Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

and just like that…

Just now while doing breakfast chores, I was praying for Jocelyn and something wonderful happened.

((an old photo of the boys with fresh hay…xoxo))

For several days I have been aggressively and tediously flaking hay for the bachelors from what is perhaps the most tightly wound large bale I have ever seen in my life. It is also wrapped in not wire, not netting, but twine, and lots and lots of it. It’s like a five year old wrapped a gift with cheap tape. The blue nylon twine is buried and criss-crossed in deep crevices throughout the hay, making the already tight spiral of tangled dry grass nearly impossible to loosen neatly. Every day is a slow unraveling task. Chipping and shredding, really. Generally this task is kind of fun, actually, I’m not complaining. Raking hay can be therapeutic, like collecting manure for compost or pulling weeds. It’s a repetitive motion and gentle physical exertion that makes it easy to get lost in thought, or prayer. But the twine has been a frustrating block.

So today I was chipping away, flaking off small, not pretty, tufts of hay to slowly collect into heaps for the boys’ breakfast, praying for Jocelyn. Praying for her to remember the best moments between us, from childhood to Colorado and everything in between. Praying for her to feel needed and appreciated and valued, to feel safe and warm when she thinks of home, to separate trauma and fact and fiction, to resist and replace the brainwashing, to grow whatever seeds of love and hope and health are in her heart. I swung my straight metal rake again and again, and suddenly the tines caught another strong, skinny bit of blue twine. So I stopped to cut it apart. (So much twine you guys.)

As soon as my scissors snapped the twine, it popped apart like a champagne cork! And a thick, fluffy, luxurious band of soft hay collapsed at my feet. I don’t know if you have ever felt that, the release of more hay than you needed, but it is wonderful. Hay falling at my feet is one of my favorite sensations, maybe because it is so clearly proof of lushness and abundance. Every day I hope it will happen, but as you might imagine, this particular large bale has been stingy with the magic.

Anyway, today it did happen. I couldn’t believe how much gorgeous, sweet smelling hay was being trapped by a single strand of blue nylon twine. It really doesn’t make sense. It hit my very cold toes (three cheers for wearing flip flops in December), and I stared at the now very lopsided large bale. Then I collected the food into my big green basket and called Chanta, Dusty, and Meh over to feast.

It hit my heart that God has worked this way in my life over and over again.

He has many times released fears or shame or toxic relationships, or simply erroneous thinking, in one powerful godly breath, thereby triggering cascades of goodness in my life.

And He can do this with my girl, too. He can release her from everything in one moment. All that goodness in her life can cascade again with the snapping apart of one lie or one dark thought or one influence or one circumstance. She feels far away but also very close right now. I hope that the blue nylon twines keeping her bound up are snapped away gradually, gradually, then all at once. She deserves absolute freedom.

((a very happy day on my first trip to visit her in Colorado))

I feel momentum building and a deep peace growing. Thank you so much for your love and continued prayers. Please let me know how we can be praying for you too! Tell me what blue twine needs cutting, so the hay can fall thickly at your feet.

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you,
saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil,
to give you an expected end.”
Jeremiah 29:11
XOXOXO

let them kick their own shells apart & the pink neon sign

Oooff, here we go.

Maybe you have heard rumors about the girls, about the family, about what has been happening. Maybe you hold enough insight to understand how to pray, or enough peripheral knowledge over the past two decades to sense that the story is dark and complex and mostly not available for public consumption. Maybe you are insatiably curious or fearful about your own children and think you just need to know (that’s ok, maybe message me privately). Maybe you simply love our girls or us or others in the situation and just wish it could all finally end (so do we).

I have only shared bits and pieces here over the years, and usually either the best news or the most urgent prayer request. A small group of close friends has prayed with us over time, and my parents and sisters have helped carry much of the emotional burden, knowing only some of what’s going on. Mom and Dad bravely walked alongside us through the final chapter in Colorado. But no one knows it all, not even us, except God.

Even now, a few years after reuniting with Jessica and several years after Jocelyn’s first homecoming, I continue to learn more and more of the horrific truth.

Here is what I know, the high points of what is difficult to accept:

Both Jocelyn and Jessica were abused mentally and physically for years, and they were isolated away from me and my family and, gradually, from anyone who might threaten to shed light on the truth. They were spoon-fed lies and held up as lifestyle ornaments and used as tools to hurt us, all the while being viscously mistreated and hidden in the dark. Both of my girls were young children when it started, and I look back now on the red flags I saw then and want to scream for people to see those with me, as if seeing them in hindsight gives us a second chance to prevent what followed.

The years we were alienated were a particular kind of torture for me as a mother, but I had no idea what my girls were enduring. The circle of people who exacted and allowed the abuse on them is unbelievable, and the lies that were told and psychological games that were played to cover it up are even more elaborate and twisted than I suspected.

As adults in the summer of 2020, they both were just beginning to emerge from their own horrifically dark chapters, just beginning to heal, when their dad closed a long chapter of addiction and committed suicide. The months since that event have been bizarre and excruciating for everyone, but especially for them.

Here is more of what I know, the root and the truth and what I cling to:

God, the God of Love and truth and absolute light, still reigns over all this darkness. Even as we peel back more and more layers of depravity and pain, of sickness and addiction and narcissism, God is in control. He offers not only safety and relief but also transformation. He offers perfect healing and redemption. By trusting in Him (which also means trusting in and obeying His ways, however tempted I am to seek revenge on my own), we have the gift of wholeness, wholeness as people and wholeness as a family. By choosing to trust in Him we deliberately extract ourselves from the cycle of evil and the systemic poison of human vengeance. Maybe I cannot undo what has been done to my babies, who are now women, but I can guarantee I never play a part in it or throw gasoline on an already consuming fire.

And yes, to be clear and honest, I have fought for months against the urge to make a few effective phone calls, to injure two women in particular and to humiliate those who have spread lies or gossiped about my children (what kind of person gossips about a child in trauma?). I even sometimes want to hurt people who didn’t believe me when I sought help all those years ago, because I have felt that their unwillingness to get involved perpetuated so much pain. I have taken great pains to bite my tongue and edit conversation about people who still bear an influence over my girls, because for two decades we have lived by the belief that badmouthing other family members is not how we want to operate.  At ages 24 and 26, they now can decide for themselves. They both are free enough to make their own choices (even when those choices hurt), draw their own boundaries, and eventually see for themselves why I have made my choices the way I have.

Something else I know, something I have learned through lots of weak moments:

I can easily make the mistake of surrendering my hard earned freedom from that kind of reality, from that poisoned community, by allowing too much anger to simmer in my heart. I can squander away the hours of my beautiful, warm, glittering life by dwelling on a few pointless daydreams: What might have been had the abuse never started, how things might have been different in Colorado had I known more then (Jocelyn was so protective of her little sister while Jessica still lived in that household), and how good it would feel to publicly and legally seek vengeance. These, and maybe a few others, are useless fantasies. They waste my energy, too, and trespass on God’s territory.

What matters now is moving forward in Love, every step of the way, and trusting that all our prayers, through all these years, are still alive. Believing that addiction is absolutely overcomable. Affirming to each other that these relationships are founded in blood and bedrock, and they may be shaken but are not destroyed. What matters now is being strong and healthy and ready for anything, prepared physically and emotionally for Jocelyn’s next homecoming. Remaining stable and lively for Jessica, as she continues to heal and build her own beautiful, warm, glittering life with Alex.

A few days ago I was lost in prayer for Jocelyn and Jessica, and something wonderful happened. I heard myself petitioning on their behalf, telling God all the amazing things I see in them, their talents and their beauty, their tenderheartedness, the way Jocelyn has always stood up for the underdog, for kids being bullied (all the while being bullied herself), for Jessica’s spiritual depth, for their passions and energy and love of nature, telling Him about their youth and potential and how much we want them to thrive and be free, just on and on, bragging about them. I was basically trying to convince the Creator of the Universe of the goodness of two of His own creations. Hoping to sway Him to help my babies, deliver them more quickly from this awfulness.

He stopped me mid-prayer and showed me in all capital letters, bold and in neon pink lights, “THEY WERE MINE BEFORE THEY WERE YOURS.”

Ooof. Wow! Ok, yes, yes I know, I know, I’m sorry! Ha!

It was a firm (all caps) but gentle (neon pink) reprimand. I may say I trust God, but me begging Him doesn’t demonstrate much trust. It reveals desperation.

God loves them more than I ever have and ever could. God has better understanding of what they have endured all these years, and no secrets are kept from Him. God has a wider, more spectacular vision for the future. He has all the resources for their healing and their new foundations. He can stream as much of that through me as He wishes, or through other people, but He is always the Source.

It’s always been Him. It’s always been Love.

Okay, friends, I hope that if you needed a boost that God is still omnipotent and omniscient, this helps you. I hope that you can laugh at yourself a bit, like I was invited to do, ha! And I certainly ask for your continued prayers. Knowing more of the truth has been hard. It has challenged me to really live by what I say is important, really tested my ability to be peaceful and calm. (Maternal rage is real.) It has also opened my heart, though, and helped me understand why some chapters have been so agonizing and lengthy. And learning more of the truth, slowly, has given me a chance to unravel for myself so many years of lies and manipulations, of brainwashing and psychological abuse. I have needed that, too.

One more thing:

Remember (and remind me if you think I need it) the story about hatching little peeps:

If the shell is cracked but the chick is struggling to emerge, resist the urge to open it by hand and free her quickly. Be patient and let her work, or else her legs won’t be strong enough to even walk, and she will perish. It is the act of rebelling, of kicking open her little eggshell, that gives her the strength to live.

XOXOXOXO

another post about hope for advent 2021

Hey friends, hello and thanks for reading along here. Thanks, also, for so many comments and private messages after my most recent post about hope. Apparently lots of us are grappling with hard feelings right now, and it is wonderful to freely exchange the best reminders. Thank you!

P.S., let’s not waste time and energy feeling bad for feeling bad sometimes; we all are in very good company. You have every bit of the wisdom and strength you need for this exact moment in time.

Okay.

Today I have a more lighthearted story about hope.

A few years ago our precious friend Maddie invited us to one of her high school drama musicals, Shrek. (Locals, if you ever have a chance to see a theater production at Choctaw High School, buy your tickets and put on your party dress. The production quality is mind blowing.)

Sweet Maddie, celebrating with ice cream
on our final day of garden class a few years ago xoxo

In the story, as you may know from the animated film, Princess Fiona is held captive in a castle tower. Every day she pines for her romantic, royal rescue (a story worth exploring in its own right). She sings about it. She gazes artistically through the tower window and imagines how it will happen. She daydreams of her unknown Prince.

Every day of her captivity, Fiona lives in constant, positive expectation of the One True Thing for which her heart longs. She sings, “I know it’s today, I know it’s TODAY!” In the song she laments other princesses’ hard problems and their grim fates, and she continues to count her own days waiting (20, 21, 22, 23… What day is it?) yet constantly asserts. “I know it’s today!”

It occurs to me at this point that many of us are counting years, not days. If this is your situation, please know that I know how much that hurts. My heart goes out to you.

Back to Shrek.

Day after day, Fiona’s answer eludes her. She continues in hope, but night falls and no deliverance. Over and over again, she goes to bed still captive, still hoping. The audience is drawn into her suspenseful waiting.

Until one day.

One day it does happen. All along her rescuers had been on their own long journey, searching for her. She is found and freed and can finally celebrate. Do you know what she sings?

With even bigger exuberance than before, Fiona the Hopeful belts out, “I knew it would happen TODAY!!” The crowd screams as if Russell Westbrook, coached personally by Bob Stoops, just won the Showcase Showdown!! Energy ripples through the building. Strangers hug and high five and kiss each other right on the mouth. An old man stands up from a wheelchair and does a cartwheel. Giant, sequined confetti falls in a slow-motion whirlwind. A horse whinnies triumphantly.

Not exactly, BUT… The crowd definitely cheers, and I do vividly remember sitting there in the dark auditorium with Handsome and our friends, weeping and shaking a little bit, feeling overwhelming joy for this fictional character on stage, ha! Which just means I was feeling what it might feel like for my own prayers to be answered, again.

Because my prayers have absolutely been answered so many times in life, it’s unreal. The deliverance from fear and danger, from threat and grief and so many very real problems and crises… When I stop to reflect on it all, I get tearful giggles. How could I ever ask for more? And yet, life marches on and problems and heartaches are just part of it.

I’ll happily take it all, and lots and lots of it, thank you very much. The beautiful, the mundane, the terrifying, the delicious. I’ll take all the shadows, because I want all the blinding light too.

And when the prayers are hefty and the miracles we need are immense, like they are right now, again, I want to be like Fiona. I want to live in constant, positive anticipation of our deepest hopes being fulfilled TODAY.

One day it will be today. Our disciplined, hopeful singing will turn in an instant to shouting and celebration, all over again. The pain of waiting will be forgotten, all over again, out of the blue.

Out of the blue has been exactly how so many miracles have been delivered over the years.

Jocelyn, in her bliss, that first summer she lived in Colorado.
We rode horses and laughed so hard that day, and my sunglasses bounced off on the trail. xoxo
Jess, planting flowers at her first apartment,
the day she told me about this boy she had just met, named Alex. xoxo

Keep praying, friends, and I will too. Keep imagining and expecting the best of everything. Continue in hope. Every scripture invites us to enjoy this habit. Every good bit of spiritual literature will press you into some theme of inner buoyancy, which is what hope feels like to me.

“Despair is the development of pride so great
that it chooses one’s certitude rather than admit
God is more creative than we are.”
My sister Angela shared this beautiful quote with me
XOXOXOXO

advent 2021, choosing HOPE as a strategy

Earlier today I was about 2,000 words deep in an overly effusive essay about hope. This is the first week of Advent, after all, a few days meant to celebrate the virtue. I was excited to share some stories and ideas with you and just typed feverishly all morning.

Then I received some disturbing news wrapped in painful, stabbing words that sparked some deep anger, and my enthusiasm plummeted. I let myself “feel the feelings,” so to speak, until it felt like I was actually spiraling out of control in those emotions. I am struggling lately, as hard as that is to admit, and it doesn’t take very much for me to lose my balance.

One valuable lesson I have learned in this ongoing emotional rollercoaster is that when I sense my feet are on the banks of quicksand, when I feel that out of control kind of grief about to overtake me, it’s time to reach out to someone else. Not for salvation necessarily, but to be a help if possible. It’s good to reach out to someone beyond the situation at hand, pray for someone totally unrelated to my current crisis, and widen my view until my heart expands past this immediate pain and I regain some perspective. Our grandmother Ina Lynne was know for practicing a version of this, and she was one of the gentlest, strongest, most forward-thinking women I have ever known.

So I called my sister Angela, just to say hi and let her know I was still praying about something she had shared with us. I used my most stupid fake-chipper voice.

Can I pause here and say what a blessing it is to have siblings who are your friends and confidants?

We chatted only briefly before she asked about my girls, and my stupid chipper voice faltered. We have grown close enough now that I can no longer hide much of what’s going on inside me, and actually this is wonderful.

“This is not hopeless,” Ang said. I physically crumbled against the wall and started crying. She did not know I had been writing for the past three hours about hope.

“You have every reason to be hopeful,” she asserted, in a low, denim-velvet voice, both soothing and authoritative. She knows a thing or two about hopelessness, recovery, addiction, alienation, and more.

She also knows about healing and the power of community and HOPE. She works for an agency by that exact name, by the way, and their mission is to usher the least hopeful among us into new lives.

We spoke for a few more minutes about odds and likelihoods and statistics, about patterns and trauma all the many hardships inflicted on our kids over the years. But the real message between us was the power of Love and prayer and the reality that hope flourishes into actual, living-proof results. She got me to refocus on the future instead of wallowing in hate for the people who have hurt my girls. I hate that I need this redirection, but I do sometimes, and I am grateful when I get it.

We get to choose hope. We get to let it warm us and strengthen us while we endure the unknowns. Hope leads us into better choices and better habits and better outlooks. We expect more from ourselves and hold higher standards for each other when we side with hope and remember that despair is a shifting illusion.

Sure, we get to feel the fear, and the pain, and even the rage, and then we get to actively set our feet on solid ground and walk the much better path.

I am so thankful Ang picked up the phone while I was still on the brink of emotional quicksand. Part of the magic, as I am sure you already know, is that in reaching out toward someone else, chances are pretty good that the connection will lift you, too.

For my family, I choose hope. I choose to believe that healing is real and overcoming is what we were born to do. I choose to believe that Love transcends literally every hardship, and the fate others have chosen does not have to be ours.

“Hope is not a strategy.”
“You must not have been here long.”
XOXOXOXO

do I have resting worried face?

A few days ago while grocery shopping, I accidentally caught my own reflection in a narrow mirrored pillar, but I didn’t realize it was my own reflection. I definitely thought, for a split second, it was a stranger, a very worried, deeply sad, visibly distressed stranger. Her eyebrows were knotted upward, mouth pressed thin and downturned, overall countenance gray and dull. I smiled at her to cheer her up just as I was realizing my mistake.

As I retreated from the mirror, it sunk in that I had been walking around like that in public. Just broadcasting to strangers an outward expression of some private pain. It was unintentional, and I felt really ashamed. When I shared all of this with my husband later he said, “Yeah babe, now you know why I am always asking you if you are ok.” Yikes. Do I always look so sad?

Since this weird moment, I have been trying to be more conscious of how my inner storms are leaking out. I am making an effort to interact with the world a bit more lightly. To be clear, I don’t mean to suggest that we fake happiness or deny anything real or worth examining, but I have learned the value of smiling anyway. I have learned to just to acknowledge and accept my sadness then choose as often as possible to smile anyway.

To choose joy despite loss and grief and worry.

To accept humor and fun surprises with open arms, because they can be powerful tonics. Everything that counterweights hardship is a gift.

To vote for hope and optimism in the face of some scary unknowns. Count the victories, dwell on them!

I have learned to actively express gratitude for so many blessings, so much emotional comfort and practical safety and stability in the world. What extravagance. We are so loved.

I will actively choose to invest in healthy relationships, happy memories, and hope for our family’s future. Give thanks for people still living, for whom our prayers matter greatly, joy for friendships that uplift us and traditions that keep us grounded. These are glittering gifts.

Because winter is coming, I am consciously accepting the many luscious gifts of a long, slow, mild autumn, a healthy and colorful farm dotted with well fed, affectionate, hilarious animals. A house that keeps us comfortable and stimulated. I remind myself to go walk around the farm after I have finished my work, thankful for the weather and all the beauty around us. Every single beautiful day is a gift.

Instead of focusing on the precious time we lost with Jocelyn and Jessica, instead of focusing on the abuse they endured all those years, I am focusing on their lives now, and on Alex and the pups, who we love dearly. We are focusing on these kids’ unbelievable capacity to heal and rebuild, on their tenacity and wisdom, their tender love and unnatural beauty. Every text, every visit, every hug, is a gift.

We truly have so much to celebrate. This doesn’t mean we are forgetting about yet unanswered prayers; it only means we are saying thank you for so many prayers that have already been answered, after years of waiting and hoping and striving.

How could we ever give up on any miracle we crave? So much has fallen straight out of the sky for us. I want to more often express that hope and joy physically. My face should more often reflect my deep hope and abiding joy, instead of my worry.

Today I was in a different grocery store and was actively framing my thoughts and making an effort to smile at and chat with everyone. My heart was freshly refilled with the same strong worries, the same toxins, but I just acknowledged them and persisted in drumming up the better schools of thought. Though I never accidentally caught my own reflection, I think my vibration was better than a few days ago. Everyone smiled back at me, and lots of people stopped to chat. It was wonderful and sweet. A young man approached me and asked my age, and how was I today, and a generous offering of just so pretty, and do I need anything at all? It was sweet and kind and unnecessary, and it helped me feel like I was back in society a little bit. Like maybe I wasn’t scaring people away with my facial expression.

Handsome and I talked things through over dinner, and my heart settled onto some good, warm truths. Yes, we are surrounded by worries. We are traumatized and wounded, and we are occasionally weary. We are waiting for some precious answers in the world, as you are too. It is wise and useful to share our concerns but not dwell on them. Much better to dwell on the amazing goodness and unseen beauty headed our way.

So, if I have crossed your path recently and resonated sadness, I am very sorry for that. I am sorry for ever spreading darkness over light. Maybe admitting this will at least let people know that my constant encouragement to choose joy do come from a place of knowing it is sometimes a very difficult choice. I know it is not always easy to cling to, but it is always worth it. Keep choosing joy.

Signed,
Mrs. Resting Worried Face