Safe and Trembling (Dealing With A Wound From the Past)

It was one of those rare, warm days in February. And, since we live in New Hampshire, by warm, I mean it was above 32 degrees so the snow was slushy and the trees were dripping. I planned to walk with the kids on just some flat trails behind a nearby school, but the sunshine felt so refreshing and the kids begged so earnestly to hike to the top of some ledges, that I consented. As we got closer to the top, the trail was slick with wet ice. We kept to the edges of the path, where the snow was still crunchy and we had good enough footing to make it safely to the top. With a baby on my back and two preschoolers holding my hands, I admired the view while calling to the three older children to stay well away from the edges. It was beautiful. It was refreshing. It wasn’t worth the following two months!

On the way down, I had a handful of discarded mittens in one hand, and with my other I held the hand of my four year old. My baby girl was sleeping soundly in a carrier on my back. The other kids were ahead of me, making their way down the trail by keeping to the edges. I was already out of balance when I stepped on some slick ice. Somehow, as my feet lost control, I let go of my child’s hand and was propelled frontwards across the trail, coming to rest only when my outstretched right hand hit a fallen tree and stopped my body from going any further. As I tried to stand and to comfort the baby, who was now awake and crying, it only took one look at my wrist to realize that I’d badly broken it. I called my older children back and they assured me that the baby seemed fine and also let me know that the cell phone batteries were dead. I couldn’t call for anyone to help us. I needed to get the seven of us down from these ledges and home. I held my arm as still as possible and assigned the older kids the task of helping the little ones. Praying no one else fell, we went slowly and steadily and finally made it back to the van. Surprisingly, I thought, “I’m doing okay. This break doesn’t hurt that much.” I drove with my left hand and we arrived home, where again, we had to rally to get everyone into the house. It was with relief that I got to our home phone and called a friend up the road. She would call another friend to watch my kids and she’d bring me to the hospital. She said she’d hurry as fast as she could and I said, “I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt that much.” But, when my friend walked through the door a few minutes later, I felt pain shoot through my broken arm. We were saved. We were safe. Now, I felt like I was dying. As soon as we were on our way to the hospital, the pain became unbearable. Tears started pouring and I moaned as my arm felt like it was being torn apart.

My wrist had been broken for over an hour but it only started really hurting when it was safe for me to fall apart. The pain had been present all along. The injury was real and hurtful. But, my body was able to mask the pain in order for me to have the strength to get down that mountain and to get help.

After I broke my wrist, I needed surgery to put a metal plate inside and hold things together. It took a couple of months and some physically therapy to heal completely. But, by the spring time, when the snow had melted and the weather was truly warming up, I was all better. The kids and I set off on another hike, this time with some friends. We went up a familiar mountain that we’d climbed many times. For the last bit of the hike up Mount Cardigan, you leave the tree line behind and walk up it’s bald, granite face to the tower at the top.

This day, this first hike after my fall, the kids scrambled up the rocks, full of enthusiasm to get to the top, just like always. But, as we started up the rocky face, my heart started beating faster. This was a safe mountain, with good, solid footing. But, I needed to stop and take some deep breaths. I said to my friend, “Look at me… I’m literally shaking! This is crazy!”

Even though I knew in my head that I was safe, my body was sending danger signals. Somewhere inside, the trauma of that fall was being remembered.

I think our body remembers emotional trauma in a similar way.

When we go through painful experiences, often we are able to cope and even mask the pain in order to survive and to do what needs to be done.

It can be years later, when we are actually in a safe place, that we first feel the pain signals. And, it can feel crazy. We tell ourselves, “What is wrong with me? I should be over this by now. It shouldn’t hurt anymore.” And, we can try to squash the tremble inside with substances or food or exercise or Netflix or a whole host of things to try to not feel when our feelings don’t make sense. Or, maybe we can’t even find escape. Maybe we start sinking.

I’ve written before about my struggle with depression. A few years ago, it became an intense struggle, and very much related to that trembling shake inside of old wounds torn open by current circumstances. Thankfully, just like on that climb up the bald face of Mount Cardigan, I was trembling but I was in a safe place.

Depression was in many ways a gift for me, because it overpowered my, “I should be over this by now,” feelings, and drove me to seek help. I was able to tell my stories in ways that allowed me to walk through old trauma and heal in deeper places. I had to write them down and unravel myself. I had good friends who were willing to listen to my story, and love me in that hearing, and I also sought good, Biblical counseling and found help there.

Walking again recently with a friend, she asked me, “Lara, how do you know that counseling is working?”

It can feel like a messy, awful process.

But, I think I answered her truly when I said that the biggest change I’ve seen is the ability to be more gracious with myself. When I tremble, I don’t hate myself for it. I can say, “Look at me- I’m shaking,” and accept that this is helpful information. Those emotions are real and they tell me something about my own heart. I can bring that knowledge to the present and use it to help me understand the places I’m prone to stumble.

And, I also know that those feelings of shame, insecurity or fear don’t determine my next steps. I can graciously accept that while they are sometimes traveling companions, they aren’t my map or GPS. I can keep climbing the mountain and embracing the forward-facing nature of this journey.

And, it helps to know that there’s another, closer traveling companion.

Our God sees the past, the future and is with us in this very moment.  Even if there are ‘fears within and trouble without’, He is a safe place for his people to find refuge and help. He’s better than a cell phone that dies on a hike. He’s listening always and his words to us are good. So different from the things we tell ourselves. Our self-condemning words can’t quiet us or stop the tremble. But, His love can hold us close enough to stop the shaking. And, as He walks with us through such painful trials, He knows there are views in the end that will be worth the journey. Let’s press on, with present grace.

The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing. Zephaniah 3:17

Blessings and prayers for you on your climb upward,

Lara

 

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At the top of Mount Cardigan, the first hike following my broken wrist

The Bus Driver I Bruised (An Easter Story)

The first day of kindergarten I wanted to walk to the bus stop all by myself, so I put my backpack on, held my strawberry shortcake lunchbox in one hand, and told my parents to stay home. I walked a long way up our dirt road, past the gardens, past a neighbor’s house with a barking dog and up a hill to the spot where I was to wait for the bus. I didn’t know Papa and Mama were following behind, being careful to stay out of sight. The bus stopped and I climbed on board all by myself, feeling every ounce independent and brave.

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But it was toward the end of October that we all moved, except for Papa who stayed behind. I remember the kitchen in our new home with the cupboards that I couldn’t reach. Once, I stood next to the counter, my head just about its height, while Mama and Papa looked down at me sadly and said, “Lara, we need to talk with you.” Their faces looked serious as they told me that they were getting a divorce. I remember I didn’t know why they looked so sad.

At our new house, I was supposed to wait for the bus just at the end of our short driveway but for some reason I would wake up with knots in my stomach. I just knew I couldn’t go to school. I told Mama that I didn’t feel good, day after day. Becoming a single mother, she had gone back to work and my grandmother was living with us to help out. I’m sure Grammie B noticed that after the bus left I would be all better and would spend the rest of the day playing with my little sister. Papa took me to the doctor once, and the tall, perceptive man diagnosed me with ‘anti-school-itis’ and said that I should be home for the rest of that day but to get on the bus in the morning.

But just like every day, I woke up and the thought of school made my stomach twist into knots. Once, I pretended to wait for the bus, and Grammie B didn’t notice that I ran around and hid in the pine trees behind our house. The bus came and left and I gave her quite a shock when I showed up hungry for a snack an hour or so later. She called my other grandmother to come and take me to school, because she said she didn’t have the heart to do it. So, Grammy J drove down one hill and up another, loaded me in her car and took me to school. Years and years later she would still talk about how she had to drag me inside and leave me there and of how afterwards she sat in her car and cried. She was sure to always remind me that Grammie B made her be the bad one. I think she was always relieved to see my smile when she told the story.

In a small town, with family and friends all around, people help each other out. My bus driver was named Bob. I think he might have owned a garage in town and he would pick me up and drop me off each school day. At least, he would try to pick me up. There were days that I just would refuse to go to school. He would get off the bus, kneel down and talk with me. He was kind and would smile and try to encourage me that school wasn’t such a bad place to be and assure me that he’d be bringing me home again that afternoon. But I wouldn’t go. One morning he and my mother had a talk in low voices while we all stood at the end of the driveway. He came over and picked me up to put me on the bus. I turned into a little wild beast, kicking him and hitting him. But, somehow, he got me on the bus and plopped me in a seat.  I don’t remember how many times this happened and he was kicked and hit and scratched putting me on his bus. I know that every time I lost the battle to stay home, I cried the whole way to school. Usually once I got there I ended up having a good day and rode home with a smile on my face. I would say, “thank you,” to Bob as I was getting off at home, as my mother had taught me it was important to be polite, but I would be ready to fight him all over again in the morning.

One year, after Grammie B started going to Florida for the winters, I would often get on and off the bus at Grammy J’s house.  I would be the last one to be dropped off during those times. Bob was used to just driving past my grandmother’s road because usually he didn’t have to go that way. After dropping off the last kid, his mind was already mulling over the things he’d do when he got home. Over and over again he almost forgot to make the turn. I’d have to holler down the aisle, “Bob!! I need to go to my Grammy’s house!” He’d put on the brakes fast and sometimes have to back up. He’d say, “Whoa! I was almost going to take you home with me today!” One day, after almost being forgotten again, I stopped and said more than ‘thank you’ to Bob. “Bob, you keep forgetting me. Next time you forget, I’m not going to say anything. So you better remember.” And then, I said “thank you”, and hopped off the bus. I’m pretty sure it was the next day that I rode all the way home with Bob. He got the bus all parked neatly in his driveway and started to get off when I spoke up. “Bob! I’m still here.” He looked pretty surprised, and laughed, and backed the bus back out of his driveway. Never once did he forget the turn at my grandmother’s road after that!

I don’t remember when Bob stopped being my bus driver. I had almost forgotten all about him until one Easter Sunday, many years later, when I went to church with my grandmother. Bob came over to greet me and he pretended to shy away like I was going to hurt him as he said, “I’ve still got bruises from you!” He still had the kind smile and we laughed about my antics as a little kid.

I didn’t go to church often but both my grandmother and older sister went to the same church as Bob. When I was a young teenager, my older sister (who had grown up and gotten married) would sometimes pick me up and bring me to this church’s youth group. I always felt a little out of place, as I didn’t know many of the kids there or what all of this Christianity stuff was really all about.

But, one night, Bob and his wife Nancy were leading the lesson. I don’t remember anything about what passage of the Bible he was teaching from, or what we were supposed to be learning. But, I’m pretty sure he paused at one point and wrote his telephone number on the blackboard. I remember he looked around the room, at some rowdy teenagers, including this one that long ago had left him with scratches and bruises, and told us that he loved every one of us. He said that he wanted us to know that we could call him anytime of the day or night. If we ever needed anything, whether it was a friend to talk with or we were in some type of trouble, he would do his best to help. He looked over at his wife, smiled, and said, “Nancy and I don’t mind if the phone rings at 2AM… you just call if you need us.”

I have never forgotten that, though up until a couple of weeks ago, it had been a long time since I’d thought of my old bus driver.

One Sunday, I told the story of ‘when Mrs. Mather was a little kid and didn’t want to go to school’ to a group of shocked five, six and seven year olds in junior church. I held the Bible my grandmother gave me when I was seven and still struggling with anxiety, and we went through Psalm 23, which was a passage she had me memorize all those years ago.

When I got home from church that day, I was still thinking about Bob. I was pretty sure I’d heard that he had passed away a decade or so ago. I typed in his and his wife’s names and did a quick internet search to see if I could find out anything more about him as everything I’ve written here is all that I remember.

I saw that his widow, Nancy Hannington, had written the ‘Morrill town news’ segment in the local paper. This is part of her article printed in the Republican Journal, August 6, 2010:

“I am sure many of you recognize at least the first few bars of “Just as I Am” from hearing it through the Billy Graham Crusades. Charlotte Elliot from Brighton, England was completely embittered over her broken health. Through a conversation with a Swiss minister in 1822 she finally asked, “If I wanted to share the peace and joy you possess, what would I do?” The pastor answered, “You would give yourself to God just as you are.” Charlotte did come to Him, just as she was. Years later, she wrote a poem for a fundraising project that was printed and sold across England. That poem was set to music and has become the most famous invitational hymn in history. Although never in good health, she lived to be 82 years old. Loved ones sifting through papers after her death found over 1,000 letters from people expressing their gratitude for the way this hymn had touched their lives. By the way, this was my Bob’s favorite hymn.

Excerpts from the above paragraph were from “Then Sings My Soul” by Robert J. Morgan.”

I love that this is what I found out about Bob.

Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me…

He gave himself to God, just as he was. He got out of his bus to help a little girl that was hurting and scared, and he got kicked and hit and beaten with as much violence as a five or six year old girl is capable of handing out. But he took my fury to help me get to the place I needed to be. And even years later, he was still holding out an offer of grace, and love, and help.

I’m so thankful for all the ‘Bobs’ in my life. I come to them just as I am. On the hard days, they let me be hurt or messed up or angry or scared. At times they’ve even taken some emotional blows. It’s those people who have seen my worst, and showed me grace, that get my phone calls when my world is falling apart. They hear my confessions and my anxieties and they remind me again and again of grace.

They point me to the One that didn’t just suffer some kicks and scratches, but that took everything I have to be ashamed of or broken by and suffered to a degree that I will never fully understand.

Long ago, one Easter Sunday, I stood in a little church in Maine, and a man came up and reminded me that I had bruised him. This year, I’ll stand in another little church. I’ll look at all the ‘Bob’s’ around me, singing and clinging to grace, and I’ll remember the Savior that I bruised and wanted to hide from for so long. I’ll remember how he left Heaven to make a way for me to be brought Home. Day and night, He bids me to come, and call on Him. Oh, Lamb of God, I come, I come!