BREAKDOWN

"You can wait in here."  The nurse showed us into a small office, smiled cheerily, and left us alone.  For a few seconds I lost control, clung to my husband, and cried.  Then I pulled away, wiped my face, sat in one of the blue vinyl chairs, and stared at the wall.

It seemed my whole life was spent studying walls.  Counting nails or tacks, bricks, concrete block, or following the flower patterns in wall paper.  And now I was studying another wall, nubby plaster painted an institutional green, willing myself to be somewhere else, to not think about what was happening, to not feel.

My husband stood behind the chair and put his arms around me.  "Please try to relax, Cary.  It'll be OK.  You'll see."

I couldn't say anything.  So I didn't.  But I sure thought a lot.  Mostly questions.  How did this happen to me?  I had always been strong, surviving hell first as a child, and then again in a disastrous first marriage.  Now, for the first time, life was good -- and I was falling apart. 

The crisis reached a peak two days earlier.  Dave and I were attending an outdoor concert on one of those hot, humid late- summer days.  Suddenly my heart started racing and I had the sensation of my body separating from my "self."  Never having died before, I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure that was what was happening.  My mind flooded with insane, inane thoughts.

"I can't die here.  It would be so embarrassing.  It would ruin the concert for everyone else."   I willed myself to pull back together, but the line between life and death seemed very fragile.

That evening I tenuously suggested I might need "a little outside counseling."  Relief flooded Dave's face and he said quickly, "We can check out some hospitals next week."  Inside, I panicked!  "Hospital?!  I don't need a hospital.  Just a little help."

Sunday morning started out OK.  I felt rested.  Half way through the church service, though, I lost control again, and ran out of the sanctuary crying.  I sat outside on the step and sobbed.  Dave followed me out and held me.  All I could do was ask over and over, "What's wrong with me?  What's wrong with me?"  He didn't answer, because, of course, he had no answers.

And now it was Monday morning, Labor Day, and I was staring at a wall.  In a hospital. Earlier that day, one of the hospital's nurses, our friend, had suggested, rather casually, that I come over, even though it was a holiday.  "One of our counselors will be there and he can talk to you."  She revealed later that she knew what was happening and I needed help desperately.  She didn't want to risk losing me.

A short rap on the door was followed by a soft "Good morning."  I turned to look in the direction of the voice and saw it belonged to a pleasant middle-aged black male face.  He shook hands with us and slouched comfortably into his chair, sifted through some papers on his desk, and brought out a file with my name printed in the corner.  All I could think was, "They're quick.  Doesn't take long to become a number in the computer."

He looked at me.  I tried to maintain eye contact.  I wanted to at least look like I had some volition in this decision.  But, seeing the compassion in his eyes, mine filled with tears and I immediately shifted my focus to a point just south of his chin.  "Cary, your intake information and evaluation indicate you are in the midst of a severe depressive reaction."

I shot a sharp glance up to his face and thought rather than said, "Bright deduction.  I knew that much."

He continued.  "We will be exploring several areas during your stay, not the least of which is the abuses of your childhood..."

I interrupted.  "What possible bearing can my childhood have on this situation?  I handled all that a long time ago."

He smiled indulgently and I could almost feel him patting my head.  "Cary, I think you're wrong.  I believe you'll discover your childhood is handling you."  He paused.  I clenched my teeth exhibiting the characteristic "tight jaws" defense I used when I felt backed into a wall.

"Anyhow," he said, "we'll find out in time."

"How much time?  My daughter is singing in a program in ten days and I need to be there."

"I'm sorry, but I think you need to stay here for four weeks.  Minimum."

Once again panic struck.  "Four weeks?  Oh no, I can't possibly be here that long.  I have a house, you know, and responsibilities."  I stood up.  "We'll go home and talk about it."

Dave stood then, but did not start for the door.  He reached out his hand and touched my arm.  I turned and saw his eyes flooded with tears and anguish in his face.  "Cary.  Please.  Please stay.  If not for yourself, do it for us."

I cried then.  How could I refuse him?  Dave loved me.  He was one of few people in my whole life who treated me kindly and with respect.  "I'm so scared...so scared,"  I sobbed out.

Our tears mingling, he kissed me gently and said again, "It'll be OK, Cary.  It'll be OK."

I stayed.
======================================

This is a story I wrote a number of years ago for a writing group.  It's almost exactly what happened at the hospital entry stretch, and it IS exactly what occurred during the previous days at a concert and church.  I entered the hospital/treatment center on Labor Day, 1987, 3 weeks before our 2nd anniversary.  I would never have expected my body to explode from the goodness of life, but, according to the psychiatrists and counselors, that is exactly what happened.  I was the first person who had ever been admitted to this hospital/addiction location  as a codependent with a straight-line heart, indicating I was dying.  Alcoholics and drug addicts sometimes had it; no one like me ever had.  I was a "shocker to even them.

Their description:  For years I had been in, or ready for, a battle, needing to fight for myself or others.  When being with Dave, I had entered an R & R phase and rested and enjoyed myself.  Then, suddenly, my system "needed" to jump back into battles.  My internal system "said" the R & R was over. But there wasn't a battle, so "I" was falling apart.

Can I say even now that my month there was a blessing?  On God's side, yes.  On my side I struggled with nearly every minute, hour, day.  But, between that several-week stretch and a couple years of Christian group meetings re: Adult Children of Alcoholics and other basic counseling, I improved.  Significantly.

Now, 25 years later, I'm still a "battler", but, instead of family and cultural conflict, it's almost always connected to spiritual warfare.  So, in spite of the fact that I didn't want to deal with those mental and medical issues, I am now freer than ever to simply focus on and serve our Lord and obey Him when He directs me to His battle sites.  HALLELUJAH!!

JOHN 1:4

UP FROM THE ASH

I'll never forget the relief.

The decision was made April 27, 1984.  For two years I had struggled over whether to allow a divorce, because so many aspects had become more and more physically and emotionally dangerous, for both me and my kids.  I prayed, sought counseling, cried, screamed, threatened, made possible plans "if" -- and all the time hated the thought of giving in to the failure of a marriage, a definitely not OK Christian choice.  It truly was the last alternative I wanted to face.  In fact, I had gone to a women's conference in Tulsa, asking only one question of God -- "What do YOU see needs to be done about this?"  [I knew HE knew the future and could pour hope into my heart.]  Before the conference was over, all the pieces were joined together, and I stopped churning and tossing and was at peace.  Momentarily.

I reached home late that Saturday.  Wasn't sure what to say or when, was willing to wait for months if that was laid on my heart; still hoping for miraculous marriage-healing to occur. [In spite of what I'd "heard" in Tulsa, I knew God could bring anything to pass.]  Then, within half an hour, details my kids told me when I got home, confirmed that waiting was not an option.

Even knowing this, I was nervous about telling Lowell.   I needn't have been.  When I told him I was going to file for a divorce, he, true to pattern, shrugged his shoulders and said offhandedly, "Whatever."

After the relief, euphoria enveloped me.  I spent about 10 weeks operating in an unreal fantasy realm--not knowing, at that time, that it was fantasy.  I thought I was done crying forever and ever and now could joyfully go on with life.

I was wrong. BUT...

I...was...flying.  It was great!  My friends would have told me I'd crash if they thought I would believe them.  Months later, I remembered an Emergency! episode from the television show in the 1970s.  A man at a loading dock was pinned by a truck from his chest down.  He was smiling and said he was fine; he didn't understand the fuss.  The paramedics standing to the side said, "We better be ready, because when they move that truck the pain is going to hit."  Well, they were right.  The truck moved and the man screamed in pain and passed out.

In the next life-changing phase, my "truck" moved, too.  And the pain hit...but I couldn't faint, and I couldn't die, and I couldn't understand why I had so much pain or what caused it, or what to do with it.  All I knew was it was there--all the time-- one L-O-N-G contraction, broken occasionally by a painless moment, just long enough to allow me to catch my breath and steel myself for the next onslaught.

Gradually, that, too, changed.  After a few months, a swing began.  A few days without pain--a few days with.  A few weeks of dull pain; a few days with extreme pain, with a slow return to normalcy.  Nearly a year later, I felt more complete--most of the time--although I was aware of the enormous hole in my "self", and VERY aware of the loneliness.

But, in spite of everything, through the Lord I had HOPE.  The hope buried deep in my heart that I had a real future; that, just as in nature, there would be growth and beauty from ashes. 

"He gave me beauty for ashes; the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."  Isaiah 61:3

And, like the aftermath of Mt. St. Helens, and the destruction of that indestructible rock, when lichen and ferns and wild flowers began to push their way through that gray, brittle, gritty ash, so my "life" was returning.  It was never the same.

One lesson I learned through this:  No matter what the future holds, I know my God. And I know that I know that I know that there is always growth and I will always  rise "up from the ashes."

[A year and 3 weeks after the divorce decision, on May 19, 1985, God dropped Dave into my life.  For 27 years, he has been a blessing to me and my kids (and, now, grandkids), a giver, a God-server, a truly appreciative husband, a stability -- something I had rarely experienced. I am an extremely blessed woman!  And another heart-pounder?  He believes he is blessed, too!  WOW!!]

LADYBUGS

Life was so serious today.  For instance, at noon I was called to the refugee complex up the street to help the management deal with piles and piles of roaches and filthy carpets in one apartment, not exactly my favorite thing to do.  I was asked to help teach these particular people how to clean, which I may do, and means that the bathroom, fridge, and stove, and cupboards in this particular apartment could be a real challenge. Don't know when/if this cleaning teaching will be officially dropped in my lap, but I'll help if I can.  [I could be tearing my clothes off on our front porch before I let myself in my house then, but...]  However, between that and a couple other smaller situations, I'm tired today of seriosity.

Because of this intensity, buried on my heart, I decided to post a poem I wrote in October, '01, which is funny and chuckly.    At the time I wrote it, I was hiding out on the North Shore of Superior, trying to deal with brokenheartedness connected to 9/11's life and death. Much of my writing during those days was very serious, very dark. This was one of the only light pieces, and I've enjoyed sharing it with friends and family ever since...even did it at church at a talent show once and made lots of people laugh.  That was a good thing.
    ===============================================

                                     LADYBUG

“Grandma” -- eyes wide, he asked -- 

“weren’t you a-scared, camping ... 

in the woods ... 

in the dark

... alone?”

“Of course not!!” I answered

 .. and then added,

“well, maybe a little ...

But God was there --

and so were ladybugs.”

“Grandma, were there bears?
BIG, Black or Brown,
and Furry?
Did ya see ‘em?”

“No,” I said, “No bears, no scary stuff at all

[unless you count spiders],

Just squirrels and chipmunks, and, ...

Oh, yes ... I saw ladybugs.”

“They flew into my shirt and my
pants and my hat – and stayed there --
all red-orange and black on
my purple and blue and magenta.

And I brushed them away --
Oh, so gently
[one never wants to hurt a ladybug].”

“Did you have fun on your trip? --
Did you miss us and want us with you?”

“Of course!!” I answered,
wondering how a sometimes 

Grumpy Gramma
would do with all the munchkins.
“I thought you would like the water and the rocks,
and the trees -- but mostly,
you’d LOVE
the ladybugs.”

ISAIAH 2:3

MO-ROCK-O

When we left for Morocco, other than having watched travel videos and the "Casablanca" movie as part of our preparation, I had no idea how this country would enter my heart and stay there.  Well, considering my personality and addictions, a few hours after our arrival, I became overwhelmingly in love with their scenery.  Why?  Almost everywhere/every place was filled with rocks.  The first "rock" photo I took was next to the Casablanca mosque, the Atlantic ocean covering them with waves when the tides rose. 

After the Palm Sunday event several days later, we were taken to a Berber Village in the Atlas Mountains.  We had a very interesting and lovely time in the "motel" connected to a very sweet and special family.  The next day, a Tour du Maroc bike racing event took place a few miles way at Imintanout and we were taken there.  It was a lot of fun. Would never have expected something like that.  So, here are a few photos:

Then life changed -- Again!  We were given a picnic some distance from the house.  In fact, several miles.  We rode in a Land Rover, then walked through a village, wandered around and about, and...

we arrived at a river shore.  A donkey was already there and had been the delivery vehicle for our food. 

The river was non-watery. And that's how, in my head, I began grabbing my souvenirs for my prayer group.

You see, I wanted to give them something special, something about Morocco that they could never break, lose, or misplace.  I also didn't want them to wonder where it came from, so I knew a rock could be referred to as a "Mo-rock-o".  And hoped they would grin a bit.

That lacking-water-river was near the housing area in the village, so I didn't have to grab all of them and drag them away after the picnic.  But the plan was planted in my head and heart.

The next day, before we were leaving, I was able to finish collecting the rocks and, since we had given most of our clothes to the village ladies [something I always do when going to a different country], my duffle bag had plenty of space.  I had about 30 rocks the size of my hand, and wrapped them in any of the clothes, towels, etc., that I still had.  The rocks were colorful and textured and layered and lovely.  [ And I brought a couple just for myself.  How could I have not done that???.]

Anyhow, that's my story about Mo-rock-o.  Hope you chuckle a bit....  And, BTW, I chuckle, too... always grinning when walking through my yard, and enjoying my national and international souvenirs.

MOROCCO "ALMOST MIRACLE" #2

One evening in Marrakech, we were downtown eating at the outside food stall that was known by our main leader, Chris, a YWAM-er from California who had been to Morocco several times. He liked these men and they were very friendly. 

They obviously enjoyed having tourists hit their bench.  They were very nice to us and the food was great!

Now, backing up.  The day after we arrived in Morocco and began in Casablanca, we had a meeting with all the various people who had arrived from the States and Europe, about 200 folks at this beginning phase.

Other than those of us who were visitors and going to be on our prayer-buses, there were "missionaries" who met with us.  As some of you might know, missionaries are not received in this country by title.  Some people who come and take on businesses or jobs, also use this as an opportunity to encourage the Believers that are in place already, many underground. This couple, Don and Rose Johnson, that I connected with for a few minutes, had been in Morocco for about 20 years.  They were in their 70s.  He was a veterinarian in Rabat.  We didn't discuss about where they had lived in the States; we were much more intense covering many serious issues.  All of us newly arrived folks were so busy and learning so much, we hardly had time to talk to anyone outside our bus group.

I saw this couple again a few days later in Marrakech.  We were having a Palm Sunday service at a hotel.  Not only the first approximately 200 of us, but many more Europeans and some Africans arrived for the weekend bringing the total to about 400 people.  According to the government representative, who sometimes gave us information or instructions, this was the first time a Christian worship event in public had been allowed.   [Believe me, it was an amazing service!  I've never seen anything like it.]

After church, I took a photo of them.  Never, ever, thought I would see Don and Rose again. 

THEN the almost-miracle occurred.  That Palm Sunday evening in Marrakech, after we had eaten that great meat at the food stall, my church friend, Kathy, and I were rushing around the other outside sales areas and tourism shockers.  [We DID avoid the snake charmers and magic circles, believe me.] 

Our bus had arrived a few minutes earlier, was parked on a main street, and its allowable time to be there was limited. We were all supposed to hit it quickly.  Kathy and I are pretty rules-oriented and didn't want people to be upset with us.

We had been walking quickly through the market place, headed for the bus area, thousands of people around us, and suddenly the Johnsons turned around from a dessert stand.  We were suddenly face-to-face.  And smiling Big Time.

I was so happy to tell them goodbye.  Then, for some unexpected reason, since Kathy and I were supposed to be focusing only on the bus, Johnsons and I suddenly talked about where they went when in the States for a break.  If only the bus wasn't a serious issue, I would have jumped up and down and hugged Don and Rose a million times.

Because...

when in the States on vacations, they attended my husband Dave's family church in St. Paul, MN -- North Heights Lutheran. Dave had been there since he was about 10 years old, and this church was one of the most significant charismatic churches in the whole Midwest.

Within a minute or so, Kathy and I rushed away. Everyone else was on the bus already, and people had seen us and were hollering.  I was disappointed.

But, on the other hand, I have never forgotten Don and Rose.  To have them dropped into my life 3 times, and the last one being connected to both me and my husband, I did rejoice.

[And, BTW, the team on the bus forgave us when we explained what had happened.  That was a good thing.]