The long trip home

Growing up, we lived “5 hours from anywhere”.  Obviously, that’s not exactly true, since where we lived was somewhere and that place was glorious and beautiful with the largest hospital locally, plus Kmart and JC Penny’s.  As far as remote small towns go, we were in the big leagues.  But, to get to a big city was 5 hours (with appropriate potty stops for us children).  But one year (1993? 1994?) we were “down south” (in the Los Angeles area) visiting my grandparents and getting ready for the 5 hour drive home.  It was my mom, my sister and me in my mother’s faux wood paneled station wagon. 

 

 We left Pasadena after breakfast and it was raining pretty hard.  My mom was driving on the freeway and the lanes were full (of cars and water) so she was pretty focused on staying in her lane when she couldn’t see the lines, when all of the sudden an Arrowhead water truck lost one of its empty 5 gallon bottles. My mom didn’t have any choice but to run it over and the bottle, being fairly large, got stuck under the station wagon. So she carefully pulled off to the side of the road.  It was the time before cell phones, so I imagine she walked to one of those yellow call boxes and called AAA.  It took them an hour to come and then just hit the bottle with a hammer and pulled it out so we could be on our way. 

 

We drove about an hour north before we got to Mojave, the last “real stop” before the long drive through the desert.  Despite being a real town, it was relatively small and you could normally drive from one end to the other in less than 5 minutes. Only this time, it was starting to snow (which it rarely did) and traffic dragged at a snail’s pace.  It took us 45 minutes to get to the other side of Mojave and as soon as we picked up the pace heading on the highway, we saw at least 4” of accumulated snow on the side of the road.  And we didn’t get to accelerate. She just made her way on yet another weather covered road where she couldn’t see the lines. 

 

My mom pressed on even as night drew and the snow continued to pile up, the roads became covered in white and we saw more and more big rigs parked on the side of the road.  My mom would drive what she could and stop where she could safely. It was slow driving with no chains and no plowed roads.  I’m sure my sister and I were in and out with sleep but there were parts I remember (like when we passed Coso Junction and she honked and honked at their lights and signs of life at the little rest stop).  I don’t know the exact time we arrived home, only that we did the math and it had taken us 14 hours to do that 5 hour trip and when I stepped out of the car there was snow up to my thighs.  

 

It was the trip that beat all trips in terms of hardships, challenges and time.  

 

 

 

A memory of Uncle Jerry

 Over the years the Camphouse siblings would often share hosting opportunities for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  The Langleys, Colemans and Camphouses lived within an hour of each other and Christmas dinner was sometimes a big shared meal.  One year when I was in 1^st or second grade we hosted.  That meant cleaning and cooking and getting ready.  It also meant my mom (who was notorious for such things) came up with a special activity for everyone wherein we each drew a name of a family member and shared something kind that we appreciated about them.

 

That activity remains etched in by brain for how embarrassed I was when my mom helped me share with my older cousin.  It also stayed with me for later in that night when Uncle Jerry invited me to the living room where we sat on the big white couch and he told me how special I was to him, how valued and important.  I don’t remember the specific words. But I remember how he made me feel and it’s been a treasure I’ve picked up often over the years.  He gave me a great gift of love and encouragement and he fostered it when we saw each other for other reasons as I grew up.  

 

I remember him as someone who was always kind. He never raised his voice to me or around me.  He was gentle.  He was a story teller and a slow talker—a combination I was often impatient for as a child and grew to love as an adult.  

 

My heart broke at having to say goodbye, and yet I am forever grateful that the timing of our trip to California lined up with his time in the hospital so we could and say goodbye. I held his hand. I prayed for him. I anointed him with oil. I kissed his head and shared my love.  I am sad for his absence, and I am grateful for the ways his love and stories fill my heart.  

Grief Fatigue

 When I was pregnant I would experience periods of extreme fatigue where nearly every day, generally sometime in the afternoon, I would become so tired I could barely function. The only solution was to lie down and take a nap.  Now, I’m not pregnant. But a few times outside of pregnancy I’ve experienced that prolonged sense of fatigue and I haven’t been able to kick it or figure it out.  In January of 2017, I had that. It went on so long without reprieve I asked my prayer group to lift me up and a couple suggested I go see a doctor and maybe have my thyroid checked. My doctor checked me out and things looked normal. As she asked me questions I began to share and started talking about losing my mom 6 months earlier and my grief and then it burst. I just started crying and had this moment of clarity.  It wasn’t my thyroid. It was grief. With that awareness I started doing more to actively grieve (psa: grief isn’t just crying or being sad, there are lots of ways to actively grieve—things you can do—to help move through the emotions of your loss). And lo and behold with awareness and intentionality my state of being improved. 

 

And then it happened again. I was still a little slow on the uptake, but multiple days of that weighty fatigue I’d ask myself, “what is going on with me?” And then slowly it would come, “Maybe it’s grief.” I’d find it was around birthdays and anniversaries….my body was remembering even when my mind was not.  Again I’d engage some of those grieving practices and again I’d find relief.  

 

Over the years I’ve found the most effective practice for me is telling stories about the one I miss.  

 

Last month was a really hard month with lots of things coming to a head and a pretty extended illness (not covid). I thought I’d be able to regroup on vacation (and in many ways I did) and at the same time we said goodbye to my dear uncle, and we entered the anniversary month for my mother’s death.  

 

I’ve been so so tired.  I sleep at night. I eat well. I exercise. I drink water.  And still so much fatigue, sometimes where I simply can’t do anything other than lie down and try and nap.  I wonder how I might get better and then I remind myself…it’s likely grief. You need to tell some stories.  

 

So, in an effort to heal my heart and spirit I’ll be telling stories.  I’ll keep them on my blog (even though I hardly ever blog anymore) for myself and anyone else who might want to read some.  

It's an adventure

 When we were in Puerto Rico in 2019 for mission work, we drove around with some of our free time to explore the area.  After the hurricane much of the infrastructure was damaged.  We didn’t always know what wasn’t there to begin with and what wasn’t there because of the storm, but there were regularly street signs missing. Google maps’ Spanish was pretty poor, which generally meant I had to translate what it said into actual Spanish and then translate that into directions for the driver.  It also didn’t help that the satellite connection for said maps was spotty, so we took a few detours.  Sonya was one of the women on the trip and she and her husband, Fred, have traveled a good bit.  She said that when they went somewhere new, they didn’t say they were lost, Fred just said, “We’re seeing something we haven’t seen before.” It was a lovely phrase that our team adopted easily.  We weren’t lost, we were just seeing something we hadn’t seen before. And it was true, and it made it all a bit of adventure—seeing things and doing things we’d never done before. 

 

Mission trips often push you outside of your comfort zone. For many eating new foods, or being in a country where you can’t speak the language can be challenging.  It’s hard to lose the confidence of self-sufficiency and instead rely on others in such significant ways. But it also forces you to experience things in new ways and grow in who you are.  It requires humility, patience, and courage.  

 

Yesterday, when I visited with Cally and Cathy, we talked about the challenges of the pandemic.  I said, “It’s an adventure.”  They laughed a little and I shared Sonya’s motto.   We’re doing things and seeing things we’ve never done before.  It’s challenging and forces us out of our comfort zone.  And, if we can keep our focus—it’s an adventure that will allow us to grow.  We’re trying new things, doing old things in ways we’ve never tried before.  We are exploring. We might feel a little lost, or it might take longer to get to our destination.  We could get upset and frustrated about it. Or, we might relocate ourselves within our current circumstances, get the supplies we need, and move ahead into the great unknown—after all, we’ve never been here before.  

 

That’s not me trying to wash over the very real challenges of our current situation.  I’m exhausted like most everyone.  And, I know that perspective matters. How we look at something will affect how we’re able to deal with it.  If I only choose to grieve what isn’t, I’ll miss the opportunity of this season.  It will be challenging. It will be exhausting. It will take longer to get where I want to go.  AND…I’m hoping to lean into this adventure and see and do things I’ve never done before.  

*Originally published for Moscow First UMC

White Normativity

Last week, I listened to a podcast that I found helpful. It was on "the Bible for Normal People" and featured Drew Hart. He's a theologian. And a black man. And he was talking about how he views race relations in the US.  He said a lot of things that were helpful, especially if you're just entering these types of conversations as a white person.  But there was one thing that I thought could really help change the nature of these conversations.  

When he was answering a question about "white supremacy" he said we need a different way of saying it...for the sake of the conversation.  He said something along the lines of racial hierarchy where white is at the top--not that that's what he was asking for, that's what he was describing.  I heard, in one form or fashion "white normativity". I don't know that that was his exact phrase, but it's the way it stuck with me.  That white supremacy is really a conversation about white normativity...things that are associated with white people becoming the "norm" by which other things are measured.  

He didn't name these, but they're examples that came immediately to mind:

Things like bandaids being "skin colored"--but only if you're fair skinned, or white.  I didn't have any reason to take note of this until I was in college.  Or maybe, better stated, no one drew my attention to this marker of white normativity until college. If this is new to you, this article might be helpful. 

Or the "flesh" crayon color being reflective of white flesh, not African American, Native American, Desi, Latino, or Asian flesh. 

Or the "norm" of identifying the race of someone in your story, but only if they aren't white. Like, "there was a black man who crossed the street...", or "this asian lady..." but white people don't say, "when the white lady said". We only identify the "other" because whiteness is assumed....it's the norm.  

There is lots of white normativity. It's a huge hurdle in our country. We don't talk about it easily or readily. And, if it's coined by it's real term: white supremacy, many of us fall deaf. After all, white supremacy has become the way we talk about the Neo-nazi, skin-head, racist radical movement that flagrantly touts the supremacy of the "white race" (that's a whole other post!) and advocate for the elimination of others.  Those of us who are not in that group certainly do not want to be lumped in along side them.  Which means we then (generally) refuse to even enter conversations where someone might say we hold "white supremacist ideals".  

But...maybe?  If we talked about white normativity--where we find it, how to identify it, why it's problematic, and how to dismantle it, maybe we could make some progress?  Maybe?  

Starting place

 There’s been a lot of conversation lately around race consciousness and racial injustice.  I sometimes have lots I want to say and sometimes don’t know what to say. And sometimes I’m not sure it’s my place to say it.  

 

In the swirl of conversations I’ve had various moments, epiphanies, and lessons come to mind.  I’m not an expert to be teaching others, but I have learned some things. And clearly, some people haven’t learned those same things. And we have trouble listening and seeing and finding solutions to deep seated issues in our communities and our country. 

 

Partly for my own sake of working through my memories and what I think I learned, and hopefully in a way that might help someone else engage in the conversation, I’m planning to blog about those things.  

 

I haven’t blogged consistently in years. I haven’t had enough to say to make it worthwhile or to need the outlet. But now it seems right…as a place to lay my thoughts and maybe offer something helpful to another.  

 

I’ve heard a couple of podcasts from Brene Brown in the pandemic, and one thing she says that I really like is “I’m trying to get it right, not to be right.”  I want that to be my mantra for now—to try and get it right, not to be right. This isn’t about absolutism. This is about process and learning. 

 

So if you have a question, ask. If you think I got it wrong, let me know.  But please do it with the same intent…not to prove you're right, but to help one another get it right.  

Muscle memory

 Grief is a funny thing.  For me, it has this sneaky subtle presence.  I don’t just fall apart in tears.  Instead, most often I fall asleep. I just get so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. And, I don’t normally associate my fatigue with grief. I just assume I’m tired because of life.  Lately, I assume I’m tired because of pandemic life. And, let’s be real, part of pandemic life is grief over all the things that can’t be right now.  

 

This last week I’ve been tired. Like ready for a nap at 9am kind of tired.  Granted, I get up at 5, but still naps at 9am aren’t normal for me.  I wasn’t sure what was up but try to eat right, take my vitamins, keep exercising and listen to my body.  

 

And then yesterday I got a text “thinking about you today. I love you.” And it took me a minute. She’s a friend, so it wasn’t that weird…but why that day in particular? Oh, August 24^th….the day my mom died.  And then it hit me…my fatigue was likely my grief speaking.  

 

An hour or two later my sister messaged me, she wasn’t going to do anything for the day and she was preparing to tell her family they were on their own for lunch.  So I asked, “does it have anything to do with mom?” Oh…I hadn’t thought about that…maybe? 

 

Four years out and my mom’s death isn’t ask breath taking as it used to be.  But it’s still hard and even if my mind is too distracted to remember, my body isn’t. My body remembers, which is so weird that somehow rooted in my muscle memory is the pain of that loss.  

 

My sister asked what I was going to do about it. I said I felt I should lean into it, but had other things to do, so maybe I’d just get things done and then come back to it.  Which is pretty much what I did…or tried to do…because that dang blanket of fatigue is so heavy and at times during the day I just couldn’t. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t get up and go for a walk. I couldn’t do more. 

 

But resting and sleeping don’t actually fix the fatigue of grief. I actually have to do something to actively grieve, and the thing that has helped me the most is to write. I write about my mom. I write about what I miss. I write about the weight of it all, and somehow the words that I write, or type, pull some of the weight from my body to the page.  

 

We have a portal in the living room and when I walk into the room it activates and shows the pictures I’ve posted on Facebook—currently lots of pictures from our recent trip. Our trip home. Our trip to see family.  And pictures with some of those we love and were able to see.  But no pictures of my mom. Of course not. That’s obvious after 4 years.  But pictures were her thing. She loved taking pictures and back in the age of film we would sit or stand in place FOREVER until everyone cooperated and smiled like they were supposed to.  And she would insist on family pictures on major holidays. And she would insist on grandkid pictures with the grandparents.  And for years it was annoying and frustrating, especially when certain family members were less than cooperative.  Ahem.  You know who you are and I am not naming names. 

 

And my heart aches because I wish my mom were here. I wish my kids knew her—like really got to know her and enjoy her. She would have doted on them because that’s who she was. And she would have been able to help us when we fall short as parents and don’t know what to do. And she could have helped us come up with a plan for this hybrid school year that feels so likely to go south and be all online. But she’s not here. 

 

And yet she does help. Who she was and how she raised us and the things she taught us…those are in my muscle memory too.  I think part of the reason I can forget the date of her death is because she was an amazing mom and we had a solid relationship.  Sure, we had our issues, but they weren’t profound or harmful.  So I can hold the goodness of who she was without open wounds, or tender scars, or words left unsaid.  I knew she was dying and I got to say goodbye. And she taught me in such a way that I was able to help Ruth say goodbye over the phone too. My mom wasn’t conscious, so that wasn’t the point. The point was helping Ruth learn how to let someone go and release them into the arms of God.  She was only 5, so she doesn’t remember it well, but it was there…a healthy muscle memory that will hopefully help the next time we have to say goodbye.  

 

I never know quite where these stream of consciousness writings will take me. I try to just follow it and let the words come, and then stop when they don’t.  So here we are, stopping without conclusion.  

 

 

If I had known

I miss my mom.  My grief comes in unexpected waves now, and today happens to be one of those days where I really miss her.  It was 3 years ago that we learned we would be moving to Moscow Idaho and leaving my parents in California.  Leaving them was the hardest part of our decision. Over 8 years they had spent a lot of time with us. At first, visiting about every 6 weeks. Then, as my mom’s health got worse and she had more appointments in Los Angeles, they were with us for months at a time.  And then, all of the sudden, we weren’t going to be there.  And in two more months, my dad would take my mom from our house in Valencia to a care facility in San Gabriel.  It would be the last time I hugged or saw my mom in person.  When it happened, I knew it could be the last, that she wasn’t well and the doctors weren’t doing much, but even though I knew it mightbe, I don’t think I dared to believe it would be.  I have to think that if I had known, for sure, that I would have hugged her longer, been more effusive in telling her how important she was to me and showing her my love.  I look back at pictures from those months and wish I had taken more pictures.  She wasn’t in great shape, she was super heavy and couldn’t get up to walk or shower regularly.  And it didn’t really seem like something worth capturing in a picture, but what I didn’t realize or even think about was how few pictures I would have of her with me, or with my kids from those months. And since Steven was only a baby at the time, there would be far too few pictures of them together—despite her deep love for him and the fact that he would have absolutely adored her. It’s nothing I can change now, and isn’t the worst thing that could have been, but it is certainly something I grieve now.  I tried to do it all without regrets—caring for her, helping my dad, having her at our house, visiting her in the care facility—but there were some things I simply couldn’t see to make a different choice.  

2 year anniversary

Dear Mom,

I miss you. A LOT. Some days it feels like I could just call you up and ask your advice, or that we'll see you on the next visit. And other days I get hit with a ton of bricks...you're not here and you won't be here. And I should have appreciated you more. Seen all that you did with greater clarity. And Lord knows I should have asked more questions. You were so smart. So learned. You understood people and systems and things. And I wish I had you here. I don't have another you. 

Grief stinks. Ok, so maybe it doesn't. It helps you move through all the emotions and remember  the people you love. it can humble you. Teach you. And make you more grateful. It can even help you live better, more appreciative for what you've lost, more attentive to those you still have. The part that stinks is the losing. More specifically the losing and not getting back.  

Friday was two years since you'd died. Approaching the anniversary didn't feel so bad. Even the day of was OK. Until the fatigue hit...the one that marks my grief in an odd way. I'd expect uncontrollable tears, but those only come when I write. Instead my grief comes as this crazy thick fatigue where I can barely keep my eyes open. I'm sure if you were here you'd know the science and physiology of it to explain it all to me. But instead I have my questions still unanswered.

 

Invocation

Holy One,

Draw us close to you.

Speak life into our lives.

Move the mountains of injustice in our world. 

Calm the storms of hate and fear.

Draw us together by the power of your Holy Spirit.

Build us up in humility and hope.

Guide our steps.

Give us courage to live like Jesus.

By the power of the One who was,

and is,

and is to come. 

Amen.