no longer hurt, the moment I started running again in my old shoes I would have reinjured my foot.  Most of the problems we face in life cannot be solved as easily as buying a new pair of shoes. But they cannot be solved at all if we do not have the courage to look.

One last thought on this subject—it is not helpful to blame ourselves once we have found the cause.  I wasted no time berating myself for not checking my shoes or tracking their mileage like more experienced runners do. I didn’t know I needed to do that.  Now I do.  Beating myself up wouldn’t help my foot get better any faster. And only by changing my shoes will I prevent future injuries. Change don't blame. 

The Freedom Run.

Despite not finishing the training program because of my foot injury I decided to enter the Freedom Run anyway. My goal was to run the first twenty-five minutes without stopping (the time I was at in my training program) and to finish under forty-five minutes.  I estimated my pace to be at around thirteen minutes per mile and added in five minutes of walking time. That was my goal.

Somewhat surprisingly, I spent the night before the race filled with nervous energy.  Part of my nervousness was excitement. I was really going to run in a race.  I was in my home town. It would be Independence Day. My daughter would be there cheering me on--that meant a lot to me and I wanted to do well. Part of my nervousness came from doubt and fear.  I worried whether I could even finish the race. My right hamstring was tight and I had never run 3.1 miles before and had only run 25 minutes once. 

The nervousness did not leave me in the morning. I almost couldn’t eat, it was that bad.  I managed to choke down a couple of small energy bars and drink some water.  I got changed into my running clothes, woke up my daughter and we headed to BYU campus by 6:15 am.  We parked at the law school parking lot, about halfway between the 5K starting line and the finish line at Kiwanis Park.  It was fun to be back on campus and near the law school—my former stomping grounds. I was still nervous.

Thankfully, it was a beautiful morning. There was a slight breeze. The sky a perfect shade a blue and the mountains still shaded us from the direct heat of the sun. Hot air balloons floated across the sky overhead.  Perfect running weather.

As we headed for the start line, we were joined by all sorts of people. There were whole families, senior citizens, moms with strollers, dads with kids. There was every body type imaginable—tall and thin, short and stout, pudgy and trim—over three thousand people in total. Some wore costumes—I saw tutus and superheroes.  Some people had tattoos and body piercings.  There was even one adorable elderly couple running together. As we gathered at the starting line the collective energy was incredible.  

(Some of my fellow runners)

And despite our differences we all had one thing in common—we were all running the same race.

I can now say that it is definitely easier to run with a huge group of people then by yourself.  Also, it helps to have the people on the sidelines shouting encouragement. I even high-fived a bystander who held out her hand to the runners.  Also, it helps to have mile markers and a running watch—I could check how well I was doing.  The first mile marker seemed the farthest one, the third one the shortest.  I don’t know why that is. 

Even though I started towards the back of the pack, almost three minutes behind the professional runners who lined up at the starting line, I was passed by a lot of runners. Like our first days running on the pumpkin trail, some of my fellow runners appeared to run with ease. I ran the best I could, passing a few people who were going even slower than myself.

My first goal was to run without stopping for the first twenty-five minutes.  I accomplished this goal, running to the second water station which was at the second mile marker.  I grabbed a cup of water from a volunteer and walked along the race course while I sipped the water.  A minute later I began running again.  The final stretch of the course went up a long hill. I made it six blocks before needing to take a walking break.  One block later I reached the turn towards the park and ran for home.  

There was a huge crowd gathered at the finish line. People were shouting out to us to keep going. I searched the crowd for my daughter and found her. She took this picture. 

 

(Approaching the Finish Line) 

I crossed the line at 40:44.7, nearly five minutes better than my goal. (You can see my complete results below).  I was exhausted, sweaty, out of breath and happy.

Very happy.

And while those runners who actually won the race deserve all the prize money and the accolades for their accomplishments (The first place runner came in at just over sixteen minutes. That is incredible!) I felt like I had won as well. And so did everyone who entered and ran or walked or ran/walked all the way to the end.

My husband and I will continue to train, to push ourselves past our current limits in endurance until we can run a 5K without stopping.  Who knows what our goal will be after that. Maybe a 10K? Maybe a half marathon?  I cannot imagine being able to run a full marathon just yet. I do know that however long my body will cooperate with me, I will continue to run. 

That is what life is, after all—one lifelong, day after day, endurance race.

And we are all in it together.  

(Here are my official results)
 

 

 

The Accidental Physical Education Teacher

 

The Accidental Physical Education Teacher

 As I wrote about in my last blog post, I took on the permanent substitute job for all the P.E./Heath classes at my son’s charter school.  I found the term “permanent substitute” confusing.   The kids did too. Nearly every class asked a version of this question, after the principal introduced: How can you be permanent and temporary at the same time?

Welcome to paradox, class.

I had the authority of a teacher, including making lesson plans, handing out assignments, grading papers and planning physical education units. I had the transience of a substitute, knowing that it wasn’t really my class and that any day the principal could tell me that he’d found a new teacher. 

And I had additional issues—I was taking over mid-year and didn’t have the advantage of advanced planning or even proper educational training. I, with the direction of the principal was making some curriculum changes that were not uniformly popular—like yoga on Wednesdays and T25 on Fridays. I got student’s names wrong for weeks. And there were a few students who challenged me by acting out in class, or by simply talking to each other and refusing to do any work. No amount of demerits seemed to have any impact on behavior either.

To tell you the truth, I felt overwhelmed and more than once began drafting my resignation email to the principal.  But I didn’t because as much as some days I felt completely over my head, I knew having some sort of stability was better for these students. Also, I needed a challenge in my life. This was a challenge. Was I really going to quit after a week or two?

And I realized that I needed to change my focus from all the reasons why I was not qualified to be a P.E. teacher to what skills and experience I did have that I could draw upon (Thank you Cub Scout Summer Day Camp). At the same time, by changing my attitude I could focus on what I could learn from this experience.  That made all the difference. The 6:00 am dread went away. 

I took this new found focus and applied it to the very first assignment/project I wrote.  It was a nutrition and fitness project. Each student was to fill out a spreadsheet I made and labeled the 'Raptor Tracker.' In it they were to record everything they ate and all their exercise activities for a week.

This assignment was met with predicted groans. They had done a similar assignment with the previous teacher—but only recorded one day and not in much detail. My assignment required recording calories, grams protein, grams carbs, and grams fat. The idea was to learn what you eat. It is impossible to change your habits if you don’t know what those habits are or have enough data to figure out if you have bad eating or exercise habits that you want to change.

Bonus for me: I got to do it too. I learned a lot about my own eating habits and where I needed to make some changes.

I got to do yoga and cardio workouts. I got to study about how illicit drugs and alcohol abuse effects brain chemistry and can lead to addiction. And I got to teach basketball on our parking lot court—ending the basketball unit with an inter-class tournament I dubbed, ‘Raptor Madness.’ You can watch the game between period five and the teachers if you follow the link that follows: 

Raptor Madness 

But the best part—as I came to know these students I learned to love them. 

On my last day, after I passed out some candy and before giving them free time outside, I made my farewell speech. Here’s what I said, in a nutshell:

Change is hard, even in the best of times. You’ve had to go thru two teacher changes in the course of this year and had to make adjustments to each new teacher.  That can be frustrating, but that it can also be a learning experience.

Learning is their job. No one can make them learn. But more importantly, no one can stop them from learning. If they hate the new teacher, or if they didn’t like my teaching style, they could still learn. They were their own best teacher. If they embraced this principle they would become life-long learners.

Lastly, I had learned a great deal from being their permanent sub and was grateful for the opportunity to be there with them.  

Looking back, I am grateful I accepted this job—as tough as it was at times. And though I joke that I would never do it again, I probably would.

.

 

Not What I Planned

I taught yoga to a bunch of ninth and tenth grade high school students this morning. In case you are wondering, I have not suddenly become a yoga instructor. Nope. I am a substitute teacher at my son’s school.  And I have been asked to be the permanent sub for the P.E. class. 

As much fun as I had today, this is not what I imagined I would be doing twenty-two years ago.  

You see, I had big plans.

As I neared graduation from law school, I had already lined up a clerkship with Utah Fourth District Judge Lynn Davis. I chose to apply to District Court because I wanted to be at the trial court level.  After eighteen months of law clerking, I moved on to the Salt Lake Public Defender’s Office.

My plan was to work my way up to the felony division, have a couple of kids along the way, then in five to ten years move to the other side of the aisle. Federal or state level—it didn’t matter that much to me. My ultimate goal was to sit on the bench.  Judge Helene. I imagined myself draped in black robes, dispensing justice with a large helping of mercy gained in my years working as a public defender.

That was the plan.

Allow me to indulge myself here a bit, but I believe that I had the ability and drive to achieve these goals.  And my plan was working. In 1994, I was about to move up to felonies. I had the best trial record in the misdemeanor division.  I loved being in court and especially being in front of a jury. I loved the law and I loved criminal justice. I loved the social work aspects of being a criminal defense attorney. I loved everything but the extreme caseload we carried and the stink of the Salt Lake County jail.

According to plan, Shawn and I began our family.  I would work thru the pregnancy, take my six month paid leave, add six more months’ unpaid leave, and then I would return to work, job sharing with another new mom. I even had my day care arranged. 

But plans change.

Right after I found out I was pregnant, Microsoft recruited my husband. They flew us both up to Redmond. Put us up in a fancy hotel. Wined and dined us and laid out the sparkling golden handcuffs known as stock options. It was the chance of a lifetime.

I wanted to throw up.

I will never forget the moment, right after they made us the offer.  We were in our swanky hotel room and I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Shawn asked my opinion. He wanted to take the offer, but it wasn’t his decision alone. I had to agree. Did I want him to take this job?  I didn’t feel pressure from him. I knew if I said no that he would be okay with it. It wasn’t as if we were hurting financially. He had a good job—just not as great a job as this one.

I didn’t want to pray about it. I already knew the answer. I felt the whisperings and stirrings the whole time I was in Redmond—‘this is where you need to be.’  Fat tears spilled out of my eyes and down my cheeks. They were not happy tears. They were tears for a dream destroyed. I felt akin to Abraham on Mount Moriah, raising the knife, preparing to strike down my plan with my own hand. Only no angel came; no substitute ram found caught in the bramble.

My mind went back to the first week of law school. Some of the men in my class felt that women did not belong there. They felt that we were taking the place of ‘breadwinners’—i.e. men. They voiced this opinion openly—placed copies of President Benson’s talk, “To the Mothers in Zion” talk in all our law school mailboxes. They challenged our qualifications, saying we had only been admitted due to affirmative action on the part of the law school.

Now, here I was, ready to prove them all correct.

And yet, I knew it was the right thing to do. At least it was for me, at that time, in that place.

So, I made my decision. Shawn and I were separated for a time. He had to start immediately on the Windows 95 team. I had to stay behind to sell our home and work. During the seventh month of my pregnancy our house finally sold and I moved to Redmond.

It rained every day. Worse still, the O.J. Simpson trial was going on. I spent seemingly endless days in the grey and cold Seattle spring, watching one of the most awfully run criminal trials I had ever seen.  I knew almost no one. None of the women in my new ward threw me a baby shower. Shawn was working twelve hour days or more. I was lonely and pregnant and miserable and bored. I so wanted to go back to my old job, to anything really.

On top of that, I had this growing fear that I was going to absolutely suck at being a mother.  I was sure of it, since I had no good model for mothering in my own family. I felt no warm fuzzy feelings towards the baby growing inside me, other than annoyance at the constant need to eat and pee.

Then Arianna was born.

It was like a light switched on inside of me. I knew the moment the doctor placed Arianna in my arms that I had a greater purpose to my life than achieving legal prominence. I found something that could satisfy my need to do something with my life, even if it wasn’t my original dream.

I am not saying that I would not have had this same epiphany if I had stayed in Utah and followed my original plan. In fact, I am sure I would have. I am not criticizing in any way women with young children who work outside of the home. What I am saying is that in this moment, I changed the way I measured what I felt success would look like.

After Arianna was born, I took and passed the Washington State bar and practiced (sort of) part time working for a small personal injury attorney. I hated it but it kept me working. Then Alex was born and my hands were full. I wasn't making enough money to justify full time day care and I didn't like the work enough to do it for free. So, I took a break, fully intending to return to work and wheedle my way into the King County prosecutor's office one way or another once Alex reached kindergarten.

In the meantime, I enjoyed being a mom of preschool children. Really. I loved every bit of it.

I have since joined the ranks of retired attorneys. We are legion. Had I had the opportunity to return to the law ten years ago, I would probably have tried to revive my plan. But it was not to be.  North Carolina beckoned.  I don’t regret it.

I wrote a poem about my feelings toward the law and my choice to leave my career behind. I wrote this in 2001. It is called ‘A Mother’s Reply.’

A Mother’s Reply

 Twelve years ago I crossed a bridge, there called

To study law, my talent to exchange

Despite my fear that no man would marry a woman

Trained to argue.  I felt the infidel, challenged

By those who, zealous for the Kingdom, questioned

My place in the class: some breadwinner denied

Who would have used the talents gained in service

To family, bar, and church, not burying them

Beneath endless mounds of laundry. I

Demurred then, being single. Now I answer. 

My obligation is the same as yours. 

My time and talents equally dedicated

Not buried but lovingly planted and tended, dormant

For a season to spring forth a hundred fold.

 I see the fruit of those years at law school and criminal defense practice every day.  I have used these hard-earned talents in church and community service, not to mention at home.

And I use it as I stand in front of my P.E. classes, confident, feeling that familiar rush of being in front of a jury again—only this time the jury is teenaged and pimple-faced. I see the impact I can have, even if it is only fleeting.  It is strange, but I feel like there is something similar to teaching and public defending. Maybe it is in the way so many of these kids feel lost to me. And beside, what teenager doesn’t need someone who will stand up for them? Even if it is encourage them to try yoga. Or believe that they can find success too.  

And you know what? I have new plans--new dreams for how I will fill the years ahead. They do not involve teaching P.E. 

On Waiting

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts: who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed

And post o'er land and ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and wait."

                                      John Milton, “On His Blindness”

~ 

I have just returned home from a trip to Provo and Seattle. This trip involved a lot of waiting: waiting in the security line, waiting to board the plane, waiting for take-off, to land, waiting at the baggage carousel, and for my ride.  And that is just one day.  It got me thinking about waiting and how I value the time I spend waiting.

Sometimes, waiting is the best part.  Remember being a kid and waiting for Christmas and the excitement that would build? For a few years, when I was seven and eight, I took waiting a bit further—I waited up for Santa Clause himself. My mom put the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room.  It seems impossible now, but my kid sized body fit very easily between the tree stand and the wall.  This vantage point also put me near the fireplace—the point of entrance I intended to surveil until I caught Santa making his entrance.  I lay there for hours, snug inside my sleeping bag, underneath the pine-scented boughs and I waited.  As the hours ticked by my anticipation grew and I imagined the great joy of unwrapping all the presents Santa would bring. 

Fatigue overcame my childish stakeout plans.  I struggled against it, trying to will myself awake—to no avail.  One moment I had my eyes glued to the black metal screen over the fireplace, and the next, it was Christmas morning. I was surrounded by presents, the Christmas stockings were bulging with candy. Somehow, Santa had come and gone without waking me. I wasn’t disappointed at all. There were presents to open. Besides, there was always next year.

Sometimes waiting is more of an ordeal.

That is how I would describe waiting to reach puberty. I was one of those girls who was a late bloomer.  Starting in sixth grade, one by one I could see the bra straps show up on the others girls and hear them talking about their time of the month. By seventh grade I persuaded my mom to buy me a training bra, even if it was only cosmetic—I was as flat as an ironing board, and frankly, I was beginning to worry.  Eighth grade came and went with no improvement. By ninth grade my mom told me if things didn’t change by my birthday, she would take me to the gynecologist.  That did not sound like fun so I began praying that my body would kick it into gear already.

At last, the day came. And it definitely did not feel like Christmas.  I got horrible cramps and felt sick. I went to the office and called my mom to pick me up.  By the time I got home and went to the bathroom, the waiting was officially over.  My mom gave me a Motrin and I went to bed. 

Sometimes, we are not waiting for something, but we are waiting on someone else.

For four days last week I was with my parents.  I was there to help them, to drive them to doctors’ appointments and just talk with them.  My parents’ health is failing them, but they still wait on each other—well, mostly my dad waits on my mom. Every morning he makes her breakfast of instant oatmeal, he brings her water and the phone, and a hundred different things.  There is not much my dad can do now, except wait.  He spends his days waiting. From conversations we’ve had, I know he is waiting to die. But he hangs on to serve.

One of the things I did while in Utah was take my mom to the doctor’s office. I had called the day before; her legs were swelling because they were retaining water due to failing kidney function.  The only appointment available was for three in the afternoon. We finally saw the doctor at four thirty. While we were waiting, I asked one of our fellow waiting roomer to take this picture.

 I wanted to capture this moment because I realized as I was sitting in that waiting room that there might not be many more opportunities. I wanted to remember my parents at this time in their lives, this time of waiting.

John Milton’s poem, “On His Blindness” is one of my favorite poems. Milton wrote this poem after he had been struck with blindness. He had spent years at school and in study, learning multiple languages, reading and traveling extensively. After the English Civil War and the creation of the English republic by Oliver Cromwell, Milton was able to use his scholarship and language skills in service of the state, and, as he would most likely see it—in service to God.  But things do not always turn out as we have planned. Just as he was losing his sight, the English republic died. A warrant was issued for his arrest and he went into hiding: blind, impoverished, a political pariah in Restoration England. Yet it is from these years of darkness that Milton created his master work—Paradise Lost. 

In his sonnet, Milton writes, “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Somehow, I cannot imagine Milton’s kind of waiting as an idle thing, wasting the time he spent hiding from the authorities in day-dreaming of restoring his beloved republic (though who is to say these thoughts didn’t occupy his mind). Rather than remain stuck in futile imaginings, powerless to effect that change, Milton took his dreams and ideas and wove them into his writing, into one of the greatest works of English literature. Or, I should say, dictated them, since he never actually saw his own work.

I admit, I am a bit of a dreamer.

I spend a lot of my waiting time in thought. Even when I am doing other things, like folding the laundry. And yet, I also feel an anxiety to turn these thoughts into words; to turn my waiting time into a more actively engaged Miltonesque sort of waiting. 

Waiting in this way becomes more than lost time, it becomes contemplation and meditation. It can be deeply moving, like the time I spent holding a sister in my ward’s hand as she waited to die. I was honored to be there, even though I did not know her well.  Waiting can give us opportunities to observe and reflect and to plan ahead. I dreamed up this blog post with waiting somewhere for something.

This is my personal challenge and my challenge to you.

2013—Our Jubilee Year

 
Those who know me well, know that in the recent past our family has been through some trying times. In a nutshell, we struggled with how to help our daughter who found herself in an abusive relationship. Initially, one of our biggest challenges was to realize the seriousness of the problem, and to pull our collective heads out of the 'it's just a phase she is going through and she will grow out of it' sand. Arianna helped us do this by escalating her behavior to the point we could not just chalk it up to growing pains. We had to take an opened eyed look at what was going on, with her, with our family structure. We ended up sending our daughter to wilderness therapy and then therapeutic boarding school and sending ourselves to family therapy.

It wasn't fun. In fact, it was the most painful experience of my life—by far. 
 
Waking my daughter up at five in the morning, telling her I loved her and that these two strangers were going to take her away to a place she could get some help--that was the toughest thing I have ever done. And we were sending her to a place thousands of miles away from us. I was placing my daughter's wellbeing into the hands of complete strangers, trusting that they could help my daughter in a way that I had failed to do. 

The guilt was crushing. 
 
I was a failure as a parent. The proof was standing there in a black leather jacket ready to handcuff my daughter if she gave them any trouble (We had to sign a written transportation contract that specifically allowed the transport team to restrain her). How do you prepare for that moment? How would my daughter ever forgive me? Could we ever recover from the breach that had developed over the past year?

But we did get through it—with a lot of help.

We had the help of great therapists. Tim Lowe at Outback Therapeutic. Joanna Legerski at Summit Preparatory. Dr. Bridges at Duke Family Studies Center. 
 
We had the help of family and friends who showered us with love and time and care at a time when just going to church and trying to sing the sacrament songs was an exercise in trying not to cry over lyrics that seared instead of soothed. Try singing "Love at Home" when your teenager has just told you that they hate you and demands that you emancipate them. 
 
2011 became what I have since termed the Year of Discontent. 2012 became the Year of Healing. And 2013—the Jubilee Year.

The word "jubilee" originates in the Law of Moses. It was a yearlong celebration. Slaves were to be set free. Debts to be forgiven. Everyone was to have a fresh start, a clean slate. The year started with the blast from a ram's horn and a celebratory shout.

January 7, 2013 marks the start of our Jubilee. That is the day we received Arianna's acceptance letter to Virginia Commonwealth University's School of the Arts. (Interestingly, VCU's mascot is the Ram). 

 As I read the letter I was overcome and I literally began jumping up and down shouting for joy. I did not want to wait to tell Arianna the good news until our Wednesday night call. So I called the school, hoping they would pass a message to Arianna. Instead of taking a message, after I told the office manager what the message was, he connected me to her classroom. I decided in that moment to play it very serious. "Arianna," I said, pitching my voice lower and talking at a deliberate pace, as if I had some dreadful news. "I have some news. . . YOU GOT INTO VCU ARTS!!!" We both began squealing and jumping for joy.

This was a triumph, I told her. One that was so much sweeter because of where she was and where she had been. Just a year earlier Arianna had believed that her life was over, that her dreams were all crushed and gone. All that self-doubt and fear was gone in that moment, replaced by this deep and intense feeling of joy and gratitude.

This feeling remained with me for the rest of 2013: through Arianna's graduation from Summit, our trip to Europe, the start of her freshman year and the successful completion of her first semester of college. 
 
One of my friends asked right before Arianna came home from school if I was stressed out by her return. My reply was that I felt the opposite. All I felt was joy and happiness. I wanted to kill the fatted calf and throw a party. I could barely stop myself from dancing a jig right there.

During this Jubilee of mine, I have on occasion asked myself if I should restrain some of my outward expressions of joy. I worried that my expressions might be painful to others who were in the middle of their own family crisis. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings or imply that our daughter's recovery was anything short of miraculous, or that we were somehow more blessed or lucky than parents whose children continue to make bad choices. Or that we were somehow the best parents ever and that is why our daughter was doing so well. 
 
I had blamed myself earlier. One day in particular I remember feeling particularly awful. It was right before we sent Arianna away and I was racked with guilt. My internal monologue went something like this. "I am the world's worst mother. If there was an award for worst mother of the year, I would win. If I was a good mother, my daughter would have talked to me sooner about her boyfriend, and she would not have made harmful choices. If I was a discerning mother, I would have been able to see the problem sooner and acted sooner." This internal monologue was on a continuous loop in my head. 
 
As you can imagine, it was hard to get anything done. So, I and my internal monologue went for a walk. As I was walking, I heard the whisperings of the spirit interrupt my monologue with this phrase, "If parents are to be judged by the choices their children make, then Heavenly Father is a huge failure too. One third of his children rebelled in heaven." I was properly rebuked and at the same time felt a great sense of relief—I was not responsible for my daughter's choices. I was only responsible for mine.

That didn't make me less sad for some of my daughter's choices. And it doesn't make me less happy now that she is making much better ones.

Of all the lessons I have learned, one of the greatest has been the great mercy God has for his children. It is this mercy that I have been celebrating this year. The mercy that helped us find a way through all our fears and pain and hurt and healed our broken hearts and knitted them together stronger and better than they were before. The mercy that forgave our mistakes and let us start over again with a clean slate.

In one of the last letters I wrote to Arianna while she was in Montana, I quoted these lines from Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice:

The quality of mercy is not strained.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown.

His scepter shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.

But mercy is above this sceptered sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;

It is an attribute of God himself;

And earthly power doth then show like God's

When mercy seasons justice.

 
2013 has been my Jubilee year. I don't know what 2014 will bring—this may be our year of farewells as our parents are aging rapidly, and Arianna is putting her missionary papers together. Whatever it brings, I plan on holding on to the gratitude—come what may.

Wounds and Healing

My son had a pilonidal cyst on his gluteal cleft. In plain English, that means he had an abscess on his butt crack. The abscess wasn’t his fault; it resulted from a defect in his skin—it overlaps in his cleft, making it susceptible to infections of the hair follicle sweat glands. In the past six months he has had three infections.  After the second one, we were referred to the UNC pediatric surgery clinic. The doctor there recommended we wait to see if the problem would not reoccur.

Well, at the end of the summer, the cyst came back.  So, back to the doctor and this time he recommended surgery.  He mentioned sort of off handedly that the surgery would leave an open wound and that we would need to pack it until it healed. I didn’t think anything of it. It would be no big deal.

The day of surgery arrived—October 18. I got up early with Alex and we headed down to the hospital. Alex was in good spirits and I took a photo of him in his surgery attire. Then they wheeled him away.  Two hours later he was back, groggy but aware enough to tell me the riddle he told the surgery team (or started to tell the team but went to sleep halfway through). The riddle goes: How far into the woods can you run? The answer: Halfway, after that you are running out of the woods.  Shawn and I took turns hanging out with Alex at the hospital, with Shawn staying with him overnight.

Saturday morning Alex was home. Before discharging him, the pediatric surgical resident showed Shawn how to dress the wound and sent him home with some supplies and written instructions.  We were to change the dressing for the first time that evening. That is when I got my first look at the wound.

I was shocked. It was much bigger than I had thought it would be—about two inches long and over an inch deep. It was huge. My first thought was: how is this ever going to heal and how can we do this?  Of course, we didn’t have much choice. There was no going back; the surgery was over and now we had to care for this wound or it would become infected and he’d have to have another surgery.  We were deep into the woods now. Our only option was to go forward.

We gloved up and read the instructions.  The first step, remove the old dressing and inspect the wound.  We were told that we needed to check the wound at least twice a day for signs of infection (that would be red swollen tissue and pus and a bad smell). If we saw signs of infection we were to call the doctor immediately or bring him down to the clinic.

The second step was to wash the wound with normal saline. Normal saline is the medical term for sterile salt water that is exactly the same saltiness as our bodily fluids, like blood and tears.  The saline needs to be sterile, purified of all contaminants.  We used prefilled syringes of normal saline and spurted a stream of it into the wound, letting it wash away excess blood and gunk that had built up.  It used to be that doctors would recommended other fluids to wash wounds, things like hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol. But medical science has come to recognize that it is more important to keep the wound clean and let the body heal itself than introduce harsh fluids to the area.  Hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol do more damage than good. 

The third step was to repack the wound. We were to take a piece of gauze, wet it with normal saline and gently pack the wound. The important thing was to insure that the two sides of his wound did not close before the wound could heal.  It has to stay open—vulnerable.  It needed to heal from the inside out. If it closed before that happened, it would fester and become re-infected. Alex would have to have another surgery and we would have to start all over again.

The final step was to dress the wound. This means taking a clean square of gauze, rolling it up and taping it into place over the packed open wound. The purpose of the dressing was to soak up any blood or fluids that might leak out of the wound as well as to protect it.  This was the easiest part, although after we ran out of tape from the hospital we used some tape that was too harsh on the skin and needed to find better tape.

Over the course of the past two weeks we have changed Alex's dressing at least twice a day. It has given me opportunity to meditate not only on this wound and how it’s healing, but on other kinds of wounds—those seen and those unseen, physical and emotional and spiritual wounds that many of us have suffered during the course of our lives. Here are some of my thoughts on wounds.

Know Your Wound and Get Help.

It matters what kind of wound you have and you may need an expert healer to help you understand your wound and teach you the proper way to care for your wound.  With Alex’s wound, I was beyond my first aid training. Looking at the gaping hole in his backside left me feeling powerless and adrift.  Without the doctor’s instructions and the two phone calls I made to the pediatric surgical resident on call for clarification, I would have floundered and Alex’s wound would not be doing as well.  I took their instructions on faith, hoping that the doctors knew what they were talking about. While it is true that some injuries and wounds can be sutured up and heal quickly, this was not the case in this instance. 

 We need to triage our emotional and spiritual wounds as well. This may include going to an ecclesiastical leader or seeking counseling from a mental healthcare professional, someone expert enough to know what kind of wound we have and what course of healing we need to take. Of course, the ultimate healer is God. I cannot say how many times I have turned to God in fervent prayer seeking help for an injury to my spirit, or prayers seeking aid for a loved one who was wounded in some way. 

With our daughter Arianna we sought help from all three—our bishop, therapists and God. Just like when I saw Alex’s wound for the first time, at first I felt overwhelmed by the size and scope of her injury. And I thought, how can this ever heal?  But it did. So many people reached out to us, helped us and helped Arianna come to understand her wound and helped her heal from the inside out. Prayers were heard, blessing were given and received.  There were days I prayed all day and night for help. Help came.

Inspect

 The first step in wound care is to inspect it regularly for signs of trouble. Wounds can make us vulnerable to other problems and we need to be watchful while we heal for those signs.  Watchfulness is important—not only of ourselves but also for those we stand in stewardship over.  If we are watchful we can call for help before things get much worse. 

It is easy in this era of smart phones and social media distractions to forget to take the time needed to be watchful. We seem to have forgotten what it means to closely inspect ourselves and those in our care.  It’s easy to get caught up in work or school or our social lives and forget to really look at ourselves, to see if there is something festering away inside of us.  These past two weeks have helped me realize that I need to make time for introspection and self-examination.

Cleaning the Wound Daily

I find it interesting that the liquid recommended for cleansing wounds is normal saline—the same fluid as tears. In many ways, I believe our tears are healing.  We need not be afraid to cry, to allow ourselves to let the tears flow.  Normal saline also has the same saltiness as blood. And it must be pure, without impurities.  

I believe the atoning power of Jesus Christ is the normal saline of our spiritual healing. Jesus is the great healer. With his blood willing shed for us, we can be healed of even the deepest wounds. Because he suffered he understands our suffering and pain. It’s the great miracle of the condescension of God, to come to earth and live with us and suffer like us.  In this way Christ matches our saltiness. And he is pure—the only pure one.   As Isaiah said, “with his stripes we are healed.”  Revelation 1:5 makes more sense to me now. "Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood." 

Remaining Vulnerable

Sometimes, to heal properly, we need to keep a wound open. That seems counterintuitive.  Our instinct is to close it up and slap a bandage on it and hope it goes away.  That is often the case with superficial cuts and clean incisions.  We can stop the bleeding, clean the wound, slap on a bandage and it will better in a few days. 

Then there are other types of wounds, wounds that go deep, that have been caused by infection.  They could be like Alex’s wound, caused by cutting out an abscess. Or they could be the infection caused by years of suffering in an abusive relationship, or addictions that have infected our minds and imprisoned our spirits. These take time and extended care. These need us to open up and become vulnerable.

With Alex’s wound, we keep it open by packing it with gauze we have wetted with normal saline. This way, the edges of the wound stay open but in a way that promotes natural healing.  And in many ways I have found this a perfect metaphor for how remaining open and vulnerable promotes healing of our emotional and spiritual wounds. 

When we sent our daughter away to wilderness therapy, we also began family therapy sessions. My husband and I would go every Thursday to the Duke Family Studies Center to meet with a therapist and talk about the wounds in our lives.  By learning to open up to each other and to our daughter, we were able to heal the breach in our relationship and become a much closer and loving family. We also sought out loving friends and family for emotional support. They allowed us to share our fears and anguish with them.  These friends helped us tremendously.

Protect

The last step in our instructions was to dress the wound—to protect it.  Although remaining open and vulnerable is important to healing, it is also important that you protect the wound from further damage and prevent debris from entering.  That is true of our invisible wounds as well.

With Arianna, we made deliberate choices to not share or open up to everyone we knew. I have family members who we felt would not be helpful. We sent our daughter to the wilderness and then to a therapeutic boarding school and cut off all communication with her ex-boyfriend’s family to give her and us a protected space to heal. We protected ourselves by giving ourselves time and space away from old stressors.

It is really important that we don’t minimize this last step. We could follow with exactness the previous instructions, but if we don’t protect the wound while it is open it will get infected again. And we don’t need to apologize for taking action to protect ourselves and those we love from people and places that are harmful to us, even if those people then accuse us of not being good Christians. Believe it or not, I have had that accusation thrown at me. It didn’t give me a moment’s concern because I knew I was doing what I needed to help myself and my family heal.

Patience

The last thing I have learned (so far) is patience.  It takes time for deep wounds to heal. And during that time we need patience to deal with the pain and frustration that often accompanies feeling out of sorts. Alex has had his grumpy moments these past two weeks.  At times not only has he had a pain in his butt, but he was one. In our world of instant messaging and instant video, we often want our healing to be quick and painless. 

It is not.

It took our daughter months for her to gain the insights she needed. It has taken me years to learn some of the important lessons God wanted to teach me, lessons that came as the result of healing deep wounds I received as a child.

In Conclusion

In those first moments, when we finally get a grasp of the extent of our wounds we can feel discouraged and hopeless.  We might feel the way I felt looking at the hole in my son—how can this ever be healed? And yet, I believe with every fiber of my being that we can be healed and made whole.

For me, the great source of healing is my faith in Jesus Christ, as I have mentioned above. There is a scripture found in the Book of Mormon that relates to how Jesus Christ heals us.  In these verses the prophet Alma relates a vision he has had of the Savior and his atonement.  He says:

And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy. . . that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people. (Alma 7:11-12).

To those who do not share this faith, I would say there is still cause for hope. Find help.  Seek out people who have been through similar experiences.  Seek out professional help that is caring and will help you learn how to care for your wound and create a healing environment. Protect yourself and your loved ones from those influences and people who would harm you. And remain open to the healing power God has given each of us. 

To mark the occasion of my daughter's first week of college at VCU, I have written her a poem. Please read and comment.

Empty Room

Your room lies empty—once again

And like before, the house is quieter

Your music no longer wafting

Floor to floor, the bathroom counter no longer

Commandeered completely in your morning routine.

            These little things remain unchanged.

 So much is different—this time.

           Your bedroom walls no longer scream
           Hurt-filled words when I enter, words I needed to hear

And left untouched, uncovered hoping you would find

What you needed in the wilderness and return

To paint a sunrise over it. 

The walls sing to me now, of new beginnings

And patience and love. And though I know

Full well the bittersweet truth—your rising sun

Heralds the twilight of your time here with me,

I am comforted. The ties that bind us cannot be broken

Though a thousand suns burn and die.

 

                                           -Helene Brown, August 25, 2013