of missing cats and persons…


We lost our cat last week.

I was at work and noticed that I’d missed several calls from home. With teen drivers and lots of afternoon movement – rides from school and to dance, etc. – I’m always nervous about them. I like to hear that they made it where they needed to make it, and I never ever like discovering that I missed phone call after phone call from them because I’m always afraid it might have been “the call”. You know, the one when I find out they didn’t make it where they needed to go and something bad has happened.

I returned the call and was answered by a breathless and crying Emma who couldn’t form words yet. Of course, adrenaline shot straight through my heart as I wondered if my babes were on the side of the road right now in the very accident I try not to let myself envision. As she gasped and tried to tell me what happened, I admit that I forecasted the worst possible scenario.

Finally, the story came out. The cat escaped. Our baby cat. The silly one that is such a snuggle-bug and has so much personality that we call him our “puppy cat”.

Her tears poured, and the sobbing continued. I admit that I felt a pang in my heart about it immediately as this is how I lost my sweet Ella several years ago. She left for a walk and never returned; whether she was eaten, hit by a car, or taken by a well-meaning person who found her, we will never know. But upon realizing that my actual children – not my furry children – were safe and well, I felt incredible relief.

Honey, don’t chase him into the woods. That’s a bad idea. He is a cat. He will probably come back, and I don’t want you girls disappearing into the woods trying to catch a cat and putting yourself at risk. When we get home, we will work together and search for him.

And search we did. All week. It’s amazing how – when you’re on the search for something small and white – just how many small, white things are littered in the neighboring fields and along nearby roads and highways. I assume it’s because our snow just finally melted last week and all the trash that was accumulated under a half year of snow is finally exposed.

Time and again, I would be searching and see something that could  have been him and feel an instant of hope in my heart, all to feel the hope be dashed when the thing that could have been him ended up being a white plastic grocery bag instead.

One more, the little white thing I saw ended up being an actual white cat. Not even a mile from home. I stopped to check if it was our Finn and ended up getting attacked by a crazy German shepherd who bit me and has now put a fear of dogs in my heart where it would have never ever occurred to me to be scared. Hashtag: thankyouverymuch.

We did the posters and the phone calls and the in-person visit to all the neighboring farms. We joined the FB pages for lost animals and filed reports at city hall and all the local vets and humane societies. Still nothing.

I admit we were all feeling a little broken hearted about it. When I say we love our cats, I mean we l.o.v.e. our cats. They are like the small children that Bill and I never had together. We have biological children that we have blended and that’s been a rough journey – to get everyone to love each other and accept each other and be ok with the fact that we’ve created a new life out of the ashes that once were. But the cats are different. They’re easy and fun, and they make us loving and gentle and kind. They’ve taught all the kids to think through what a small creature who is unable to express himself in words is feeling and needing. I’ve often commented that the kitties have taught us all so much.

I know that might be a little over analytical, but hey, I’m Heather. If you don’t know that I do this about ev.ery.thing, then you don’t really know me. Ha!

Anyway, on Thursday night, Bill and Emma were on the road behind our house and who would you guess would be laying in the dark in the ditch? Little naughty Finnegan. Not even a hundred yards from home. Here we’ve all been crying all week and he apparently just went to the neighbor’s farm and had a little vacation. A vacation he seemed intent on continuing because that little rascal did NOT want to be caught.

In the freezing dark early night, there we were. Flashlights and pajamas and frozen fingers. We spread out and called and hunted and shook the kitty treats and nearly begged and pleaded with the open air that he would hear us and recognize us and come to one of us so we could take him home where he would be warm and fed and safe from predators and surrounded again by love and comfort.

He darted around us for an hour before we gave up. If a little cat does not want to be caught, heaven help you for trying. They are just so dang fast.

The next day, I watched at my window. I waited to catch just the fainted glimpse of something white moving around so I could resume my search in the daylight. I even put on my boots and walked through the woods – which was not fun after having been attacked by a dog for the first time in my life earlier that week.


Then in the evening, when Bill got home, he handed out head lamps and suggested we go find our Finn. As he was in our bedroom changing clothes, he glanced out the window and saw the very thing we were all looking for all week. The little stinker was sitting on a pile of rocks about 150 yards from our bedroom window.

In a flash, we were out the door.

We ran and ran till we could not run anymore. In and out of barns. Under combines. Up rock hills and into wood piles. Over fences and through the tiniest cracks under the old milking barn. Through the field. Running at top speed and hoping not to roll our ankles on the hardened stalks of last year’s harvest, we ran and ran and ran.

Finally, we cornered him in the old milking barn. I think that our fat indoor cat was really just too exhausted to continue his sprint. He sandwiched himself between an old piece of Styrofoam and the wall. With a blanket on each end blocking escape, we pulled the Styrofoam away from the wall and reached down and picked him up.

What happened next was completely unexpected.

This little critter that had us all panting for breath and covered in dirt and hay from his seeming desire to not be caught, suddenly knew who was holding him. He immediately stopped fighting, laid down his head, and started to purr.

It’s a funny thing when you realize that your beloved pet is really not human at all. If that makes sense to you, then you’re a real pet owner. The kind who sort of thinks of your pet as a human child who can’t talk and who does weird things like sniffing butts and eating poop from its litter box. Gross, but still human. Even though the fact that they aren’t human at all is wildly evident. What I really mean is that we think that they are wired even somewhat similarly to us humans. That when they are loved and given soft affection and a warm home and high quality food and clean water, that they will become attached to us the way we are to them and they will not wander. They won’t even wantto wander.

But when you’ve spent a week searching and an hour chasing a little animal that did.not.want.to.be.caught and then find it surrendering in the most infant-like way to the actual act of being caught, it occurs to you that what you’re dealing with is not human at all. There is nothing human about that interaction. That’s all 100% animal instinct. In fact, later in the evening, it occurred to me that wantmight not even be a thing to our little Finn. That he might just be controlled by instinctive things placed into him by his Creator that he neither could nor want to be in control of. Things like smells and hunger and the utter inability to allow himself to be caught by the very thing he so desperately needed to return to in order to be afforded the comforts and safety he has always known. And even weirder was how those instincts shifted in a split second to other instincts of trust and stillness once daddy had him in his arms.

I guess maybe that’s not so un-human after all, right?

I mean, in a weird way, I spend my days doing the same thing. Not on purpose, not because I  wantto. But because my original nature tells me to do so.

Last week, every now and then, when I’d stand at my window, scanning the horizon for this one small flash of white that I so desperately hoped to see, my mind connected the experience to a Sunday-school story of a boy who ran away and broke his father’s heart. Taking for granted all the love and safety and protection and provision of the Father’s house, he went in search of something. Something different. Something that he thought was more. And he wasn’t really driven by good sense. He was driven by something much more base. Much more animal.

And so the story goes that the father would stand and scan the horizon every day, looking for just the faintest glimmer of the boy cresting a faraway hill. He would long and long for that boy to return. The same naughty one who bolted the second he could.

The story is, of course, a parable about God’s love for us. About how much he longs for us to be near him and to live in union with him and to partake in all the good things he has for us.

When the boy finally recognizes his bad state, he returns to the father. He expects to be allowed to be a slave, but he is reinstated as beloved son and heir.

My favorite part of the whole Bible is one little verse tucked away in this story. I can feel a lump forming in my throat just now as I prepare to write the words…

“And while he was still a long way off, the father saw him and had compassion and ran to him.”

No lengthy apologies or ardent appeals for mercy were needed. The love of the father was more than enough to overcome the bad choices of the son. All the father wanted was for his son to return to him. He was not driven by the neurotic ego’s need for the ill to be atoned and repented from. He was driven only by love.

If I could feel such emotions for a cat that is more of a creature of instinct than of real true reciprocated love for me, how much more does my heavenly father love me?

If I could stand at the window for seven days and breathe a million longing prayers for the return of a little cat that I adore, how much more does the God who made me long for my presence? How much more does he desire to see me whole and happy and safe and home?

Why do I get this backward so often? Why are the tapes in my head so thoroughly screwed up that it takes a cat running away and the real, true pain of his loss to strike my heart, and then this funny, crazy, wild chase of getting him back for the same old truth to click once again?

God loves me.

He wants me.
His plans for me are good.
His provision for me is real. Tangible.

I think so often of a childhood hymn that has been a favorite my whole life through…

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it
Prone to leave the God I love.
Take my heart Lord, take and seal it
Seal it for thy courts above.

Every time I find myself somehow running – doing that thing where I leave the safety of my place in his presence, and I get lost on a trail bad brain synapses, like the trail of falling dominoes that is unstoppable once the first is set off – I find it almost impossible to stop. I run and I run and I work and I work. I labor to make sense of it all, and I hide to conceal my confusion. I forget all the times of previous faithfulness and wonder what sort of silly story I heard when I was a child about an unseen force that supposedly loves me and hung the stars in space and formed my heart with his breath and think the whole thing foolish. I forget how much sense it makes. I climb over rusty fences and crawl through dirt holes trying not to be found. I exhaust myself both mentally and emotionally trying to convince myself that this love-affair story of a man who hung on a cross to bring Nearness close is the cockamamie invention of lunatics, and run like mad finding ways that this simply does.not.make.sense.

And while I run, there stands my father, afar off. Scanning the horizons for… me.

Faithfully longing for my return.

To him.
To safety.
To nourishment and comfort.

And the entire time I’m running, I can feel the sense that I’m being hunted. I can reject the entire thing and yet, at the very same time, I can know like I know the blood pounding through my own veins that, even in the moment of my denial and confusion, in that very second, I am being pursued. Sought after.

And when I am finally caught, I breathe hard and pant and drip sweat out my pores and simultaneously recognize this place as the place of peace and safety. The Really Real. The elusive reality that is so shockingly accurate that I can scarcely remember why I thought it foolish while I was running.

And it has happened again. This returning-to. This lost-being-found-being-lost-being-found.

I recognize the arms that hold me; the arms that caught me. The arms of my father. His scent is upon me, his voice reverberates in my heart, and all my instincts recognize him. And I stop. I finally surrender. I breathe, lay my head on his chest, and I can’t help but purr.




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a box full of darkness…

This quote always gets me whenever it comes back through my Memories.
Screen Shot 2018-04-09 at 11.32.19 AM
Bill and I were talking recently about the bad things that happen to us along the way and how, without those moments of black, our story would be lacking. It’s a funny thing how that works, ya know. That our worst pain can be the very thing that adds so much depth and meaning to our lives. None of us really enjoy them while they’re happening – in fact, when it was me, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the good things that might come from it. I just wanted to be out of the fire.
And yet, the fact remains, who we are and who we become primarily exists because of the hardships we face and how we handle those hardships.
It’s not enough to simply experience bad things. You don’t automatically get a membership into the Absolved-Into-The-Greater-Good club by having merely survived. There is a superseding of those agonies and a rising above that is required for the lemons-to-lemonade thing to happen.
The hardships we face also define us. We read lots of trendy memes about not being defined by our bad things, but who here has faced something really bad and not been left with a permanent mark? It’s almost like being given an extra middle name. Who we were before it happened stays and remains, but a thing – a dark thing – is added. And it remains. Always.
My friend Jonathan’s wife died way too early. Insert extra middle name.
My friend Courtney and my friend Jess and my friend Lora all buried their young sons. Insert extra middle names.
My friend Kris was abused badly as a child. Insert extra middle name.
My friend Rachel was battered by her ex husband. Insert extra middle name.
My friend’s husband committed suicide. Insert extra middle name.
My friend’s son committed suicide. Insert extra middle name.
My sister’s best friend in high school died in a car crash. Insert extra middle name.
My friend’s daughter is in an abusive marriage, and she won’t get out. Insert extra middle name.
I have a handful of extra middle names as well. Most of the people who really know me already know those names. And yet, I often feel some sort of misplaced shame that I somehow just can’t seem to get over those things. Those dark things. I hate how they linger and how every thing in life that I learn and want to share and get lemonade-from-lemons somehow always seems to have to come back to those same sad storylines.
A few years ago, I was a youth mentor at the local YFC for an art/creative writing gig. As is YFC tradition, during each session, each person is required to give their Life Story in five minutes. I kept trying to concoct something different than the same storylines that have always been present in my life. I tried to come up with something new. I wanted to add in new middle names and leave out the old ones. Not because I was ashamed or something, but because truly, in the deep recesses of me – in the place that feels and knows things without really having thought them through – it seems as though I really should be over them all by now. It seems as though every bit of negative emotional charge should have drained out of those stories, and that I should have something new and fresh to give.
As I began putting together my five minute speech, I realized, as I did with Bill just the other day, that those stories ARE me. They were not simply things that happened to me. They were trajectories. They were paths. They were directions I was sent on. So, I could no more give an accurate assessment of my life in the absence of those stories than a good book could bring you to the present place of the main character by foregoing the hardships that brought him there.
Who I am IS those stories. They are my extra middle names.
But maybe it gets better.
Maybe my middle names WERE: Abused, Grew-Up-In-A-Cult, Married-An-Addict, Cheater/Cheated, Abandoned, Alone, Total-Health-Collapse, etc.
But, maybe BECAUSE of having visited those incredibly dark places, now I have other middle names as well.
Of all the dark boxes I’ve been given in my life, each and every time, with enough time and healing and dogged effort, a gift reveals itself to me. A gift I would never have had without having been held under water and tortured. A gift I would never have found if not for the blackness and Great Sadness.
“Hardships often prepare ordinary people for extraordinary things.”
C.S. Lewis


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complicated grief…

I came searching for an old blog to share with a friend who is going through some really hard times. When I found it, it surprised me to realize that it was a solid decade old. I mean, I know that. But ten years is a long time, and it’s strange to me how that much time could have passed and yet, so much complicated grief still pulses through my life.
Could it be that severe loss and deep trauma just reshape us somehow? That, even after the actual loss has been recovered from, the cellular memory of it and it’s shocking lows and unexplainable pains can be so intensely painful that the trauma always feels near? I don’t know, really?
I do sometimes wonder why my recovery continues to not be complete.
I messaged with some of my friends this week. Friends who have lost children. The most egregious of all human experiences. The years have passed, but the pain continues. Grows even.
I was chatting with a Crossfit friend, and she reminded me of what she’d told me about herself when I met her over two years ago. I remembered but I guess I’d forgotten. She lost her husband. Unlike mine, hers was a real death with a funeral, but what she said was so incredibly spot-on with my own complicated grief process that, even for a moment, I gave myself some room and said, “Well, gosh, no wonder this has been a bad process.”
This thing called grief – it wakes us up to a life we never wanted. And even though happiness finds its way back to us and the sun eventually shines again, there is, deep within, the haunting agony of it all. The deep deep scars that com.plete.ly changed who we were. On good days, we’re good. But on bad days, we’re really really not.
As I read these decade-old words just now, eyes blurry from tears, I’m struck by a lot of things.
Probably first and foremost, I’m struck by my own faith and spirituality. The doctrine-laden paragraphs that oozed from my fingers without effort. The way I was so unabashedly…. Christian. My very deep and abiding ability to trust. I don’t think those things are necessarily gone, but I have, as a person, changed so very much since I wrote these words.
My faith went through a two year blackout. How I found my way out is still a mystery to me. And when I’m super technical about it, I don’t even think that *I* found my way out as much as it was a case of me being sought and pulled out. Verses about “leaving the 99 to find the 1” come to mind.
But even after all that, the words stutter to be formed. The knowledge – which is now experiential and not just mere head knowledge – is still all present but I am… I dunno… quieter. Not so quick to go on a holy rampage with 10,000 Jesus words and Bible quotes. In some ways, I feel guilty about this. In others, I feel that my faith has some real substance to it now. What was, before, the good hearted scrambling of a young girl/woman who was li.ter.all.y drowning in the pain of the life I was living, who could barely help but scream the words of the 23rd Psalm every time I was lucky enough for my head to break out of the surface of the water and afford me a breath, now, who I am as a child of God is a quiet and silent thing. There isn’t a lot of fanfare anymore and anything that even remotely resembles being “churchy” brings on my own gag reflex. Not because being a Christian is a bad thing but because people can be super shitty. And the shittiest people I’ve ever known also happen to be the type that speak the way I used to speak and who show up for little “c” church every Sunday. THAT is what almost did me in.
But it didn’t.
The other thing that hits me hard is just how desperately unhealthy I was. I mean, I had all the proper reflexes that any good Christian girl should have about trusting God, but my deep and abiding need to control the circumstances of my ex-husband’s recovery (or not-recovery, actually) were as real as the blood that pulses through my veins with my every single heartbeat.
I am relieved to say that that girl is no more. She has been utterly healed, and she no longer thinks that way nor is she stuck in a word where she is surrounded by inhumane treatment at every turn.
As many of you know, I started Crossfitting a couple years ago. And as much as I try to not be an annoyingly stereotypical Crossfitter who can’t shut up about it, the staggering equability between Crossfit and the really hard shit that life throws at you sometimes is something that would be hard to miss… if indeed you’ve lived through tough shit. The thing I love about CF is the constant “I can do that now” that I get to experience. And maybe it’s only the addition of 2.5 lb plates on either side of my bar getting me closer and closer to a new PR, but it’s still an “I can do that now” moment.
As I read this old blog, the air is heavy with “I can do that now”. I can deadlift that now. And I can say no to abuse now. I can clean that weight now, and I can choose sanity now. I can climb ropes and do pull up’s and stand on my hands now. And I can also move fairly effortlessly through life with no need for constant crutches, emotional bandages, and continual assistance.
My life is insulated with caring, loving, trustworthy people who have healed me all the way down to my core. Well, except the part of me that just seems to be forever stuck in trauma, but I don’t think that will ever really end, so, there’s that.
Last week, I saw a picture on Facebook of 6 girls who had flown across the country to see each other. They do this every year. I know this because I was once one of them. The group of 6 was originally a group of 7. We bought cutesy things like keychains and t-shirts that said “the lucky seven”. We’d known each other since our odd and strange upbringing in the same cult and had been there for each other for many many years.
Seeing the picture brought an instant physical response of nausea in my stomach. I recalled with startling clarity how it all happened. How six friends flushed me down the toilet in the middle of my divorce, in the middle of my nervous breakdown, in the middle of the most intense agony I’ve ever felt. I remember how not even one of them called me. I remember reading their words of disgust in me – all for something I never did in the first place. One of them sent me a message letting me know she’d forgive me once I stopped lying and was wiling to be humble. Another one messaged me to tell me that she was now wondering if I’d just made up all the stories about my life with Brian – that maybe it was him who was the injured spouse.
Oh, there was a lot of flapping around, but mostly there was just blood. Needless blood. One of the girls was friends with my Bill, and she clearly didn’t want me to date him. And so when I did anyway, she made up a story of abuse and took it to the rest of the girls – my lifelong closest friends – and without even a second thought, without even a freaking phone call to me to ask what really happened or what my point of view was, I was removed from the group. My access to our message board – the message board *I* had helped create – was terminated immediately. The girls that *I* had invited to this small fellowship were now disallowing me. During the absolute.worst.moments.of.my.life.
But what is most distressing is the fact that I held on for YEARS that they would one day call me and get the story straight and I could be allowed back into that group again. That nasty little group of nasty little women.
The me that I am now is appalled by that. Why in the actual hell would I want to be part of such a capricious arrangement?
Ugh. There you have it. Nasty little people who call themselves Christians doing nasty little things – and making it really hard for their victim to even want to remain inside the same faith.
I looked at the picture for a solid minute before I took the time to find every one of those girls’ profiles and block them. The faces that used to bring such comfort and pleasure to me have transformed into nothing more than ugly ogres. (Sorry for that, I am just realizing now that I still probably have some anger to deal with toward those gals.)
But guess what. That girl is gone. The girl from ten years ago who would tolerate such vile treatment from those she had never wronged and then WANT DESPERATELY (for years) to find my way back into their hearts.
So there you have it.
“I can do this now.”
I can say “no freaking thank you” to toxic people as well as ambivalent friends who love me to my face and hate me behind my back. I can see the difference between love for the sake of filling one’s own emptiness and for the sake of sharing one’s own abundance. I can attract goodness and honesty and integrity to myself because the stains of yesterday got washed away in that horrible flood that I lived through and now I’m a new person.
I wish the heather from today could have somehow spent some time with the girl I was a decade ago. I’d tell myself to hang in there. I’d tell myself that one day my life would be so bursting with happiness and health that I wouldn’t even be able to contain it. I’d tell myself that pain really can be productive.
I still sometimes wonder how I ended up here. I wonder if there was a quicker and less expensive path. I wonder if my introversion is really introversion or just the result of emotional wounds that leave a person permanently tired.
I still mean all of these words. The ones I wrote a decade ago while I spent 2 years with my head held under water. The years that I loooonged for death as a relief from life.
I still feel the same way as I did when I wrote it ten years ago. Life has muted me, I suppose. I am less vocal. Less able to be vocal. But I do still choose to Be Still before a living God who has known me all of my days. I am still aware of his grace toward me. His loving kindness that brought me out of my that shallow grave and stood me up and healed my wounds. Yes, some linger. Maybe to remind me always of my great need. But the other parts of my redemption suddenly seem so much more thorough and evident as I took this trip down memory lane.
This one has always been a favorite to me. I learned it when I was young and my life was filled with things that I needed to be rescued from. It was a quiet theme that played over and over during the dark night of my soul. And it plays still. When I am at work and my mind is not busy. When I’m driving in my car or folding laundry. Gentle reminders to be still – wherever life has me at this present moment. In joy or pain. In happy or sad.
Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.
Be still, my soul, though dearest friends depart
And all is darkened in the vale of tears;
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears.
Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay
From His own fulness all He takes away.
Be still, my soul; the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; when change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.
Still a favorite.

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Can money buy happiness…

For my Analytical Writing class…

Can Money Buy Happiness?

While it’s true that happiness isn’t for sale, money is responsible for the acquisition of the things in life that make happiness possible. A warm bed, a full belly, a roof over one’s head, and a good education: these all account for the things in life that give a person a sense of wellbeing.

Money can’t buy happiness, so the saying goes. Or can it? After all, what is happiness anyway and can money – or the lack thereof – really influence its accessibility to us?

Wendy Griffin is a single mother of two boys living in Memphis, Tennessee. She has first-hand knowledge of what it’s like doing without. To her, having a little more money would certainly bring some happiness. She says, “A person who is constantly under the stress of trying to provide food, shelter, and adequate clothing, as well as basic physical security, for himself and anyone he’s responsible for, is not going to be ‘happy’ until he has the financial security to know that he can meet whatever storm may blow in (Anderson).” Insofar as money would allow her to fund the needs and wants for a good life with her boys, yes, money can buy happiness.

But in case that seemed like an easy answer to a complex situation, there’s more. She goes on to explain that there are underlying factors to whether money applied to just anyone will always result in happiness. Basic needs such as physiological and personal safety and security, social belonging and social esteem, as well as self-actualization, are not attainable by even a vast hoard of cash. And without them, inserting money into the void within will no sooner make the person happy than applying a bandage to a man with heart disease will make him well. The person must have a wholeness about them before money can even begin to bring true happiness. But when the wholeness is there, money can be the vehicle that brings about the opportunity for happiness. “Having those worries (basic needs) ‘solved’ would allow me to pursue things like booking a retreat to research and write my novel, funding some charitable endeavors that are dear to my heart, and doing some of the fun things that I’ve put off for decades because food, shelter, clothing, and transportation came first (Anderson).”

On the other side of the tracks, so to speak, is John Gerads of St. Cloud, Minnesota. John and his wife have chosen to live in a modest home well beneath their pay grade. John talks about their choice to live in contentment with “enough”. “Due to not being what we call ‘house poor’, we’ve been able to continue to build our savings, travel, and have the financial flexibility to offer our daughter experiences that we may not have been able to provide had our monthly housing obligation been larger without assuming more debt.” He says they have never regretted their choice, and, even now, they feel no desire to upgrade or upsize. “We are more than happy with our living situation. We have a small mortgage that gives us more financial flexibility with a variety of things. We’ve been able to make improvements to our home over the past few years and pay cash for all of it. No additional debt!” (Gerads)

And so, how can this be? One with too little admits that more would bring happiness, while one with more than enough can cast off the idea of excess with no regret. According to Belinda Luscombe of Time Magazine, having enough to pay the bills, plus room for a little luxury, meant that the quality of the person’s life was enhanced, not just by the addition of pleasant things, but mostly by the lack of the worry over meeting one’s needs. However, with incomes that surpassed taking care of the basics with room for a little more, the reports showed that there was no actual greater degree of happiness. “There’s your changeable, day-to-day mood: whether you’re stressed or blue or feeling emotionally sound. Then there’s the deeper satisfaction you feel about the way your life is going — the kind of thing Tony Robbins tries to teach you. While having an income above the magic $75,000 cutoff doesn’t seem to have an impact on the former (emotional well-being), it definitely improves people’s Robbins-like life satisfaction. In other words, the more people make above $75,000, the more they feel their life is working out on the whole. But it doesn’t make them any more jovial in the mornings.” (Luscombe)

Money ceases being the determination for wellbeing once the threshold of “enough” has been passed. When the bills are paid and the belly is full, happiness is something far more subjective than “Keeping up with the Joneses”. But when one sits beneath the line of what it takes to keep the eviction notice at bay and the electricity on, suddenly, it is for want of money that severe unhappiness can occur.

Seems simple enough, right? Not hardly!

Andrew Blackman of The Wall Street Journal takes this conundrum to a whole new level. He acknowledges that wealth does indeed bring about happiness, but his slant is that how it is spent is the real deal changer. Accumulating more “stuff” isn’t where it’s at. Using money to purchase experiences is what actually gives us that sensation of satisfaction that we call happiness. “What we find is that there’s this huge misforecast,” he says. “People think that experiences are only going to provide temporary happiness, but they actually provide both more happiness and more lasting value. And yet we still keep on buying material things because they’re tangible, and we think we can keep on using them.” (Blackman)

In the same article, Cornell University psychology professor Thomas Gilovich concludes the same: “People often make a rational calculation: I have a limited amount of money, and I can either go there, or I can have this,” he says. “If I go there, it’ll be great, but it’ll be done in no time. If I buy this thing, at least I’ll always have it. That is factually true, but not psychologically true. We adapt to our material goods.” (Gilovich)

The brief thrill associated with the purchase of tangible goods is, well, brief. It comes; it goes. Once it has passed, the happiness the thing supposedly provided is dimmed or is gone altogether. It’s when you wait and wait for the latest iPhone to hit the stands. You rush out to get it thinking it will bring the feeling we think is happiness, but before two weeks is over, you’re just over it. It’s not just another phone. The thrill is gone, and it is soon taken for granted as just another fixture of life. But with experiences, life as a whole is enhanced. Horizons are broadened, relationships cultivated, and culture deepened. Weeks and months later, the same sense of happiness derived from the experience lingers and brings a smile to your face. In a bold juxtaposition, it lasts.

In J.R.R. Tolkien’s work The Hobbit, we are introduced to a dwarf named Thorin Oakenshield, the son of the mighty Thrain. When his father was killed and the family fortune stolen by a fire-breathing dragon named Smaug, Thorin made it his life’s mission to slay the dragon and return his father’s fortune to his family. After a perilous journey and a treacherous fight to the death with Smaug, he eventually saw his victory. But Thorin’s greed got the better of him. His “gold lust” set in him a burning fire that was never able to be quenched by more. He willingly parted with his friends and those who aided him in battle to unfairly withhold their portion of the treasure. Shortly thereafter, on his deathbed from battle wounds, he wishes a final farewell to his friend Bilbo whom he had betrayed in order that he would not need to share the spoil with him. “I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship with you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate” (258, 259).

In an age-old story, we are reminded that things can never take the place of people and that wealth is not a thing to be equated with happiness. What Thorin’s bloodthirsty greed brought, in the end, was death. Death to his friendships and eventually death to his body. Had he been satisfied with “enough”, his life and relationships would have not only been prolonged, they would have thrived. Insatiable appetite only awakens even deeper hunger. To these people, money is not a blessing but a cancer, metastasizing sickness and death through their entire being and taking their nobility and potential for good and reducing it to raw sensationalism to excite and please their vulgar taste. It is not the thing – material wealth or what can be purchased with it – that is the trouble. It is when improper priority is given to it that it becomes a delivery service of sadness rather than happiness.

In Saint Paul’s first epistle to Timothy, he utters the often-quoted words, “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” He goes on to say, “which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith and pierced themselves through with many sorrows” (King James Version, 1 Tim. 6.10). Excessive attachment to material wealth does not bring with it anything that remotely resembles happiness. While it is true that we come into this world with basic needs that, when met, bring happiness, beyond the point of those needs being met, the savage thirst for more cannot bring about anything good.

And so, with such a strong dichotomy existing, what can we say to this idea that money purchases our happiness?

I think we can best say that it affords peace where the lack would mean strain. It brings adventure where the lack would mean boredom. It offers room for expansion where the lack would mean stagnation. It affords opportunity where the lack would mean the possibility of loss.

Or maybe we’re just lost in translation of terms. Happiness, a word often confused for its similar counterpart, joy, simply speaks of general wellbeing and an absence of overwhelming stress, sadness, or anxiety. Of the meaning of happiness, Rubin Khoddam of the University of Southern California says this: “Research in the field of positive psychology and happiness often define a happy person as someone who experiences frequent positive emotions, such as joy, interest, and pride, and infrequent (though not absent) negative emotions, such as sadness, anxiety, and anger. Happiness has also been said to relate to life satisfaction, appreciation of life, moments of pleasure, but overall, it has to do with the positive experience of emotions.” (2015)

And so, we see that happiness speaks of circumstantial contentment and pleasantness, where joy speaks of something much more consequential, far-reaching, and weighty.

Joy isn’t a thing we can put into our carts and ring up at the register. Not literally and not metaphorically. But happiness might be. The new furniture is not the same as experiencing the staunch loyalty of a good friend, and the diamond bracelet can’t compare with holding a newborn baby. But because the chemical exchange that takes place in our bodies during the onset of both the experience of joy and happiness feels similar, we can easily mistake one for the other. One – happiness – fades away, and the other – joy – lingers. Happiness is good for a moment. But then the sun casts down its heat upon it, and the thing shrivels and dies. And then we must return to the beginning again where we long for the next thrill to travel along the synapse in our brains telling us that, again, for this instant, we are happy. But joy nurtures our souls: the place where we feel supreme delight and peace. Joy is a thing that does not fade when the new technology has become obsolete and the new car has become outdated. However, happiness can indeed be fleeting.

So, can money buy happiness? Well, money buys freedom and choice. Money buys comfort. Money can relieve stress, and when used to give to others, it can provide even more happiness! But that’s not to say that it can buy joy. Like any other inanimate object, the hands that hold the money are the greatest telling factor. Thorin’s lesson reminds us to hold it loosely and generously, lest it overtake us, and we live our days longing for the next thrill; for higher and higher stacks of gold to accumulate behind our treasury walls. Have enough, but seek to be content, lest it invite unwanted dragons that attack unknowingly and lay waste the very happiness we so desperately seek.

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We went up north a few weeks ago with the intention of spending some time alone. Together-alone and alone-alone.

We stayed in a small cabin with no electricity and no heat other than a wood stove. We spent a lot of time talking and reading and contemplating.

Family blending is hard business. Hard business indeed. Eight years ago, we dove off the cliff thinking we were going to land in blue water that shimmered and sparkled, but we discovered during the fall that there were rocks waiting for us.

We’ve managed to stay afloat and to recover from difficulty after difficulty, but we needed time to stop. To assess. To back up and think. To remember and ask what could have been done differently – for the sake of posterity more than anything. To ask what can be mended and what must be released.

After many attempts to break through the untended hardness of my heart that happened to me rather unawares over a summer of unresolved conflict, I finally went off on my own.

Hours of total silence.


If you’ve never done it, you should.

At first, your mind does the dumb stuff your mind does. While trying to commune with the I Am, your mind remembers your grocery list and recites the to-do a mile long. You try to make it be quiet, but quietness, as you discover, is a hidden destination that requires an ardent search.

I walked alone. Forecasting my footfalls with the tree roots that littered my path, for even brief instances on my walk, I closed my eyes. I recognized my infinitesimal smallness. A small bit of human dwarfed by the magnitude of these forest giants.

When I arrived at the cabin, I was alone still. It was the middle of the afternoon. I had some evergreen needles that I’d broken off into my hands as I walked through the wilderness. I breathed them for a while, stunned and full of awe over the fact that something so freely available in nature could have such a powerful effect on my senses. Unlike the smells of the pre-cut trees at Christmas, the intensity of the pine smell was literally overwhelming.

I spent some time thinking about the pine tree. Doing its thing. You know. Just Being. It didn’t fret over the things I fret over. It doesn’t get its feelings all wounded when people break off its needles and carry them away. It just… is.

I did some handstands.

Be quiet, self. Be still. Why is this so hard?

I took off my sweatshirt and jeans and laid on the bed. It was cold except for the bit of warmth coming from the wood stove whose embers were dying fast. I wrapped up in the blanket.


Why must we come back to this so often? When will I be free of this plague? This insufferable burden? Will I ever arrive at a place in life that doesn’t require the work of forgiving someone? Why can’t I fight another war now? I’m so, so weary of this one.

 If I can forgive you, you can forgive them.

Yes, it’s true. That’s a good point.

Forgiveness is not your enemy, Heather. It’s work, but it’s freedom. Do you want to live your whole life with your hands clenched shut in self-protection, or are you willing to sustain wounds from living with your hands wide open?

I know, I know. But also, I know that I’m sick of being lied about. I’m sick of all the false guilt I get to wrestle with. I’m weary from trying to navigate something that apparently no one else has thought to write a manual on. I feel like I’m hacking my way through dense woods here. Totally unchartered territory.

Touch it. The pain. Get your hands in it. Move it around. The reason it hurts so much now is that you’ve not touched it for so many months. Massage it. Let me massage it. And let your heart imagine the words of forgiveness. Even if you’re not ready quite yet to do the whole thing, practice it. Let the words sit in your heart. Train yourself to be kind and to give even those who hate you more and more chances. Maybe one of these times, love will prevail and you will break all the way through. And remember, hurt begets hurt. Perhaps the reason they hurt you is that they too are hurting. Isn’t that who you really want to be? A healer of hurts? Not a remember-er of wounds. Let it go. Be still.


My pen doodled in circles and swirls and sketched pine trees and words.

As far as the east is from the west, so may our transgressions toward each other be removed.
Grace be with you, and peace multiplied.
You are free. Your debt is cancelled.
Go and be at peace.
I refuse to hate you.
You are worth fighting for.
I won’t give up.
May love flow between us. Above us and behind and before us and beside us. Let it be so.
I choose to stay soft.
I choose to touch my wounds in order that they might heal. So that my life will touch yours with the healing I’ve found rather than the prickles of my anger and resentment.


God help me. These are hard things.


Later, we found each other again. We walked and talked about how hard it is. Relationships. When someone who isn’t you gets to make decisions that impact you in a terrible way. What do you do then? In some cases, you walk away. But when it’s your child, you don’t. You find a way. You fight the good fight.

Thank God for the gentle warrior who joined arms with me eight years ago and is as committed to seeing this journey through as I am. Our hopeful tragedy.

We wandered more and found a cabin in the woods. It was empty. We sat on the front steps for a while and peeked in the windows. An old iron stove and the sure signs that this cabin was just another out building that belonged to the retreat center where we were staying.

We walked more and found some kayaks. So, we took two and hooked them together. We didn’t really paddle; we just drifted. More and more baring of soul. The sound of water lapping against the sides and the occasional yodel of the loons. The lily pads had already begun their winter decomposition.

We were surrounded by immense non-humanness. We, the only two of our kind. The rest, all grand and majestic. Like two ants roaming in a fairyland.

We return to the topic at hand. Our family. This wilderness and how to make it out. How to bring eight souls together to a place of peace.

The longer I live the more I am aware that real relationship has very little to do with what I get out of the deal. In the grand scheme of things, I’m actually quite small. Relationship does not exist to answer the question of how happy or not it makes me. It’s the opposite really. Real relationship is a long walk in a dense wood. It’s showing up and being there. It’s faithfulness in mundane things. It’s the ability to lay aside the humanity within – the humanity that demands that all ills be atoned for – in order to relieve the distress of the other. It’s finding the courage way down deep to do what goes so against every angry fiber of your being. Which one of us finds it hard to love those who love us. Who treat us well. But what of those who do not. I propose that THAT is the real stuff of relationship. Finding the resolve to fight against the primal urge for revenge and the temptation to become hardened because of the pain.

In the wilderness, there are no supports and assists to make things easy. Being comfortable comes with effort and strain and even with all that, being in the wilderness is still uncomfortable. The fire dies down and you wake up cold. The belly rumbles at the midnight hour and no fridge is near. All the comforts of home that are usually so readily available are gone. And what you are left with is simplicity. A simplicity that is actually so simple that it’s burdensome. Eventually, you simply stop thinking about what you wish was and you notice this big silence around you. The trees and the birds and the evergreen needles and the lakes. All faithful to their job. Their place in nature. Unnoticed. Unseen. Just… being. They forgive the storms that come. They shelter the person who wanders in the woods. They exist for something far different than what my life has come to be busy with. Nothing is quick or simple. All is work and effort. And yet, in that place of effort, there also comes a sort of calm and peace and stillness.

In the wilderness, it’s hard to be petty. It’s hard to get yourself super wrapped up about some dumb blog that someone wrote about you that’s full of stupid nonsense. Because, in the wilderness, who flipping cares. In the wilderness, it’s hard to get bent out of shape over words spoken years ago. Words that sit on my heart like black tar that won’t wash off. Because, in the wilderness, there is too much fresh air for something so stagnant to even have a voice.

In the wilderness, surrounded by so much majesty and grandeur, it’s hard not to want to reflect a bit of that in your own heart. To allow yourself to be stretched and grown and made beautiful. In the wilderness, it’s easier to lay with open hands, half naked and cold, on a hard bed with warm thoughts about a God who wove you in your mother’s womb, who has stayed with you every step of this sometimes-rough/sometimes-wonderful journey. Who has plans that are declared to be good. It’s easier to breathe in. The freshness of the pine and the freshness of forgiveness. It’s easy to want beauty to come from the ashes you have in your pockets.

In the wilderness, when all the things that normally demand attention and keep one busy – so busy that the work of the heart has no time to be done – when they are gone, it’s possible to stop trying so hard. It’s possible to stop doing. It’s possible to simply be.

Help me let go. Help me find peace. Give my hands the art of healing and my heart the art of persistence.

Help me hang on. Help me spread peace. Give me eyes to see what is hidden from me and a heart to be compassionate.

Set me free from the heavy chains of anger for a merry and light heart is good medicine.

Come to my winter and bless me with the white snow of stain removal amidst the bleak landscape and monotone sky.

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Let it out and let it go…

This past Monday, Bill and I went to see The Glass Castle. I’d read the book last year and fallen in love with Jeanette and her ability to share her painful story with the world in a way that was full of grace and forgiveness and integration. When I first saw the trailer, I was crazy excited and started counting days.

The movie itself was brutal to watch. I didn’t really expect it. The book somehow didn’t bring the story to life the way the movie did. My response was near nausea. So powerful, so visceral. It was as though someone reached in and found a little nerve buried quite deep that had somehow not been massaged all these years since the trauma all happened. And the touch set me on fire. I couldn’t stop crying – and I mean, ugly crying – and I was shaking for hours.

There is something about seeing the realities you once knew as part of your daily life played out by actors. It is… well, brutal. It’s awful. It’s terrifying. And it’s all so very very personal. Even though the story wasn’t mine and it differs because I didn’t experience the wild poverty that she did, the depiction of alcoholism and how that thread was the undertow to the.entire.story just wracked my senses. I felt ashamed again and embarrassed. I heard someone laugh in the theater at one point and my body instantly jerked. I wanted to stand up and yell and demand their respect and silence. All that pain on such bare display deserves silence and respect.

As we drove home and I babbled through my tears that ran like rivers down my cheeks, I was reminded of the power we have in telling our stories. We have the ability to go places inside of each other that would otherwise remain completely untouched, unmassaged, and unhealed. When we tell our stories, we, in effect, reach into those dark places inside of someone else and say, “It’s going to be ok. I went there too. And here are my scars to prove it. But it’s going to be ok. And you are not alone.” And to any trauma victim, you know full well that the difference between post traumatic stress and post traumatic GROWTH is just that simple. “I am here. You are not alone. You will survive. I won’t leave.”

Telling your story also is a powerful form of personal catharsis. For me, telling my story validates me and it bids my fear to be silent. It reminds me from where I have come and to where I am going. It comforts me when people read my experiences and speak love back to me. It nourishes me when people speak words of hope and acceptance – acceptance even after the darkest of me is known. And finally, telling your story is the washing of the wound. It’s the digging very deep and the scrubbing very hard. Telling your story is a gift to yourself and a gift to others who have and are feeling the same hurt.

After all, we are all so very much more alike than we are different. We all hurt and experience loss and devastation. But somehow we go through those moments often feeling most alone rather than most part of the collective human experience. When others tell us their stories, suddenly the wall falls down, we see ourselves surrounded by a mass of fellow-survivors, and we find courage.

This is my story. The story of how my life fell apart. There are more stories and I will continue telling them, but this one took me five years to find the courage to be able to write it. Since then, four more years have passed and even still, I could barely read it again when it came into my Facebook Memories today.

Tell your stories, my friends. Do not bottle them up inside of you. It’s the only time in life that by releasing poison from your own chest, it transforms into healing balm to those around you. Let it out and let it go.


Next week marks the five-year anniversary of us moving here to MN.  It seemed high time I do a little review for myself.


I was driving home from a movie last night when an old song came on the radio.  It was Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting”.  The sappy anthem of the 90’s, right?  I mean, anyone and everyone claimed that as “their” song for whatever heartbreak they were going through at the moment.  I was no different.

I was 19; he was 17.  We met in the cult where we both worked and lived.  We got to know each other by passing notes that were taped to the bottom of our dinner plates that we would inconspicuously trade with one another in the food line.

I don’t talk of him often anymore.  The world finds that unacceptable, you know. After all, here I am, a very happily married woman.  How on earth could it be possible that I even still have those memories, much less, that they can fill my eyes with tears and break my heart all over again almost twenty years later.

He was a troublemaker.  Aren’t they all?  And isn’t that what we love about them?  He was always taking huge risks and in a significant way, it was being around that that gave me the courage to take the plunge and leave the cult just 10 months after we met.

He was fun and sweet and poetic and very thoughtful.  I can still see how crystal blue his eyes were as I sat in the hotel window talking to him one day – the sun shining in behind my back and making them glitter with life.

I remember my finger grazing his hair one time on the bus on the way to church.  Boys and girls were obviously not allowed to touch, so, there was some thrill to finding ways to make even the smallest of contact with one another. It was rare and it was clean, but it was a world of firsts for this sheltered girl.

All the girls wanted him.  They all talked about how he liked them most.  I didn’t tell them.  I don’t know why, actually.  Their talk made me mad, but I didn’t know how to speak up.  I didn’t unravel my mysterious muteness until recently, but the signs of it were clear even back then.

I knew it was me.  He told me.  And I believed him.


The song now changed from the radio.  It was no longer some song that time warped me back to the early 90’s.  It was something contemporary.  From 2013. I was driving down Pinecone Road. A road that only came into my life recently.  It doesn’t have the ability to reach back inside of me like the Richard Marx song did.

The music and the landscape brought me back to present day.  I was glad for the dark because that stupid song really unsettled me.  I wiped some very unwelcome tears away and cranked the music for a second so I could cough and clear my breathing that had become a bit uneven without the kids noticing my distress.

How is it that one life can be so far away – so buried deep– so tucked safely away in a locked box that is never opened and yet… just one song… just one sappy song and the lid comes flying off and all the particles of that life – all the joy and all the longing and all the sorrow and all the torture and all the love – all of it surfaces and flies around in the very air I’m breathing?  How is it that I can have recovered as much as I have and still find myself incapacitated over one silly little song?

I think anyone that has spent any large chunk of their life with someone and then has been forced to move on without them and find a new life probably has some similar mental and emotional handicaps. Thirteen years I spent with him. Thirteen Christmases and thirteen birthdays.  Thirteen Halloweens and thirteen Valentines days.  Thirteen summers and thirteen winters.  And try as I may to bury them inside me and forget them all together, moments like last night tell me another story.  A story about cell memory and how very much those years are imprinted on me like the fingerprints that identify me.  They are me.  They made me. To deny them or forget them is to silence myself.

I think emotions are a lot like muscles. I think that muscle strains and adhesions are best healed with time and ice and massage.  And I think the same is true with broken emotions.  If you refuse to touch them and make contact with them and massage out the adhesions of your heart, you can plan on staying broken for a very long time – if not forever.

And so, it seems fitting to pay some homage to the life that once was so that I can truly celebrate and be alive in the life I have now that only exists because of the tragedy that played out before.

August 31st, 2008 was the day I came here. Minnesota – the frozen Tundra. A place I planned to lay my head down and recuperate before heading home to restart life. I had no intention of staying here and yet, here I am.

Stress had already done its worst on me and the nervous breakdown that wasn’t identified for what it was until a few years later was in full swing.  I still wonder sometimes why so many people wanted me to stay.  I wonder why they weren’t shouting with joy and patting me on the back.  I suppose it’s because no one really knew.  I’m private that way.  I might share freely with a blog that is seen by a dozen of my closest friends, but it wouldn’t be like me to tell anyone else.

That morning is unforgettable.  I rarely allow myself to even contemplate it because the demons that ravaged me back then come back with all of it and wrap it around my face and strangle me again.

He woke up hung over. It was one of the last nights we spent together.  That we even spent it together was merely a betrayal of the sheer depth of my disease. That I could want to give myself one last time to the man who’d left me for different women five times that year is something that the new me is appalled and horrified by.

The night before had been filled with yelling and screaming.  Even though I had a court order that he fully agreed to that gave me the right to take the kids to MN and reside there, the Jim Beam was now speaking in its normal woeful and highly irrational tone.

I swore to him that I would wait for him to get well.  That if there was one thing in the whole world he could count on, it would be me. I forgave him through and through and told him that the past was the past and that all he needed to do was to get clean now.

The yelling would subside momentarily for drunken tears to flow.  For some reason, I have the distinct memory of us standing by the end of our driveway and him picking me up and wrapping my legs around his waist and hugging me while he cried in my neck for five solid minutes.

I was stunned.  He hadn’t even touched me in a whole year.  Well, except that one time that he came by to get his jeans, and he kissed me on the stairs.  But I always suspected he didn’t really mean it.  I think he liked me there on that wire.  He never showed remorse for it anyway.  He would give me just enough of him to render me helpless and hopeful and then he would run away again and play husband and father to some other woman and toddler on the other side of town.

That night on the driveway was different though.  Somehow it felt real.  It felt sure. Some emotional fog lifted and I went to bed that night believing that he would come home to me and stay there.  Oh how I loved him.  There was nothing in the world that I’d ever loved more than I loved him.  I was terribly unhealthy and dysfunctioned, and even now, I can hardly believe how intoxicated I was by his style of loving, but it was the safest love I’d ever known yet, and so I clung to it –to him – as though he was the air in my lungs.

When I packed the car the next morning, he was still sitting on the porch crying.  I chose not to cry.  I’d read a few books about what to do when your spouse decides to leave you for someone else, and they were my guiding light in choosing to move away.  To save myself. To save the kids. To not stay and die along with that life and that marriage and that home. The avalanche of tears were no more than an inch below the surface, but a lifetime of abuses and dysfunction had given me impeccable strength for hiding my feelings.  I was truly master of that.  If I didn’t want you to see my hurt, wild horses couldn’t drag it from me.

And so, I went quite stoically about my morning.  I ate, I packed, I did not flinch.  Brian vomited a few times.  But he always vomited, so I was able to remain fairly nonplussed.  Later, I found Cody in the bathroom vomiting as well. He was 8 then.  Old enough to know what was happening, but still young enough to look like a sick baby when he laid on the bathroom floor begging me not to leave daddy behind.  Oh how I yearned to tell him.  I wanted him to know.  I wanted him to understand me and to trust that I was doing what I was doing because of how badly I wanted him to live.  How badly I wanted to carve out a new life for him.  But I couldn’t.  It was too heavy for him.  The weight of the knowledge of it all would have burdened him more than his confusion. And so I just held him.  And I told him that we would one day be okay again. And that no matter what happened, I would always stay.  That I would never leave.

I carried him to the car where he curled up like a ball in the seat.  He brought an old ice cream pail in case he needed to throw up more.

The girls were upset, but they mostly were confused.  No tears from them.  Just questions about who we were going to see and why we were taking beds along with us.

“You’re almost there Heather.  You’re almost there.  Don’t lose it now.  Just hold.it.together.” I told myself.

All that was left now was the good bye. The kids were packed, the house was primarily empty.  I had made my plans on where I was going.  I even had a job lined up. The stench of a casket and the smell of freedom swirled in the same air.  I truly believed that we would be ok.  That we would make it.  If I had not believed that, I would never have found the courage to go.  I thought it was a means to an end.  That it was the last thing he needed in order to hit bottom and finally reach up to get well. And so, it was the last mountain for me to climb.  And when a girl has spent thirteen years bailing someone from jail and going to DUI court and holding a fevered brow over a toilet while he deposits all the whiskey from the night and a whole number of other insanities that had become my daily life, the thought of fleeing and hiding wasn’t really that much of a mountain after all.

I backed out of the driveway.  One last look.  There it was.  The house we built.  The house we loved.  Tall and beautiful with white siding with black shutters and a red door – just like I’d wanted since I was a little girl.  I stared at the porch and thought of the things that had all transpired there. The times we’d sat in the dark while the kids were already in bed – he’d play his guitar and I’d just sit and listen. The times we’d talk till 2am – about life and love and dreams.  And then there were the memories of finding out that another woman was sleeping in my bedroom and how my neighbors told me that she’d sit in my chair on my porch and listen to the same man serenade her.

My stomach turned and I knew that if I didn’t drive away, I would need Cody’s puke bucket.

I turned back to check on him.  He was as white as a sheet.  With one hand holding his bucket, he reached his other one out toward me.  I grabbed it and we drove that way for several hours until he said he was ok.

Past the school, past the store, past the bar where he practically lived, and past the last gas station on the way out of town.  I still had it together.  The emotions were swirling inside me like oil and water.  Nothing mixing correctly and making me feel like I was collapsing and exploding at the same time.

There I sat at the last stop light. Blinker indicating that I was taking a left onto Hwy 80 North.  Very north.

I hit the radio… in agony for something to break the horrifying quietness.  And this is what came on.

Well, sometimes my life just don’t make sense at all
When the mountains look so big
And my faith just seems so small
So hold me Jesus, ’cause I’m shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won’t You be my Prince of Peace

And I wake up in the night and feel the dark
It’s so hot inside my soul
I swear there must be blisters on my heart
So hold me Jesus, ’cause I’m shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won’t You be my Prince of Peace

Surrender don’t come natural to me
I’d rather fight You for something I don’t really want
Than to take what You give that I need
And I’ve beat my head against so many walls
Now I’m falling down, I’m falling on my knees

And this Salvation Army band is playing this hymn
And Your grace rings out so deep
It makes my resistance seem so thin

I’m singing hold me Jesus, ’cause I’m shaking like a leaf
You have been King of my glory
Won’t You be my Prince of Peace
You have been King of my glory
Won’t You be my Prince of Peace

Cody and I exchanged glances.  He understood what the song was about too.  Our hands squeezed tighter.

Niagara Falls found its way out of my eyes over the next several hours.  The headache came and then faded.  Miles and miles under the tires.  Kids asleep and kids awake.  Gas stops and food stops and potty stops.  Further and further away from home.  Further and further away from dysfunction.  Further and further away from the one I loved more than I loved my own life.

I felt like a raccoon who’d just had to gnaw off all his arms and legs in order to free himself from the trap that would lead to his death.  Bleeding everywhere and probably going to die from hemorrhaging, I was hobbling away now.  Making my escape.  Doing the unthinkable.  I looked in the rear view mirror to see four kids – from 8 years old down to 1 year old – sleeping like cherubs.  And I reminded myself why.  It was them. They were the only reason.  If I had to live my whole life with no arms and no legs because gnawing them off was what it took to get them safely to the other side, then so be it.  They were my mission.  My reason.

“Oh God. Where are you?  I don’t think I can survive this.”

“I’m here.  Always here.  Seeing you. Knowing you.  Weeping while you weep.  Keep driving, dear child.  I am with you.”


After our time in the cult, Brian and I spent 18 months apart.  I had no idea where he was and he had no idea where I was.  That’s the beauty of life in a cult.  Stuff that normally only seems real in the movies happens in real life.

I spent the last three days of my miserable existence inside that cult locked in my room with no food.  It wasn’t the first time that had happened to me.  You see, that’s what cults do to people who disobey.  They put them in solitary confinement and take away their food.  Why?  So that we could “get our hearts right with God”.

I don’t really care to spend a bunch of time talking about the miseries of that place or the mental havoc that they inflicted onto me that I still struggle through on a daily basis.

By the time the three days had passed, I was a broken person.  I was ready to be kicked out.  I was ready to leave it all behind.  I was ready for the excommunication and for the public belittling and humiliation that was to come.  I just wanted out.  I was in so much pain that it was simply intolerable.

I was summoned to “the Office”, given a chance to repent, and then, when I wouldn’t, given three hours to be gone. Gone.  From my whole life.  I’d been there – part of that organization –since I was barely ten.  I was completely unprepared for life.  I had no idea how to get a job, how to wear anything but dresses, and how to even speak in the real world.  Getting kicked out meant facing all of that and trying to find someone to give me a crash course on being twenty.  But staying meant worse.  And so, I used the three hours to pack and get ready for my new life.

Freedom only sounds enticing to the free.  But to someone who had lived her whole life in chains, the thought of freedom was terrifying.  Absolutely terrifying.  If a person lives in a world like that long enough, they start to find safety in the jail walls.  They start to think that being contained is better than that loosey goosey feeling of nothing fettering them.

On my way back to my room, as fate would have it, the elevator doors opened and who would be in there but Brian himself. I could tell by his red eyes and soaked cheeks, he’d probably been given similar treatment while I’d been locked up for three days.  Knowing that our time was limited to about 30 seconds, I told him that I’d just been given three hours.  And for the first time ever, he hugged me.  He told me that if I’d wait, he’d come find me.

He told me.  And I believed him.

Eighteen months, almost to the day, passed before I saw his face or heard his voice again.  I searched for him but had nothing to go on.  This was before the days of Facebook, email, or internet. The main tracking devices of the world available to common people were 411 and caller ID.

After 18 months of depression, I wasn’t in the best state anymore.  A friend told me to find him.  No matter how hard it was – I needed to find him and find out.  If it was “no”, then I needed to let go and get therapy as quickly as possible.  If “yes”, then don’t let your parents/his parents or any of the old IBLP authorities tell you otherwise.

I called 411 and asked for the Dyers in Georgia.  I had no idea what his parent’s names were.  They told me there were about 80 names.  I said, “Pick one.”  And of course you know they gave me the right one.  I wrote a letter and mailed it.  And then I waited.  I knew it would take about a week to get to him.  If it ever got to him at all.

A week later, on the dot, my phone rang one evening and the caller ID showed “Dyer, Mark”.  His brother.

We talked for hours and made our plans. Under the guise of a trip to a convention, we both left home and met up in Chattanooga, Tennessee.  When you see someone that you love desperately that you haven’t seen in 18 months,it can be fairly nerve wracking.  I remember every second of it like it was yesterday.  And it sort of bothers me that I do.  It bothers me for many reasons.  Mostly, because, like I said above, it seems fair and right that memories should fade and discolor and lose their charge when that person has walked out of your life. It seems unfair to have to remember the distinct taste of each moment.  Of each up and down.  Of each joy and each fear.  It seems like it should all go away and stay gone.

For the next 11 years, we carried on like best friends.  We had shocking highs and shocking lows.  Lows so shocking that I once left him for someone else.  I was much younger and was simply terrified.  Yaegermeister does something far different to a man than whiskey, and he was doing things that brought me back to where I was when I was a young defenseless girl being tossed around or punched or threatened.  Of course, his acts were less aggressive, but I knew where they were headed.  I saw my out and I took it.  It wasn’t for love because of course I didn’t love him.  I was just terrified.

But then I changed my mind.  I came home and made it right, and we worked through it. Without even needing to think about it, he took me back.  And he never punished me for leaving in the first place.  He accepted his blame and let me accept mine and we both pushed forward, now stronger in spite of it.

Truthfully, it was that mistake on my part that kept me forgiving and forgiving his affairs that happened so many years later.  I knew it could be recovered from.  I knew we could make it to the other side.  We’d already done it once.  And by golly, we could do it again.  And so I forgave and forgave and forgave.


One day, early in October 2008, I got a call from my old neighbor.  I was driving the kids home from school in North Branch, Minnesota where we’d been living with friends for the past month.  My old neighbor, Katie, was especially dear to me. She held me hand through the worst of all that happened, and she was the voice of reason when everyone else told me I should stay.  So when she called, I never let her go to voicemail.  She was special.  I could tell her anything.

“Heather, I have something to tell you.  And it’s going to be very hard to hear.  Honey, I know how bad you want this to work out, but there are things he’s not telling you.”

There it was.  The stench.  The sting. The immediate transformation of the atmosphere around me from bright and sunny and warm to dark and deathly and so cold I felt as though I could see my breath.  I pulled into the Shop-Ko parking lot because I knew all too well what it felt like to suddenly need to vomit when being told “news” from home.

“Honey, it never ended. She has been living here since you left.”

“Which one?”

“The one with long blonde hair.  From PJ’s I think.  At least, the other neighbors say she bar-tends there.”

“Yes, that would be Melissa.”

“Yes, her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as a heart attack.  Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry that I’m having to tell you this, but I can’t let you go on and on thinking that it’s going to turn out ok.”

“Recently?  Has she been around recently?  Because he and I had a really really good talk two days ago and maybe that was the real turning point, and…….”

— long silence —

“Katie, are you there?  Has it been recently?”

“Oh Heather.  Her car is in your driveway right now.  She’s been there every day since you left.”

“SINCE I LEFT?!?  Are you sure?  Because he and I talk every day and it seems like he’s made so much progress and I know that he doesn’t love her because he’s sworn to me that he never did and he even told me how he…….”

— more silence —

“My friend.  I’m just so sorry.  Please don’t hate me for telling you.  I just couldn’t not.  A real friend would tell.”

— much quieter now —

“Of course I don’t hate you.  I need to know.  I need to know.”

I drove the kids to the park because I didn’t think I could go home just yet.  I had still not yet mastered the art of being able to cry in front of someone – that one didn’t come until Bill– and I needed a place to weep my guts out and recompose myself before I got home.

The bugs were bad that day.  Swarming around my wet face.  I laid in the dry grass, burned brown from a hot summer. The kids were on the playground. I think they’d seen so much of mommy lying around crying for the last year that it didn’t seem odd for me to be prostrate at the park, crying again.

My hands held onto the grass as if the earth was going to throw me right off of fit.  Everything was moving and spinning, and I knew there was no way I could drive home. I called my friend that I was living with.  She was not home.  But there was no one else to call.  Other than her, the closest person who knew me was 8+ hours away.

When the nausea passed finally, we loaded up and went home.

My health was beginning to spiral out of control.  I would lay in bed at night during the Minnesota fall that can sometimes be frightfully chilly with my window open and my blankets tossed aside, and I would sweat bullets all night long.  I started shaking from head to toe sometime around October, and it didn’t really quit till the following June.  It wasn’t terribly obvious – a mild tremor really – but it exhausted my nerves and made me feel like a broken Jack-in-the-box who’d been left over-wound and unable to release.

I went through work days moving my arms and legs and mouth robotically –sometimes as though they were detached from me, and I was watching them from a distance.

Talks with Brian were always confusing. I confronted him on the day that Katie called, and he admitted to it all.  And of course, he promised to end it as soon as he could.  He promised to quit drinking as soon as he could.  He promised to come for us as soon as he could.

My mind played constant tricks on me. Believing one day and not believing the next.

There was just nothing left without him. I was 32 years old now.  Old enough to have made tentative plans for the rest of my life and how it was going to unfold.  Young enough to be way too young to have no reason to live when all those plans got flushed down the toilet.

What was I supposed to do with myself?  I probably needed to live like another sixty years or something.  And now that there was no hope that we ever would sit in those rocking chairs on the front porch sipping sweet tea like we used to talk about, what was the point of all the rest of it?

There was just nothing.

Except total blackness.

For about six months, I had been searching again.  Searching for God.  And it’s not that I’d lost Him by any means, it’s that life had just surgically amputated most of my body from me and my nerves could feel nothing.  No assurance.  No safety.  And really, I was now to the point where my numbness also meant that I felt very little pain.  I was just cold.  And silent. With the occasional burst of hot searing agony.

Sometimes during those long nights of fevered sleeplessness, He would talk to me.  And I would talk to Him.

“I’m so desperate.  If you don’t show up and save me, I’m toast.  I’ve got no hope.  Nothing worth living for.  All I want – all I long for is to die.”

“Heather.  I see you.  I hear you.”

“Why can’t You just fix him?  Why can’t You just make it be like I need it to be so that this outrageous pain can lift?”

“My dear child, leave him to me.  For now, let us look at you.  Let us take you apart.  Do you trust Me to take you apart?  Do you trust Me enough to let mecompletely disassemble your life?  Can you let everything else fall away and just hold onto Me?  I will never leave you.  I will never forsake you.  The worst is here now.  Everyone else has left.  But I stayed. Only I see you.  Only I know you.  I am utterly faithful.  I am utterly trustworthy.  You can lay your head down on my chest and rest.  Do not hold back your tears, Heather.  Don’t you remember that I store them in precious bottles?  Don’t you know that I see every single one and catch it and keep it?  Don’t you know that I hear every labored sigh when you try to sleep?  I am here.  I am here.  I am here.”

It was now late November of 2008.  The kids and I had our own little private retreat over Thanksgiving at my friend’s house in St Cloud.  We lived about 90 minutes east with another friend, but we needed some time away and wanted to give them some time to themselves.  My St Cloud friend was going to be out of town, so she offered her house as a place for us to rest our heads and just relax.

I got the call that weekend.  The first call, I should say.  Because that call happened a lot of times before the result finally came into being.

“I’m ready, Heather.  I’m ready. Send me the intake forms.”

“Ok, but can you promise me you’ll fill then out immediately?  Can I come for you right now?  I just got paid and I have just enough money to drive there and get you.  I’ll come right now.  Today.”

“It’s blizzarding up there.  You can’t come today.”

“YES!  Yes I can.  I can come immediately.”

“Stop suffocating me.”

“Ooo…kay.  Ok.  Ok, you’re right.  It’s just that I’m – well, I’m tired.  And I miss you. And I’m just ready to start the rehab road.  You know the sooner you start, the sooner it’s over and we can be a family again.  I mean, that is what you want, right?  To be a family again?”

“Yes.  Well, I think so anyway.  For now, I need to worry about me.  If things work out down the road for us, I’m ok with that, but I’m not making any promises at this point.”

Anything other than flat-out rejection was completely tolerable to me at that point.  My self-respect had been obliterated.  I loathed myself for accepting such a puny excuse of love as much as he obviously loathed me.  But there’s only so much that an armless, legless girl can hope for.  And so I settled.  It was all I’d ever known.

He never filled out the forms.  He never sent them in.

Two more times that month he dangled that precious carrot in front of my face.  That carrot had been the sole intensity of my prayer life for over a decade since he’d started drinking.  That he would get well.  That he would find sobriety.  I’d put him through enough weekend detoxes and short-term rehabs to think it could be achieved any other way.  I knew he needed the full deal.  The 15 month program.  I knew that that meant at least another 15 months of being on my own.  Another 15 months of living on welfare and food stamps. Life and finances aren’t all that friendly to a mommy of four babies who’s spent a decade out of the working world. But that was ok so long as I could one day have him back.

On December 5th, he was finally ready.  He filled out the forms, he faxed them in,and he was accepted into Minnesota Teen Challenge.  I was on cloud nine.  I was still crippled and broken, but the parts of me that could still dance were dancing their heart out.

I sold a few of my things and bought him a one-way bus ticket on Greyhound. He arrived the next day, and I thought that it was finally happening.  All those prayers.  All those tears.  All those YEARS.  And here we were.  Today was the day.  This week was the week.

I picked him up from the station.  I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to hug him, so I didn’t even try.  I tried to contain my overwhelming excitement and appear casual and calm.  But inside, it felt like every hope and dream that had just been beaten mercilessly out of me for 12 cruel cruel months was suddenly being allowed to live again.  Visions of front porch rockers and sweet tea and us very old sitting side by side had found their way back into my consciousness.  God was coming through for me.  I’d endured.  And now I was being rewarded.  The story was going to have a good ending.  So good in fact, that I would write a book about it and change millions of people’s lives.  And Brian was going to get so stinking sober that he was going to be able to help so many people.  And our kids were going to have this amazing legacy about how close we all came to death, but somehow, just in the nick of time, God Almighty came through and saved the day.

I had made arrangements for Brian to stay with my St Cloud friend’s friend.  A nice gymnastics coach that I’d met months earlier at a baby dedication. He name was Bill.  Yes, that Bill.  I didn’t know him much, but I did know that he had a big empty house and that he lived alone.   My St Cloud friend told me to reach out to him to see if Brian could stay there for the ten days Teen Challenge required so that he would be considered a MN resident. He happily agreed.

During those ten days, I went back home to prepare my house for repossession.  It somehow seemed impossible to leave behind the things that were terribly private for some stranger to come find and have to deal with. So I went.  I found her razors in my shower and her clothes on my bed.  The walls in the living room were sprayed with an entire bottle of mustard – why, I have no idea.  Lots of holes punched in walls.  Obvious vomit stains on the carpet.  Blood in the carpet in the upstairs hallway.  It was very cold and echo-y.  The heat had been turned off already, so I worked quickly.  It took days.

Each night, I would connect with Brian and he would talk to me about how much he was changing and how alcohol wasn’t even appealing to him anymore.  He would read Bible verses and such on the phone – leaving me utterly bewildered because even when he was well, he didn’t act like that.  I found out later that he was going out each night getting drunk and that his girlfriend and her sister came to visit him while I was in Illinois emptying out the house.

When I finally made it back to MN, I once again made the trip over to St Cloud to pick him up from Bill’s house and get him settled in at rehab.

I still felt on top of the world.  Even though I knew we were at least fifteen months away from any real semblance of normal life, at least the feeling of death and eminent doom had begun to lift.

We sat in the car and he filled out his very last form for intake.  It was an emergency contact form.  There were three lines.  On line one, he put my name and phone number.  On line two, my brother’s name and phone number.  On line three, he put a 708 number that I recognized immediately because of the amount of times that number had tormented me with texts to let me know how much she enjoyed the feeling of my husband inside of her and how she planned to redecorate my house as soon as it was hers.

I had been taught all my life to be still when something hurts.  To not speak up.  To just take it.  But I knew that I knew that I knew that I needed to know if that was Melissa’s number. So, I closed my eyes and dug as deep as I could to find the courage to make the words come out of my mouth.

“Whose number is that?”

“What number?  Oh that number?  That’s Dave. A friend from PJ’s.”

“Are you sure it’s not Melissa’s? Because I really recognize it.”

“Oh, maybe she used to text you from Dave’s phone?”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.  But it’s not her number.”

And then, with me sitting right there, he flipped the phone open and scrolled to “Dave from PJ’s”.  And there it was.  The numbers matched.  I must have been losing my mind again.  Just like I was always “losing my mind” when the evidence was plain and clear but he wanted to explain his way out of trouble.

A little click here and another click there and voila!  The entire phone was wiped clean.  No contacts, no photos, no music, no text history.  He told me that he did it so that I could use the phone if I wanted to. We both knew better.  There were things on there that, if I saw them, he knew I’d probably finally snap and have the sense to leave his sorry ass to rot in rehab.

But no matter.  He was here now, right?  He was finally in rehab.  The long one. The one that was going to make the difference.  It was going to be super suckville for me and the kids for the next year and a half, but good things were in the future.

We drove home, and I couldn’t get the phone number out of my mind.  I knew her number.  I mean, I KNEW her number.  When someone harasses you like that, you don’t forget their number.  But his phone was wiped.  I couldn’t compare it to the texts in my history anymore.  I had to just trust him, but I didn’t trust him at all.

I laid in bed that night thinking. Around midnight, his phone rang in my purse.  I’d completely forgotten that it was there.  I grabbed it and there it was…the magical number that had been haunting me all day.  I was too terrified to answer it.  But the second the ringing stopped, I suddenly realized this was my chance to find out for sure.  After all, he SWORE to me that he ended the affair again and was done with having contact with her.  That was part of our deal.  I’ll sell stuff I own to feed him and bring him up here and he’ll quit having girlfriends.

In a moment of bravery, I pressed “send”. It rang three times and she answered. I was silent.


“Who is this?”

“What do you mean, who is this?  You called me.  Where is Brian?  Why do you have his phone?  Who are you?”

“Is this Melissa?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Don’t ever call this number again.”


For thirteen solid years, there burned inside of me a raging bonfire that nothing seemed to have the power to dampen.  No affair blew it out.  No amount of lies snuffed it.  No episodes of jail bails and DUI court dates and lessened its flames.  No pee soaked jeans and vomit deterred what I felt for him. But right there, that night, in that bed, at that minute, it was as though someone reached inside of me and turned a light switch off.

What had helplessly been turned on inside me all those years was suddenly and permanently turned off.

Just like that.

In a second.

I told no one except God.  I was terrified that I had come as far as I had and I was what seemed like inches away from this all being turned into something that made it all worth it, but here I was – giving up now.  And so I begged for the feeling to return.  I tried and tried.  I read love letters from our dating years.  I looked at our wedding photos.  I tried to remember and dwell on the sweetest of our memories.

Still, nothing.

For three months, I carried on this way. On the weekend following the call from Melissa, I wrote him a letter informing him that he was on his last chance. That if he didn’t finish rehab, that if he ever started drinking again, that if he ever had contact with Melissa or any of her friends or family again, that if he ever had another girlfriend or even someone special that he singled out, that if he ever lied to me again – that it would be over so fast it would make his head spin.

I took the letter directly to him and read it to him in the sanctuary at Teen Challenge.  He cried and apologized and promised faithfulness.  For weeks, he would write letters about how amazing I was and how he didn’t deserve me.  Weeks ago, these letters would have touched me to the core of my being.  Today, they were hollow and tasteless.  Pure unmitigated gall.

For three months, I told no one of my sudden heart change.  Not even Brian.  I still hugged and kissed him when I made my weekly trip to the cities to see him. For three months, I stayed silent. I watched every move he made.  I listened to every word he said.  I probed all of it.  And for three months, progressively worse and worse, he lied through his teeth – even about things that didn’t matter.  For three months, he could barely contain himself around females – behaving like a hormone driven 13 year old who simply has no control over his behavior.  For three months, he would ask me for money or things or favors.  Suddenly, the care packages I’d send were not exciting enough for him, so he’d give me a list of requests rather than just showing gratitude that his wife was sharing the very little bit of nothing that she had with him while he was taking a two year break from taking care of her. When I would take him away from rehab, he always wanted some of my cash, he always wanted me to buy something more, a bigger size coffee for him even if it meant I didn’t have enough to buy one for myself, hair products, things for his room, pop and snacks.  I would come to see him at church on Sundays, but he would usher me out the door as soon as church was over.  I would drive away like a good little girl, but then circle around when he went back inside.  I’d come stand by the door or window and watch him go from skirt to skirt to skirt. Stupid little girls lapping up his attention and tiny touches right out of his hands.  And he ate it up too.

One day, I finally had enough.  It was early March 2009.  Around the time I accepted that I would never be returning to my hometown, I moved to St Cloud to begin developing roots.  I’d been there for one month the day I went to the courthouse. I told the court officer that I did not have money for legal fees.  She sat with me for two days transposing everything we’d agreed upon last summer when our legal separation was enforced over to official divorce documents.  I spent my days in her office and my nights sleeping on the bathroom floor and vomiting when the nausea was too much.

The time had come.

There it was.

The freedom that I never wanted.

My chains didn’t want me anymore.

I’d slap them on my wrists and try to fetter myself so I could return to what was familiar, but they would just fall to the ground.  Demanding me to move freely.  Demanding me to stand up.  Demanding me to think on my own.  Demanding me to live.

I would look at my kids while they slept and question every single thing about myself.

“Why am I doing this to them?  They adore him.”

But then He would come talk to me some more.

“Heather, release him to me.  You are in the way of him and Me.  He will never find his way to Me while he has you. Don’t you see.  You are his god.  You are his savior.  On the one hand, you beg Me to save him from his addictions.  On the other, you refuse to step out of the role of “rescuer” in his life.  Can’t you trust Me with him?  Can’t you trust Me to be faithful to him as I have been to you?”

“Yes, I trust you.”

“Then let go.  Let go, Heather.  Let go. You have a lifetime’s worth of work ahead of you just to find your own survival.  Let’s you and I focus on that.  And you leave Brian to me.  I will chase Him.  I will go after him.  I will not leave him or forsake him just like I never let go of you or forsook you.”

Sixty days is all it took.  Sixty days and two signatures.  That always bothered me.  That something so significant could be so thoroughly undone with just a pen-stroke from the right guy in black robes.  That’s just not right.  Marriage should be unbreakable.  You should be able to try and try and try to hack it in half for years and years, but it should somehow still move back together like some mystical magical chain that just won’t stay broken.  After all, that’s what I thought it was.  I thought it was unbreakable.  I thought Iwas unbreakable.  And I thought I could be what held together a marriage that was doomed.  I took it quite personally for a long time.  I had failed.  I had failed my ultimate job.

I left the courthouse that day and went home and sobbed for five solid hours.  Then the clock told me to go pick the kids up from school, so I washed my face and got in the car.  That night I knew I needed to tell them.  I didn’t want to say too many words, but I also did not want to say too few.  Cody had been through a pretty bad 7 months already. Since the day we drove way from the house in Minooka, he went to some very bad places.  He’d been in intensive therapy with two counselors for months now, and we were all making significant progress together.  I was afraid that the finality of it all would send him back to where he’d come from.  But I knew he needed to know.  Sometimes, being what seems cruel is actually being kind.

I could think of no other words.

“Guys. Daddy’s not coming back.”

I can still see their faces.  It will haunt me till I breathe my last breath. Cody’s body slumped over, and his shoulders shook as he cried.  He said nothing.  Later he sat up and came over to me and hugged me and told me that we’d be ok.  I think he learned that posture from me because I’d done it to him so many times when there was nothing left for me to do for him other than to hold him.

Savannah looked up at me.  Her big blue eyes engulfed in pooling tears.

“For how long?  He’s not coming back for how long?”

“Oh honey.  He will never come back like it was before.”

Another one bit the dust.  Caved into a pile of convulsing emotion.  She still sucked her thumb at that point, and I remember her sucking furiously and then stopping for air because her nose was plugged from crying and then sucking again.

I told them that they would still see him and know him and love him and that he would always be their daddy.  I would do everything in my power to be sure they saw him all the time and that they never had to feel bad about it.  I had no idea then that he would completely walk away from them.  It didn’t seem fathomable.  The man who changed their diapers and bathed them and played roly poly on the floor. It just didn’t seem possible for him to go make a new life where there is no room for them.  And yet, that is exactly what happened.

Like little amputees, they’ve carried on and learned coping mechanisms. Each new season of life brings with it, for them, a new cycle of grief to process. They experience the loss over and over and over – just at new developmental stages. Honestly, it’s been pretty brutal for them.

Up until this point, Bill was just the guy who was friends with my friends and the guy who had taken care of Brian when he needed a place to stay.  I didn’t know much of him, but what I did know of him, he was outstanding.  As a person, as a Christian, as a parent, as a friend.  No one didn’t like him.  Heck, no one didn’t love him.

Late April, when the divorce was about 45 days underway, he had an interesting conversation about me with a friend of mine who’d put him on the spot.  It wasn’t for another month that he had that talk with me.

Friends and family told me to freeze and stay out of it. But something much deeper told me to move forward… with caution.

One day, during those months, while on a bike ride with a friend, I wiped out pretty bad and got some serious road rash on my legs and arms. I successfully dug all the gravel out of my skin and managed to get it all healed except my elbow.  Weeks passed and that dang thing kept ripping open and getting infected.

I knew what I needed to do.  So I soaked it in the sink until the thick scab was soft. And then I took a washcloth and scrubbed it all the way down past any scab and any pus till fresh red blood poured from it.  It hurt like hell.  I almost bit a hole through my tongue while I scrubbed.  There was no other way.  It was so infected that if it was ever going to heal, I just had to clean it all the way down to the original injury.  It hurt so much that tears were making their way out of the corners of my eyes even though I wasn’t really crying.

Finally, I poured hydrogen peroxide all over it and let it have one last good solid sting.  And then I laid out the bandages and Neosporin to finish the job.

My mind was somewhere else.  Thinking through the conversations I’d had recently with this new man.  He seemed so honest and so straightforward and so trustworthy.  Truth be told, I was shocked that I was even considering someone new.  It was too soon.  I knew it and everyone else did too.  I would withdraw, but then find myself opening up again.  This happened over and over.  This desire to let go of what I’d been told and let something unfold that really seemed to want to happen even though it defied logic, good sense, and 99% of my Christian friends’ advice, was so strong and so powerful that every now and then, I would give it the air it needed to breathe and be alive.

There are times in my life that I have heard God speak to me in a voice that is nearly audible.  I can’t really say why He’s chosen to do that for me, but I know one thing and that’s that I’m not crazy.  I’m perfectly sane.  I know that the people who’ve never heard God in this capacity will always think I’m exaggerating or enhancing the story or trying to make myself look super spiritual. But none of that is true.  I’m just replaying the events as they happened.

So there I was, in my little bathroom in the little house on 4 ½ St in St Cloud.  The house with the metal front door with three deadbolts.  The house that was the safest place I’d ever lived despite the fact that I had a known gang family of Mexicans on one side and a family of big black men who jerked off in my front yard living on the other. It was public housing, but it was a place to lay our heads.

With blood running down my arm and a lovely mess of Band-Aid wrappers piling up on the sink, my inner monologue continued.

“God, I’m terrified that I came this far doing what I think you really wanted me to do and that in the very last second I’m going to go with what sounds easiest to me, what sounds most exciting tome, what sounds happiest to me.  Please help me stay in control.  More than I want anything, I want you to be pleased with me.  And if that’s another life with Brian when he is sober, I will do that.  I’ll remarry him, and I’ll find the feelings that I lost. I will do that…….          But, in case there is a chance that this Bill guy might be from You, I really like that idea too.  In fact, I’m ok with being alone if that’s what keeps me closest to You. I really am.  All I need from You is direction.  All I need is guidance.  Give me the word and consider it done.”

It’s not a moment that a person easily forgets. When God talks to you.  I mean, really talks to you.  Not “talks to you” like through a song on the radio or “talks to you” through a really great sermon.  No.  I mean what I said.  When He talks to you and you know that you know that you know what is happening right then and there.  You are not half asleep and your subconscious is playing tricks.  You are fully awake and sane and aware.

“Heather, your life has been so much like this wound.  It is infected to the core.  Since your birth, pus has been accumulating.  Scabs, thick scabs have grown over areas that were intended to stay soft.  You aren’t supposed to be like this… all grown over with scabs and pus and broken bones, barely able to limp through life just trying to survive.  Can you see that what you’ve just done to your infected arm is what I have been doing to your infected life?  I have stripped you bare; I have scrubbed you to the bone. I’ve shown no mercy in wiping the pus and removing the scabs.  And here you are now, pulsating in blood-red pain asking me if you should jump back into the cesspool or if it might just be ok for you to apply a little bit of that Neosporin and wrap yourself up in those bandages.  Can’t you see?  All of that was to get you here.  This was no mistake, and it did not happen accidentally.  I pulled you across the country and let you be torn to pieces and then dropped you five minutes from the doorstep of your own personal bandage.  I have readied him for you and you for him. You both have the same wounds, and you both can heal each other.  Trust me. Let go of what others say.  Let me apply this healing salve to your bleeding body. And let me wrap you in this bandage. Trust the man.  He’s from Me.”



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When Facebook reminds you…

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This was a pretty exciting day in my life. The two years that lead up to it were a hellish nightmare I would wish on anyone. Loss, betrayal, devastating heartache, unearthly pain. And then suddenly, carrying the full brunt of needing to support four kids under eight, one of whom was barely past being a newborn. All while living through a yet-undiagnosed nervous breakdown.

Being on welfare was probably one of the hardest things I’ve experienced to date. Whether people have nice things to say or not, the fact of the matter is, when red, white, and blue blood surges through your veins, taking handouts and living in free housing and all that is really really REALLY rough. So many tears. So much shame. And yet, so much motivation to just hunker down and work my way out of that place. Out of Section 8 and out of food stamps. Out of desperation and poverty.

When I met Bill, ironically, one great obstacle that was between us was my desperate need to not move from the support of one man (my ex) to the support of another (Bill) without having fully found freedom on my own. Without having fully stood up on my own two feet without any assistance. It haunted me, really. When we’d talk about marrying and me/the kids moving to his house, while I wanted that, something in me also sank at the thought of doing that before I accomplished this one all-important task.

Part of it was due to the fact that I wanted to role model to my kids that when life takes ev.ery.thing away, it is possible for a soul to survive. Possible to thrive. It is possible, when everyone leaves you and no one stands with you during the worst of it; when the money is gone and the grief is raging; it is possible. You can live through it. And you don’t need to die, even if you want to. But the other part of it was that if I became a dependent of someone else so quickly, it would have verified to myself my greatest fear ever; that I cannot. That without someone there to pay my bills, I could not make it.

And while there is a bit of dysfunction that I can now see all whirled up in that mess of trying-to-be-strong thinking, there was also the presence of a newfound tenacity.

The day I got the letter that I no longer qualified for state/county support in any way was incredible. My case workers called me to say that if even 5% of the people on welfare here in Stearns County had the attitude that I did – that welfare is there to help you stand up again, not to forever lean on the state for support – that their jobs would be wildly fulfilling instead of such a frustrating disaster. They sent me cards and flowers. I knew I was going to be broke as a joke once money and assistance stopped coming in, but words cannot express the liberation I felt in that day. To know that *I* stood up. That *I*, even in the most broken state of my life, didn’t lay down and die. I took help that I needed when I needed it, but eventually, I worked up enough strength and good old fashioned hard work to crawl out of that hole.

It’s taken me years to reframe the events of those days. Years to see that I did not choose this. The choosing was someone else’s and the choice they made completely tore my life (and my kids’ lives) from one end to the other. Somehow I’d framed it that *I* chose to leave the world of alcoholism – and while part of that is true, or at least that I chose the events that lead up to the complete obliteration of that life – the more accurate way to see it is that it was put upon me. The only choosing available to me was to either lay down and die as I so desperately wanted to do in those dark, dark days or to get up and fight. With every limb broken and bleeding, to still keep swinging.

And I chose the latter.
I chose to live.

It’s true that sometimes divorce can bring relief. But what un-divorced people don’t know is that it also brings with it amputation and vacant spaces and cycles of lifelong ungrieved grief. I always say that it IS death, but it’s just not one that the world encourages you to grieve through. You don’t get a casket to throw your broken self over and weep upon that body one last time. You don’t get a funeral where all your loved ones gather to hold you as every piece of you breaks into smaller and smaller pieces. You don’t get the eulogy wherein precious memories are told and shared and held sacred. In fact, what you get is the opposite. Judgement and people who will talk about you but not to you. You get a lot of aloneness. Not just in your bed at night but in all corners of your life. People who used to acknowledge you, now don’t. People who used to say that you were so brave for “sticking with it” now won’t make eye contact. And this sort of shunning, all while death is swirling round your head and choking your every breath, is honestly more than a soul is meant to take.

And yet. And yet there is hope. There is tomorrow. There are people not-yet-met who are waiting to bear your burdens. Waiting to come along side you and offering healing. Willing to love you through what takes a normal, sane person and turns them into someone and something that’s rather awkward and stunted.

Of all the decisions I’ve made in my life, choosing to live as my entire world died is probably the one I’m most proud of. And while I will live with the limp of the way that those years impacted my health for the rest of my life, the other parts of me were remade. Reborn. Redeemed. So much bad, turned to so much good.

Fight the fight that’s in front of you. Grieve when you need to and don’t *not* do that even if the world says you aren’t supposed to. Bottled up grief is poison. Get it out. Surround yourself with people who cherish your very existence. People who’d gladly give of their everything to help see you through. People who are tough and resilient and who won’t leave your side no matter what. And work hard. The good life isn’t free. If you want it, go get it. If you don’t want to lay in the ash heap of a life that is now dead, stand up and brush the dust and death off and get moving. One day, your bones will heal and your heart will reassemble. And though the scars are permanent, the diagnosis isn’t.

#justkeepswimming #grace #fortitude #redemption #godsplansforyouaregood

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