heading toward simplicity

Two years ago, when we moved my sister out to L.A., we spent the night in a cute hotel in an adorable older neighborhood. It was a nice stay. The rooms were quiet and clean and we had fun swimming in the pool with our kiddos. Nothing too unusual.

When we woke up in the morning to leave, I remember seeing something that made me take notice: two beautiful teen-age girls, dressed like models straight out of a teen fashion mag, both in dark shades. Not a smile between them. They were accompanied by two rather serious looking young men in dark sunglasses as well and they all got in to a very shiny, very new SUV with chrome rims.

My husband and I have dreamed of owning an SUV for our crew. This SUV would put our 1999 Suburban dream to shame.

They just seemed so out of place. And as I sat and wondered what the story was with this group of young people (Were they a band? Some actors? Perhaps trust-fund babies, hanging out at the Comfort Inn and Suites with the rest of us normal people?) my husband asked me an unforgettable question:

Didn’t I agree they were most likely prostitutes? 

Punched. In. Gut.

I am a super gullible girl from the mid-west. In my world, this kind of stuff only happens in the movies. I mean, obviously, I know it happens. You see it on the news, read stories. But to see these girls in real life, to see the absolute hopelessness that hovered over them. My usual, unrealistic, hell-bent on fixing self wanted to drive back and sweep them up and bring them back out to MN with me. Give them another new beginning. Teach them to garden. How to cook from scratch. To help them take time to learn who they are again. To teach them that there is hope. That they are worth something so much more than this life they are living now. What I would hope someone would do for my beautiful daughters, were they to so completely lose their way.

It made me want to talk to those young men. To ask them if this is who they really wanted to be. Guardians to a gate of absolute evil. Of course it isn’t, I would say, in a loving and motherly way that would somehow find that last ember of who these men had been when they were 7 years old. Back when they were their momma’s boys. Back when they wanted to be super heroes and policemen. I wanted to dig around in their seemingly heartless souls and find a shred of decency. A sliver of their good selves still alive and breathing.

I realize this is a very simplistic view.  I realize I have watched one too many Sally Field movies. I understand that my efforts would most likely be wasted. 

I can’t help myself. It’s the part of me that must grip hope tightly. With all my strength. Far-fetched or not.

It kills me to think that there are so many young people out there that are suffering through their lives in this way. A life that should have been a gift. It kills me to see the light of hope has gone out and they have surrendered to the darkest part of this world. I hate with everything in me that there are people who would take advantage of these young lives and use them in such a heartless way.

Completely void of dignity.

I’m not sure which would be worse: to be kept in such a vicious cycle by mental chains or real, physical chains.

This article hurts. It honestly makes me want to lock all the doors, turn off the TV, close the curtains, plug my ears and hum loudly.

It also makes me want to be vigilant and rescue every little girl, boy woman and man who has been forced into this world of depravity. I want to join the SWAT team. Knock down doors, beat up bad guys and set prisoners free.

Vigilante style.

But that’s not reality.

Reality makes me say that somehow I want to give a sliver of hope. An ember of life.

With a more realistic mindset, my friend Wes Halula is making a movie about the hopeful side of human trafficking. He is going to focus on the rescuing part, which is a beautiful thing rising out of such ugliness.

He is in the midst of raising funds to get this movie going. If you’d like to help, check out this link. He explains it better than I can.

Maybe we can pump a little goodness out into the world yet.

My sister and I have not always had the relationship we have now. I think a big part of it was that we didn’t realize that we didn’t need to compete with each other. And that is a huge part of life in general. I tell my boys that all the time, but when you are 3 years or less apart, competition is very natural.The boys are a lot like us in some ways: they could not be more different. One blond, one black-haired. One has the build to play defense, one will be more along the lines of a QB. One is an amazing speller, the other is better with numbers.  I try to stress to them all the time that they are not alike in most ways, so that frees them to cheer each other along in what they each choose to do without feeling jealousy.

And that is where my sister and I have landed. It took many years, but when we figured it out I think we realized that we were one of each other’s favorite people in the world. 

We used to fight. Even physical fights. I had an insane temper. Insane. One would not be incorrect to call it rage. She was the typical middle-child button pusher. We were often gasoline and fire.

Or maybe hard liquor and fire, or whatever burns fast and bright because it didn’t burn too long. We used to laugh about how we would get a in a knock-down, drag-out and then one of us would say, “Hey…do you wanna go to the movies?” And all was forgiven just like that.

The last time we got in a huge brawl, was in church, of all places. It was probably over gum. She probably stole a piece of mine or something. Then it turned into a scuffle. Then one of us hit the other in the back and then the other would return the favor because hitting in the back was strictly forbidden. We made a rule because it hurt so badly. My mother gave us the look of death and then we probably toned it down a bit. Maybe.

I was in college when that happened. 

Now days things are more beautiful between us. There are still verbal scuffles and they usually involve me sticking my foot in my mouth which I do with the skill of a contortionist. I am amazing at it. And we sit with it for a while and I apologize and we give ourselves some time and we come back from it fairly quickly.

When she moved to L.A. it was a strange time.

My sister is the most natural born traveler. It is as though she comes alive when she is abroad. As though travel is the truest form of oxygen she has ever breathed and exactly what her aching muscles needed.

So when she left to travel around the world for, oh gosh…how long was it?Seven or eight months? Anyway, I was sad because the world is huge and vast and there aren’t always those people who have honest and true intentions and she is of slight build but her spirit is bigger than that of a giant. 

But I knew she should go. And I was so happy for her. I watched her go in the way people watch an animal being released into the wild. Because that was almost exactly what it was. This was her natural habitat. This was where she was truly her own self. And it was right and good for her to do it. My heart was content to let her go.

The same was true of L.A. I didn’t want to see her move away. But in a way, I did. She belonged in such a state that encompasses deserts and oceans and mountains and the greenest, most dense and lush beauty. Her spirit belonged there. And it belonged with Chris.

I felt peace in my spirit, letting go of her.

And now we laugh because we actually see her more now than we did when she lived here. Which is such an incredible blessing, for many reasons.

One of those reasons is that she gives me a view or angle of this family. She has the knowledge of the inner workings but the ability to remove herself from it and see it in a different light.

What I mean is this: She teaches me things about my kids, about my own life.

She is able to show me how it is important that my son is a middle child and what that means to his view of himself and his place in this family.

She shows me what it means to truly listen to my kids. Not that, “Mmm-hmm” and polite nod while I make dinner and do a thousand different things. True listening. She hears them and she asks questions and draws out who they are. And it draws life into them. I remembered what it felt like to have an adult listen to you and actually care about what you were saying or how you felt as a kid. And it was amazing. She reminded me of that.

She taught me that I must be more gentle with myself and my expectations. Because there is that voice inside me that tells me that I am lazy and that I should have gotten more done in a day. That I shouldn’t be sitting and reading or taking a few moments for myself. That it is wasteful and indulgent. She has reminded me that I need that time. And that I am indeed a hard worker. Even if my house doesn’t show it. (My opinion, not hers.) 

I like the way that things she does when she comes to visit stick with us. One time she came and spent a Saturday with us (which was a rare treat) and she sat on the couch and let her nieces read Shakespeare to her. And it fed their souls. I watched them bloom into happiness and joy at the prospect of someone caring about what they cared about.

And I learned from that. And I took it and I made it my own. And these nights before bed, they are reading to me about cats that fight in clans. And the joy is there still.

I am so thankful for that. So thankful that she taught me that. Thankful that she pours so much heart into her visits with us. 

This last trip, she sat and let each child show her, page by page, the sketches in their sketch book (which is roughly 45 gazillion drawings each) and a (somewhat) brief description of every one of them. She sat listening intently with the child on her lap or by her chair. She took it all in. Patiently. With genuine interest.

The next day, when the kids tried to do the same with another visitor, I knew that it meant so much to them.

I see it feeds their souls.

She taught me that.

I cannot wait to see what she does with her own children someday. And I hope she will be as gentle with herself as she has encouraged me to be. 

Even though Spring refuses to show her face this year, I know she is near. I heard evidence tonight.

Every night before bed, my son and I go out on the deck to see if the stars are showing. Tonight, as we gazed into a beautiful evening sky, I heard the very first little tree frogs, chirping away down by the pond. 

I’m not certain how the fact that we are supposed to get more snow tomorrow has escaped them. But hopefully they will continue their cheerful song regardless and coax Spring out of her hiding place.

I feel like a boiling pot of water. Thoughts and emotions keep rolling fiercely to the surface and then kind of evaporating into feelings of regret. This may or may not have something to do with hormones. (The once-a-month kind, not the 9 month kind.) 

Last night I got into a squabble with some friends on Facebook about the perceived authenticity of a certain Country singing starlet. I let good points flow into personal comments and things got murky and I don’t even really care except that I don’t want to say unkind things about people, everyday or famous. This morning I recanted and took down the post. Not because I think what I was saying was wrong. I still cannot trust people who work so hard at making things look simple and perfect at the same time. I feel that it puts them on a sort of pedestal and leaves the rest of us feeling less-than, and it seems some-how intentional. But more than that, I don’t want to be the one tearing people down when it would be better to build people up, right? And Ephesians 4:29 was gently inserted into my brain in this morning’s quiet time:

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.

Point taken.

But here’s the thing…my brain and my spirit and my heart are all moving at different speeds. So I say something and it makes sense ‘logically’ but then the next day when my heart catches up and tells me, ‘Perhaps you should clarify or take it back. You don’t want to be that person, do you?’ And my heart is right. I do not want to be that person. 

And what I was saying had merit. It was coming from a place that wanted to protect the young ladies I love from someone who would so innocently lead them down a destructive path. I wanted to say, ‘See her… really see her. See that this is an act. See that this is not reality but a carefully choreographed version. You only see what she wants you to see. Do not let yourself feel less-than.’

But that is not how my comments came across. Because people cannot see my motives and they don’t know where I am coming from if I don’t state it specifically. And sometimes we don’t want to be specific. Sometimes those little places in our hearts and the hearts of others, that we protect, we keep hidden for a reason.

Sometimes not-so-quiet waters run deep, too. And I want to share the ‘what’ but not the ‘why’. And it leads to all sort of reactions.

Lesson learned: might be best to keep the ‘what’ silent, if I am unable or unwilling to share the ‘why’ as well, right?

Or: Perhaps it would behoove me to remain internet-silent for one particular week each month.

Do you know what I’m trying to say?

He has risen and in doing so, He has conquered death. He has blown the gates off Hell.

Love Wins.

Love Wins.

Amen.

‘Atta boy. Love this kid.

I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.

-E.B. White

Awwwww, my fellow Tumblr-ers…you didn’t let me down.

Awkward Over-Analyzers, unite!

I love you all.

I might regret saying that later, but right now, in the moment…

(And thanks to mattlowe for proving this isn’t a one gender issue. I stand corrected.)