He rubbed my legs, sore and stiff from the demands of the end of the school year.
But that’s not why I loved him.
He took me out to dinner to get some gluten free pizza that I’ve been craving for weeks.
But that’s not why I loved him.
We had a great conversation about our hopes and dreams and plans for semi- and real retirement.
But that’s not why I loved him.
In fact, the reason I loved him had nothing to do with me at all.
The young waiter at the restaurant last night was having a rough time. Our salads never came out. My husband’s order was somehow replaced with a sub par facsimile. My husband expressed his displeasure when the waiter came around to check on the order. I could tell the young guy was flustered. He flipped to our order in his tablet to confirm he recorded the right dish. Based upon his utterances, I think he understood the order but wrote it in a way that was confusing to decipher. He walked off to handle the kitchen and put in the request for the right dish.
The manager came around and told us the replacement would be out soon. My husband indicated he really just wanted the salad which was ordered almost a half hour prior.
The waiter returned to tell us the new meal was on its way and asked if we needed anything. “Just our salads,” my husband said, “But I think your boss is getting them now.”
A look of pure shame and frustration fell over the waiter’s face, the final curtain after a poorly received act. As he walked towards the back, I saw his arms go up to his face as though they wanted to punish him and shield him at the same time.
I mentioned my observation to my husband, as he was facing the other way.
And what he did next is the reason I loved him.
When the correct order was finally placed in front of him (a grilled pizza slathered in peppers and mushrooms), he called the waiter over. The boy approached, hesitantly. “This is awesome!” my husband exclaimed, reaching out for a fist bump with the surprised waiter.
When the manager again came to check on us, my husband stated, “Tell our waiter he’s doing a really good job making sure that everything’s okay.”
And on the check, he added the words, ‘Thank you. Good job!” above the tip line.
I loved my husband last night not because of what he does for me or for our family but for what he did for a stranger who was having a rough night.
I loved my husband last night for making the effort to make someone smile and for bringing some good into someone’s day.
I loved my husband last night for his empathy and generosity.
I loved my husband last night for reaching out even when he had nothing to gain in return.
Maybe the way we treat waiters really does reveal our true selves.
I have two friends – sisters – who sadly lost their mom to cancer when they were teenagers. At some point, they decided to celebrate Mother’s Day with an annual trip to an amusement park. It turns out that this is one of the least-busy days of the year at the park; I guess most families don’t celebrate maternal love and care with adrenaline rushes.
Several years ago, the roller coaster sisters decided to invite a mutual friend of ours, also motherless, to join them. It wasn’t a successful partnership as it turns out that this friend had an aversion to heights which is certainly a liability for an amusement park.
So, the next year, they invited me. I’m not motherless, but I am devoid of local matriarchal connections. Oh, and I love adrenaline and I’m not overly afraid of heights. It’s been an awesome tradition in which to be included. We’ve gone down to Florida, up to North Carolina and sometimes stayed put at Six Flags in Atlanta.
Regardless of location, we ride coasters. And then more coasters.
And, without fail, there is anxiety built before the first ride of the day. There is uncertainty, especially if it is to be a virgin ride with unknown drops and loops. One of the sisters always comes close to backing out and regrets not throwing in the towel as the ride clacks to the top.
And then, without fail, our delighted screams fill the air. And the sister that was the most hesitant becomes the most excited to run to the next ride.
Throughout the day, the supply of adrenaline is literally exhausted; the short lines do not allow ample time for the body to replenish its stores. By mid-afternoon, we can be seen completely relaxed on even the most terrifying ride.
Fear thrives in the unknown.
The sisters proposed a new adventure this year- zip-lining. I was by far the most experienced yesterday. Although this was my first visit to this establishment, it was my 5th time zip-lining. It was a known for me.
zippity-do-da!
But it was unknown to the sisters.
The first challenge was to cross a 50 foot bridge that was built from widely separated (and swinging) boards. The bridge started at an elevation of around 25 feet and climbed to 40 feet where it ended at a small platform surrounding a large pine tree. The bridge felt unstable. The planks moved and the gaps between them were easily large enough to swallow even the largest man in our group and the holes drew the eye down – way down – to the ground below. The cables that acted as handrails were anything but solid. Even the anchor point of the tree swayed.
I can do this with my eyes closed. Not!
But all that was an illusion. We were each tethered to a cable running above the bridge with heavy ropes and clips. If we should fall and lack the strength to hoist ourselves back onto the bridge, three guides stood at the ready to lift us back to the planks. They even carried pulleys, ropes and bandages in their packs.
We were completely safe.
But one of the sisters didn’t believe it.
Or, more accurately, her primal brain hijacked her rational one and the former was screaming out the dangers on the bridge.
It was wild to watch. I crossed the bridge first. After clipping myself safely to the pine tree on the far side, I turned to look at the progress behind me. The sister, calm and confident moments before, was frozen a few steps onto the bridge. She knew she was safe. But her brain convinced her she was not. And her body listened. No amount of encouragement could convince her to complete that walk. She finally unlocked enough to back off the bridge and back to the known of the solid ground below.
Fear believes illusions.
Fear was not my companion yesterday. It was a comfortable environment for me and I knew the illusion of danger was just noise. But that’s not to say I’m not more than familiar with that powerless and incapacitated feeling when fear moves in. I’ve written about learning how to ski and overcome my apprehension of downhills. I’ve had similar experiences with biking (go ahead and laugh – I can zip line without a problem but a 3% downhill grade on a bike makes me nauseous!).
This was actually fun! Promise:)
But I’m mainly familiar with the mental origins of fear. The psychological equivalent of the swinging planks and depths below. Those times when we have the safety systems we need, but we worry anyways. Where the body may continue forward but the mind freezes in place, unable to trust in the journey forward. It’s a place of internal lock-down. No amount of encouragement will release the mind from its hold.
But it doesn’t have to be permanent. We don’t have to live suspended on that bridge between where we are and where we want to be.
Be gentle with yourself. Self-flagellation may alleviate guilt, but it is a horrible tool against fear.
If the unknown has you frightened, make an effort to learn. Information is soothing.
When you’re frozen in fear, back off. It’s not a time to be a bull.
Distract the brain. Take a break in your comfort zone. It builds your confidence.
Recall times you were fearful and preserved. It builds your confidence even more.
Wait until the fear has subsided.
And then try to approach again.
That’s exactly what the one sister did yesterday. When we arrived back at the lodge, we were thrilled to hear that she had elected to take part in a later tour. And she came back smiling.
The unknown had become known.
And the illusions of fear had been revealed.
Leaving behind a sense of accomplishment and confidence.
I was one of 18 chaperones on a three-day trip to Savannah with over 200 8th graders.
I love these trips, but they are such a shock to my system as I go from no kids to being completely responsible for a group of 16 and sharing responsibility for the others.
My days started with me trying to grab sips of coffee while I made the rounds, making sure students were awake and appropriately dressed, administering medication and giving sage advice to address the issues that arise overnight when you stick four teenage girls in a room together.
Breakfast, usually my peaceful time in front of the computer, was taken standing up in the lobby of the hotel so that I could direct the girls and strive to keep their voices at a semi-reasonable level. I think I managed two bites of hot oatmeal before it congealed.
Through the day, I lugged a large backpack filled with their medications and the day’s schedule. I was nurse, tour guide and counselor in one. I made sure that sunscreen and bug spray were applied. And then reapplied. I cautioned them about the effects of the overconsumption of sugar and the need to bring a jacket. I even found myself repeating the dreaded mom words, “Just try,” at the limited bathroom opportunities.
I swear the girls knew the moment I stepped into the shower at the end of the long days as the phone would start to ring as soon as I applied the shampoo to my hair – the hotel equivalent of calling “Mom” across the house.
By the time all of the girls were settled in their rooms, I would collapse, exhausted.
Yet unable to sleep.
The details of the days are tiring, but it is nothing compared to the weight of responsibility that motherhood, even of the three-day variety, holds. I saw potential dangers lurking around previously harmless corners. Every stranger was a threat, every body of water a potential drowning and every curb provided an opportunity to fall. At night, I found that I could not enter deep sleep, as I was constantly listening for the kids.
When I was a kid, the pastor at my church would call all of the children up to the steps in front of the pulpit for a brief children’s message embedded within the larger sermon. One year when I was about four, the pastor celebrated Mother’s Day by beginning with the prompt, “Mommies are” and then holding out the microphone for the kids to complete the sentence.
The first few shares were your standard:
“Mommies are nice.”
“Mommies are pretty.”
“Mommies are gentle.”
And then the microphone was put in front of me. My contribution on that Mother’s Day?
“Mommies are tired.”
Yes, they are. Motherhood is a job with the biggest responsibilities possible and no time off. Motherhood is a job that, just when you think you have it figured out, your kid enters a new phase; you’re in perpetual training. Motherhood is a job that requires that your own needs are neglected so that your offspring’s needs are met.
It is tiring.
But is also rewarding beyond belief, as reflected in the faces of the moms as they reunited with their kids at the end of the trip. I’m sure they enjoyed their three days of peace and quiet but they were thrilled to see their kids (even stinky, cranky, hopped-up-on-sugar kids:) )again.
As for me, I enjoyed the test drive but this particular model is not for me. I’ll stick with teaching!
Happy Mother’s Day to all you tired mommies. I am in awe of what you do every day.
It was thick, viscous. Its foulness touching every part of my being until I no longer knew where I ended and the suffering began. I could no more escape its malevolent embrace than I could pull peanut butter from a child’s hair. We were one, the suffering and I. My anguish kept it fed and in return, it kept me company. I may not have had my marriage but I had the suffering that was left behind.
But slowly, ever so slowly, the anguish started to fade. The loss grew more distant and hope grew ever closer. Starved of its preferred sustenance, the suffering started to wither. Its suffocating heft grew to more manageable dimensions and its once viscous nature grew thinner. Weaker.
I felt the pain.
I would have moments, even days, where the suffering was unseen. But its absence was always short-lived and my brain had a trigger-finger that would herald its return at the slightest provocation. My body held the memories like the discs in a juke-box, ready to play with the touch of a button. As long as I didn’t approach, I was okay. But as soon as I recounted the tale, my voice would tremble and the pain would come rushing back as though it had been lying in wait.
And so I kept telling the story. And with each retelling, the heartache faded a little more. And the suffering grew weaker. My once constant companion became like a distant friend – we may keep in touch on Facebook, but we have no real need for face to face.
I remembered the pain.
And yet I kept living. I would revisit earlier writings or conversations and marvel at the emotions I carried. I would reflect back on those endless nights and my emaciated and shaking frame. I could speak of the suffering, but only in the past tense, for it no longer touched my soul.
Unencumbered, I learned how to trust again. How to love again. How to be vulnerable again. I learned to tell the story without emotion. Because it didn’t happen to the Lisa of today. It happened to the Lisa of yesterday. And I no longer recognize her.
I appreciated the pain.
Not for the suffering it provided, but for the lessons hidden within. It is a path I would have never chosen, yet it has led to more glorious pastures than I could have ever envisioned.
If you carry it too long, suffering will weigh you down and seek to asphyxiate you with its heft. But carry it long enough, and that weight makes you stronger. Lighter. Better for the experience.
Smokey the Bear tells us that only we can prevent forest fires.
But that’s not really true.
I mean we can avoid throwing lit cigarettes on top of dry pine needles and we can faithfully cover our campfires with dirt before retiring for the night. But those measures won’t stop the errant spark from catching a ride on a gust of wind. They won’t redirect the lightening’s path away from the dead wood that riddles a mature forest. Even the professionals, with their fire breaks and controlled burns can’t really stop forest fires. They can only hope to mitigate their damage.
Because forest fires are an inevitable part of nature and nature always has its way.
We tend to focus on the destructive properties of the fire. And certainly, when fire and civilization intersect, the results can be devastating. The loss is apparent in every charred stump, the once verdant forest transformed into an alien wasteland.
We focus on the loss because it is what we feel acutely. It is sudden and catastrophic. We cannot help but contrast the blackened skeletons with their once proud and rich forms.
But the fire is more than an ending. It is a beginning.
The conflagration clears away the dead and dying trees, making room for the seeds protected just below the soil to begin their journey to the sun. The blackened trunks enrich the soil, replacing nutrients that had been leached for centuries. Any illness that may have gripped the forest is extinguished with the flames, allowing an opportunity for new and healthy growth to emerge.
I’ve begun to see my divorce as a forest fire. Devastating. Destructive. Inevitable. Yet also cleansing, burning away all that was dead or dying or diseased. Leaving behind richer soil and brighter sun to nourish even better growth. And I’ve now gone from wandering lost through the charred stumps of the old growth to reveling in the beauty of the new.
So even though Smokey is wrong and we cannot prevent every forest fire, we can do our part and when they do happen, we can strive to see the potential hidden just beneath the newly exposed earth.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 