We have roadside time-outs in cornfields. Nothing fixes a whiny road trip faster than pulling over and placing a shocked Melton bottom firmly between two stalks of corn. I smile and wave to the concerned passersby, while Tish screams, “MOMMY! YOU CAN’T JUST DO THIS! I’M IN THE CORN!!” Still, I’ve found more space in my day and heart to let Tish be Tish. If the girl wants to spend thirty minutes deciding which pair of wool tights to wear to the beach on a ninety-degree day, so be it. We’ve got time. Time to notice how beautiful she is with a tan, how brave she is when she jumps off the dock into the bay, how gentle she is, so often, with her baby sister. I’m learning, slowly, that Tish is not just a challenging part of my day; she’s a whole person, with her own days. Some of her days are harder than others, like mine. I’m noticing her more.
And Sweet Amma. Amma is growing up, out, and away. She gets angry fifty times a day, and she points at me in the midst of her fury and screams, “I HAS A SAD AT YOU, MOMMY!” And right there, in that accusation, I see that our separation has begun. Amma has learned that not only am I not the solution to all of her problems, but perhaps I’m the cause of them. So she flails and kicks on her time-out chair screaming, “I SO FWUSTWATING!!!!” To which I reply, “Oh, sweet girl. I couldn’t agree more.”
On Wednesday afternoons we sit on our front porch steps, licking popsicles and waiting for a glimpse of Craig’s red truck coming down Main Street. Then I watch my babies jump up and down as Craig climbs out of the truck and prepares for their attack. I watch Craig struggle to untangle himself from their sticky little hands, so he can get to me first. I take in his suit and tie, his shiny black shoes, his cologne, and I know that over the next several days, he’ll transform from business man to outdoors man. His clean-shaven face will get a little scruffier each day. The smell of cologne will be replaced by sweat and salt and sunscreen. His button-down will be replaced by nothing but dark, smooth skin and tattoos. Tattoos that mean family.
It’s me. Something’s changing inside and outside. I haven’t bought a thing for months and can’t think of anything I need. I haven’t waxed my eyebrows or painted my nails or used a hair dryer for sixty-three days. I like figuring out what I actually look like. A little shabby—but not TOO shabby. No complaints from Craig. I read a while ago that it’s not how a woman looks for a man that matters to him, but how she looks at a man. I’ve been testing that theory. So far, so good.
It’s church. Our tiny church is a few steps from our house, so we walk every Sunday. Tish walks to church carrying her hot pink purse and tripping over her silvery glitter slippers. Fancy shoes and purses are Tish’s favorite part of God.
On Easter Sunday we sat beside a teeny elderly lady who looked as if she’d been getting ready for the service since Good Friday. I admired her sculpted white curls, her tailored suit, her pale pink fingernails, and her delicate hands, which were wrapped around a snazzy pink plaid clutch. She wore a pearl necklace with matching earrings and perfectly applied cotton candy lipstick. During the service, I looked down at her ankles and noticed a blue crab peeking through her nude hose. She saw me looking and winked at me. My heart skipped a beat. I missed the entire sermon thinking about her. I’ve decided that dainty tattooed elderly ladies in church pews are my favorite kind of people ever. I can’t wait to be one.
And it’s the church bells. The first bells chime at nine, and then every three hours for the rest of the day. We can hear them from the front yard, from the dock, from the living room. I love them because they’re beautiful, and because they remind me every three hours to wake up and say thank-you. Hearing those bells makes me feel like God’s got his eye on our little town. Or at least our town’s got its little eye on God. It feels cozy. It feels like all of us who hear the bells are in this life together.
It’s the small town attention to detail. It’s harder to pretend that people or moments are dispensable here. You have to be careful in a small town. If someone has a barking dog, or is driving too slow, you should not give the dog dirty looks or cut the slow person off. Because then you will forever be The Lady Who Gives Dogs Dirty Looks and Cuts People Off. There is no anonymity here. People are responsible for their actions. And if you don’t like your neighbor, well you best find something you like, because nobody’s going anywhere. There’re just not enough folks to keep trying people out until you find one who matches you perfectly. I’m learning to practice what I preach to the kids: you get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.
Once, in the car, the radio station paused midsong to announce that a little boy named John had lost his dog. The dog was black with white spots and answered to the name of Rudy. Apparently John was extremely distraught. So could everyone keep an eye out and call the station if anybody saw Rudy? Then the all-call was over and the song resumed. I started crying a little. Chase heard me and said from the back seat, “It’s okay, Mommy. They’ll find Rudy.” I told Chase that I knew they would. I was crying happy tears because I didn’t know there were still places where lost puppies and heartsick little boys were worthy of interruptions.
Another time, our minister, Valerie, asked our tiny congregation for announcements. An elderly lady in the choir stood up in her shiny blue robe and held a spoon in the air. Not a special serving spoon, just a plain, metal cereal spoon. The dainty elderly choir lady said very slowly, “I think someone left this spoon at my house. If it’s yours, I’d like to get it back it to you.” My eyes widened and searched the sanctuary, expecting to see the knowing smiles of people tolerating this woman who was boldly spending their precious time on a single spoon. In fact, everyone was smiling earnestly at the choir lady and the spoon, including Pastor Valerie, because they were both theirs. The choir lady and the spoon. And they, the choir lady and the spoon, deserved to be treated with respect. And I thought, Oh, my. I have much to learn from these people. They know that God is in the details. They know that old ladies and lost spoons are infinitely more important than time.
It’s the land. Here, there are not six degrees of separation between God’s creation and our survival. Bubba introduced us to the local watermen, and we watch them take their boats out each morning to catch the fish that we eat for dinner, the fish they sell to feed their families. Chase has gone fishing with these watermen twice, and each time he’s caught a week’s worth of dinner. Our freezer is full of rockfish, and when Craig grills and serves it, Chase watches us chew each bite, pride puffing up his teeny chest. He’s also met the local farmers and visited their farms, and as we pass by the crops, he examines them and says things like, “The corn is looking a little short, Mom. It should be knee high by the Fourth of July. We need some rain, Mom. Rain is what we need.” Then at night he prays for rain for his farmer friends. He is starting to know the people who work the land and the water to feed America. He’s learning how it works. That real people and real miracles put his dinner on the table.
In the absence of buildings and highways, it’s easier for me to remember God’s providence. Living here is a constant reminder that God made it all, and what God made is enough. Enough to feed us, to entertain us, to satisfy us. Back home all the concrete and highways and business and hyperorganization tricked me into believing that we must provide for ourselves. That we must stay very, very busy in order to keep things running. But we don’t, really. We can just do our work for the day and then watch things grow.
It’s the water. There’s a glass door at the back of our house that frames the bay inside of it, and I’ve watched each member of our family stop in his tracks at that door, look out at the water, and sigh. Even Amma sighs at that door. It’s as if our bodies are designed to stop, relax, and appreciate the water. There’s a lot of sighing going on here. Tish lies on the dock, the sun lightening her golden brown hair, the blue water and sky swallowing her up. She says, “AH. THIS IS MY YIFE.” She means “this is the life,” but I don’t correct her.
Sometimes, early in the morning, I sneak out to the back por
ch with my coffee and C. S. Lewis and listen to the bay wake up. I never get much reading done, because I find myself silently repeating, “thank you, thank you, thank you.” Something about water helps me feel grateful. Whether it’s a glass of ice water, a warm tub, or the bay.
In the evening I stand in the kitchen, cutting local veggies while Craig chases the kids around the house. They laugh until they can’t stand anymore, so they flop down and roll on the kitchen floor, holding their bellies. I look out the back window to the water and sing along to my country music. I realize that my life matches my music now. This is all I needed—just a safe, pretty place to let my faith, family, and bangs grow.
There You Are
But then I learned that a pretty place wasn’t all I needed.
Here’s what I discovered in my six months by the water: The bay is beautiful, but not as lovely as my friends Brooke and Amy. The morning sounds of the bay comfort me, but Casey’s twinkly eyes and a hug from Jen comfort me even more. Watching the kids splash in the bay is exhilarating, but not as refreshing as watching them squeal as they greet Jess at the door. God made some beautiful things—and the bay is one of them—but I’m certain that women were his best work. There is no substitute on God’s Green Earth for girlfriends.
I’ve never felt particularly good at friendship. Friendship’s demands—like remembering important dates, answering the phone, and navigating group dynamics—don’t come easy to me. I have a reclusive side and a Sister. These two things make friendship hard to need. Maybe they just make it harder for me to notice how much I need friends.
Still, I’ve managed to keep a small group of best friends from college. They take incredible care of each other and make it appear so effortless. I always felt well loved by them, but also a few steps removed. I could never be all in the way they were with each other. I kept one foot out, mostly because I have a hard time feeling like an essential part of any group. Groups are hard. But also because everything for which they relied on each other—advice, support, a shoulder to cry on, a shopping partner—I already had in Sister. So I never really thought I needed them. But after a few months in my new town, it became clear that it was going to be very hard to make new friends and impossible to replace those I already had. Marriage and parenting become extra hard without friends with whom to discuss how wonderful and hard they are.
So Craig and I started talking about what this meant for us. Our marriage is a twisty, mapless journey. We try one thing, then try another. We decide what works and what doesn’t. We get to know each other better with each new try, and then we fix things for each other and try not to lose our patience. We try to be tireless with each other’s hearts. We are slowly and painstakingly learning how to do this well.
In the end, we decided to move back to our friends in the suburbs. It had become clear that I needed to. As a recovering everything, loneliness is dangerous territory for me. I don’t know how it works, but being plugged into others, instead of allowing myself to float untethered like a satellite, is one of the keys to my sobriety. And there was one lonely night in our teeny town when I glanced at the wine bottle on top of the fridge for a couple of seconds too long. That scared the bejesus out of me. And Craig is wise enough to know that if I go down, the whole fam damily goes down.
So we moved into a neighborhood where four of my very best friends live. We walk to each other’s houses, and our little ones go to school together. When Craig calls and says he’s going to be home late, I call my girls and say come over right away. Our million collective littles run around the house while we mamas talk and drink Diet Coke out of wine glasses, because Manal’s mom said it tastes better that way. It does. We make nine frozen pizzas, and I burn most of them and Gena looks at me above the chaos and says, “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe how lucky we are. Twenty years. We’re mamas together.”
And when I look at Gena—all of the Genas flash before me:
I see her in the sparkly formal gown she wore to a dance during her freshman year in college. Then I see her in her black graduation gown, holding her diploma. Next I see her walking down the aisle toward Zach in a gorgeous white wedding gown. Then she appears in the pale blue gown she wore in the hospital as she held her first baby, Tyler. Finally, I smile as I remember the sassy black and white number she wore to the spectacular party that marked their ten-year anniversary.
And with goosebumps covering my arms and legs, I think—we are growing up together, like Sisters do. We’re friends. I know we’re friends because I need you, I don’t understand why. I’m just grateful that I do.
As I turn to watch Gena’s little girls chasing mine up the stairs in their Snow White dresses, I think, Yep. I found my small town. My water. My small town and my water are my family and friends. And for the first time, I’m all in.
Sometimes you have to leave to discover that you left everything you needed back home. Is our life back home perfect? Hell no. But I have finally learned that I am not going to be perfectly happy anywhere. If I live by the water, I will miss the suburbs. If I live in the mountains, I will miss the water. If I watch House Hunters International, I will miss Costa Rica. And I’ve never even been to Costa Rica.
I’ve done the experiment. I’ve moved six times in eight years to very different places, desperately seeking peace and joy. And I still haven’t found what I’m lookin’ for. Parenting, life, friendship, marriage: they are not hard for me because I’m in the wrong place; they’re just hard. So I am finally willing to accept that there is no geographic place that offers perfect peace. Because, as Bubba likes to say, wherever you go, there you are.
I think one of the keys to happiness is accepting that I am never going to be perfectly happy. Life is uncomfortable. So I might as well get busy loving the people around me. I’m going to stop trying so hard to decide whether they are the “right people” for me and just take deep breaths and love my neighbors. I’m going to take care of my friends. I’m going to find peace in the ’burbs. I’m going to quit chasing happiness long enough to notice it smiling right at me.
Healing Is Listening
We Can Do Hard Things
We Belong to Each Other
Love Wins
Hello, blank page. We meet again. Each blank page is like a new day, a gift that comes with responsibility. What will I make of you? You scare me, but I love you. It’s appropriate that scared and sacred are virtually the same word, because those two walk hand in hand.
The blank page feels especially scary and sacred today because I’ve decided to respond to a question that’s been asked of me with some frequency: “Glennon,” people say, “you were a bulimic for twenty years, an alcoholic and smoker for ten, and a drug user for five. You quit all four cold turkey, without working the twelve steps. That’s unusual. And I notice you’re quite skinny. Are you sure you’re better?”
Better is a troublesome word for me. Better suggests increased value, and I think I was worth exactly the same when I was a fall-down drunk as I am now: a sober, loving, creative wife, mother, sister, daughter, and friend.
I prefer the word healing to the word better. To me, healing means aligning myself—my mind, body, and soul—with the rhythm of the world. It means relaxing into the way things are, floating with the current instead of desperately trying to swim against it. Healing means surrendering to and following the world’s truest rules, the rules created by God.
When discussing God with people of different faiths, Love is a good word to use because most people believe that Love can be trusted. It has been said that the opposite of Love is Hate, or perhaps apathy. Yet, I’m fairly certain that the opposite of Love is Fear. I think the root of all evil is fear.
Love and Fear are opposing voices, opposing ways to live, opposing platforms on which to make daily decisions, view the world, and build a life. The battle between Love and Fear is at the heart of my healing, my recovery, my progress toward heaven. My bette
r.
There are two voices in my head. One jumps up and down, waves its arms, clamors for my attention, and generally annoys the hell (heaven) out of me. That voice is Fear. For twenty years, I heard only the voice of Fear, so I believed fear was the truth. I thought Fear was my voice. Here is what Fear said to me, all day, every day:
There is not enough for you. Hurry. Grab food, grab money, grab attention and fame and validation and praise, and hold on tight. These things might never come your way again. The more for her, the less for you. Get what you can while you can and hoard it, hide it.
Actually, forget it. Take nothing. You don’t deserve anything. And stay away from people. If anyone really knew you, they’d be horrified. There is something very, very wrong with you. Look at your life, your body, your face! Humiliating. Grotesque. You are beyond repair. You have nothing to offer. Life has nothing to offer either—nothing you deserve, at least. Life is terrible and soul crushing to weaklings like you. You will not be able to handle it. Stay quiet and hide until the end.
I followed every one of Fear’s directions for nearly twenty years.
Then, when I got pregnant, I was certain it would end badly, because Fear told me that an unhappy ending was exactly what a girl like me deserved. But it didn’t end badly; it ended miraculously. I found myself holding a beautiful, perfect baby boy—a completely undeserved gift. And a kind, giving, gorgeous man decided to marry me. ME. And after the decades of pain I caused my friends and my family, they still surrounded me and loved my little family and wanted to help us.
It occurred to me, Could Fear be wrong? I said, Are you a LIAR, Fear? Is there another way to live? Is there another voice?
As soon as I figured out that Fear wasn’t my only voice, it faded into the background. Something else emerged. This presence had been sitting quietly and solidly, with a voice as tall and deep and wide as a redwood tree. This voice, I understood quickly, was Love. I call him Jesus, and in my mind’s eye he sits, smiling softly, still as a rock, and knowing.
Carry On, Warrior Page 18