Asking for Help Isn't Easy

The last few weeks have been humbling.  Asking for help doesn't come easy to me.  Cast in the role of daughter, sister, wife and mom, it seems that ordinarily I am the one offering help to others.  It is almost as if it is genetically built into women by some unheard command.

Now, counting off the days until my limitations are lifted, I'm not happy having to ask for things to be picked up for me, or put up high for me.  Even worse is having to have someone pull on your socks and tie your shoes.

The other day we were shopping in Walmart when I realized that my right shoe was slipping up and down on my heel.  I looked down and there it was -- a loose shoe string about to become a wiggly mass resembling nothing close to bow on my foot!

Only one solution existed -- ask my husband to tie my shoe!  While he's doing me a favor, a young clerk walks by and laughs.  I quickly said, "I wouldn't ask him to do that except I can't bend down."

My husband was quick to point out to me I had no reason to feel an explanation was necessary.  I knew immediately it was part of me that has never become comfortable in asking for and receiving help.

I suppose the beauty is found in that moment and these words much like a wake-up call.  A way of letting me know there's something I need to work on changing!  I doubt it will be an easy task, but I've committed to try.  There could be worse things I'd be nudged to do.

Q4U:  Are you comfortable asking for and accepting help?  Share with us, if you're willing, the  manner in which you handle doing this.

Journey of a Lifetime - Installment 4

Nelle struggled on through life doing her best at the jobs she could find.  She was a hard worker and through her mother's training, she was a young woman with morals and values.  The family attended church every Sunday and the Bible was a focal point of reading at home.

Unfortunately, nearing 19 years of age, Nelle met a handsome young man named Joseph Whitehead.  At about the same time, her younger sister began dating Joe's brother.  It wasn't long until the two couples married.  And within a year Nelle and Joe had a son, Joseph Eugene Whitehead.  The marriage was not to be long-lived as Joe was an alcoholic and found it entertaining to batter those whom he proclaimed he loved.

The divorce was final in the mid 1930s, during difficult years for the country and the city of Nashville.  Nelle struggled once again to find work.  A variety of jobs came her way.  When the young men began to go away to war, she landed a job with AVCO working as a Rosie the Riveter on airplane parts.  She definitely did her part in the war effort!  However, that job ended when the boys began to come home and needed their jobs back, and once again Nelle found herself raising a young son and without work.

Luckily for me, Nelle found work at Foster & Parks in Nashville working as a devil for the typesetter who would become my father.  A “devil” in the printing industry is someone hired to tear down the type which had been set to print something, and then to melt that metal down so that it could be reused.  When her older brother learned about her new job, he told her to stay away from "that typesetter called Country Adams.  He's nothing but trouble."  Obviously, Nelle didn't pay much attention to her brother’s comments, doing everything Country asked her to do, especially when he told her if she could bring him back a pack of Luckies, he'd take her to the movies.  She did everything she could to secure that date, and came back with the Luckies and a smile on her face.

A promised date took them to the movies and out afterwards for a little clubbing.  Country unfortunately had a bad habit with drink, and he became drunk.  Nelle had strong feelings about alcohol and drunkenness and told him that if he wanted to see her again or have any part in her life, he'd have to clean up his act.  It must have been true love for Country stopped drinking, and they married in 1945.  They agreed not to add to the three children they had between them, but God intervened and I was born in February of 1946.  Nelle’s son, Gene (or Bubba to me), was 14 and quickly became my hero.

Country’s two daughters, Virginia and Elsie, were young women already married when my parents married.  They each had children born not long after my birth.  It wasn’t clear to me why at the time but Virginia and Elsie didn’t visit us much.  As I grew older, it became quite clear that they too had struggles with mama.

Between 1946 and 1954, Nelle suffered through four pregnancies, all of which ended in miscarriages.  The reasons for these losses isn’t known to me, but I do know that she didn’t smile much during this time.  Finally in November 1954 my young brother, Brad, was born.  Brad cried and fussed a lot due to enlarged tonsils and adenoids preventing him from sleeping well.  However, there was nothing to be done at such a young age.  The lack of sleep took its toll on our parents. 

I certainly didn’t like the idea of having a baby brother, and I made my feelings clear by carving with a ballpoint pen in a mahogany nightstand.  My parents were constantly telling me when Brad did fall asleep:  “Now, be quiet. The baby is sleeping.”  I soon began to tire of this repeated instruction, so I chose my words carefully and went about creating my art.  Neatly carved in that nightstand, until this day, are the words “Shhhhhh, baby is sleeping.”

No one seemed to understand the why behind my creation, nor did anyone take the time to ask me to explain.  I felt left out, and at eight years of age the last thing I wanted around was a baby.  Instead, I was punished, which I believe I deserved.  It was after all an effort on my part to get their attention to express my needs, and I chose a very poor medium to deliver my message.

Brad’s arrival seemed to round out the family as my parents wanted it.  Country was so proud exclaiming to all who would listen:  “God has blessed me like he did Abraham with a son in my old age.  He was 53 when Brad was born, and Nelle was 42.  At their ages, a fretful and crying baby was indeed tough for them.  Having an eight-year old carving up the furniture wasn’t helpful, and so they decided that there would be no more additions to the Adams household.

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I choose not to address anyone else's relationship with Nelle, or as I'll call her from now on, Mama, as I don't feel it is fair to delve into areas where I can't confirm facts.  What I do know about my life, and what I witnessed in my younger brother's can be confirmed, and I share it willingly because it ties into the end of our journey and brings power and beauty to the finished story.

And thus begins the story of my life with Mama.

Journey of a Lifetime -- Installment 2

As the plane leveled out, I allowed my mind to wander back through time.  After all, the trip would take the better part of the day -- I could spend the hours meandering through memories.

My first concrete thoughts of childhood begin sometime around the age of two or three.  I can see her as clearly as if it was yesterday, her beautiful red hair cascading down her back.  And her eyes – they were so green; and when she was happy, they sparkled like jewels.  I could remember her lying across the bed with her hair hanging down and her eyes laughing as I brushed the red waves and curls.  What a favorite memory this was!  It was a time when we were the best of friends.  A happy daughter, a happy mother.  My world was filled with bliss!  But only occasionally.

Other memories were buried in a blanket of pain.  Those were the days when those same green eyes pierced my soul – filled with fire and anger.  Then, I felt her anguish, frustration, and bitterness.  But at such a young age, I didn’t understand those emotions and thought they were somehow directed at me, perhaps my fault.  I believed that every action or word she flew in my direction related to my failure to please her.  And beginning then, the words and actions became a mushrooming cloud that haunted me to this very day. 

How I still longed for something different – something that gave me what I wanted from her.  I wanted soft hands, loving words, sounds of affirmation, storybooks at bedtime, barefoot romps through fields of wildflowers.  What I didn't know was that she believed she gave me all those things and more.  She never realized what her words and actions translated into in my mind and heart.

As the plane moved me closer to home, I reflected on the times when I overheard words flung at my father.  Later I would see the hurt in his eyes and his actions, his withdrawal from all of us.  There were nights when her anger sent her flying out the door, dragging my younger brother and me behind her, driving feverishly through the city as if she were looking for something or someone.  But it was never clear to me just what she went racing through the streets to find.  Those nights came back with the same haunting fear they left me with in childhood – what or who were her ghosts? 

A panorama sped through my mind of those times when daddy was so sick that we thought he’d die, and I watched as she nursed him with such gentle, loving care.  The same was true when one of her children fell ill.  Then she became what I wanted every other day of the year.  Her hands caressed a feverish head and wiped away fretful tears, and she promised she would make it better.  And she did.  But then tomorrow always came, and every tomorrow was unpredictable. 

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As I retreated from the past and back to the present, I realized that decisions of the last few days had selected my traveling companion for me.  I was beginning a journey with someone I'd known all my life.  We'd traveled down many roads in our 50 plus years together.  Some paths remembered held delights; and others held emotions filled with pain, and some too painful to recall.  But recall them I must.  Some inner voice urged me to look deeper, to listen with a fine tuned ear, to walk closer for once.

My companion on this trip was my then 88‑year old mother.  In a period of less than a week, I had made the decision to move her across the country and in spite of the memories etched into my mind and soul which told me not to, the decision had somehow been so easy.  Our history contradicted the sensibility of my decision.  How could I please her now?  I'd never pleased her before.  How could I possibly think that I could make the right decisions for her, for me, for us?  After all, I'd lived a lifetime with criticism and harsh judgments. 

There it was again.  That inner voice that kept telling me this was right.  I heard it whisper, “You have no other choice.”  In spite of attempts to read or nap during my flight, that voice kept etching away at all my arguments against this decision.  And now, I need to share that voice and its meaning for me so that hopefully I can show you where it led me.  This last journey with my mother has become one of my greatest treasures. 

[Copyright 2011 by Sherrey Meyer.  All rights reserved.]

Journey of a Lifetime -- Installment 1

Today I begin to share with you the draft of my memoir, book, journal, diary -- whatever it will eventually be called.  I will post "installments" from my writings from time to time, and welcome any and all comments, advice, criticism.

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December 2000.  It was a bitter cold December morning.  I shivered as I boarded the plane, but not because of bone chilling air -- definitely not from a fear of flying.  The weather posed no threat, even though its harshness grazed the skin and pricked at the eyes.  The day had dawned clear, and the sky was crystalline blue.  The trip itself had my anxiety at its peak.  I was embarking on a journey like none I had ever experienced in my lifetime.  Was I ready?  From the standpoint of preparations, yes, I was ready -- my bags were packed, my ticket in hand, and my plane ready to take off.  But did my bags and my hands hold everything I needed for this trip?  Did my ticket take me where I really wanted to go?  In spite of fears rooted in family history – a story I didn't want to confront, my journey was becoming as clear as the day itself.  No other itinerary was possible.

As I flew toward home in Oregon and all things comfortable, I pondered the events leading up to this trip.  So far, it had not been an easy one.  Several weeks of anguish had pointed me in the direction of truth.  It has been said "the truth will set you free" (John 8:32), and I clung to the hope this was true.  In many ways, however, I felt that perhaps the truth was about to imprison me.  My plans were indefinite from this point forward.  No detailed, step-by-step recipe showed me where I’d be in a day, a week, a month, maybe in years.  One thing was for certain.  I'd be home by nightfall and in the safe and loving arms of my husband.  That knowledge set another set of thoughts into motion. 

I longed for affirmation that I had made the right decision in starting this trip.  Could I complete it successfully?  Would I destroy everything we had built over the last 20 years?  I had a wonderful husband, a career I enjoyed and a home that I cherished.  We loved traveling and searching through antique stores to find that treasured item.  We loved music and a night out at the symphony.  We were both involved in church activities that required time commitments.  What was I thinking?  What I was about to do could change all of this in the twinkling of an eye!  So much preparation lay ahead once home, not to mention the distance I had to go – a distance not measured in miles. 

I had always believed in the power of prayer, but viewed it as something I did when others were in need.  Did I need to engage in more personal prayer?  So on that December morning, as the plane soared through the underlayer of the firmament, I asked God for strength, courage, guidance, and yes, affirmation.  That was all I could do.  I knew my husband and best friend would stand beside me through anything, but this wasn't going to be easy for either of us, or so I thought.  Little did I know what was in store over the next several months.

[Copyright 2011 by Sherrey Meyer.  All rights reserved.]

Are We THAT Old?

My husband and I have been struggling with some hip and back issues, respectively.  In a conversation last Saturday with our older son, he mentioned "dropping by" that afternoon.  I cautioned that the house he might find wouldn't be the house kept the way he remembers when living at home.  Instantly, we were offered help from son and his wife today to "help" us get caught up on things inside and out.  BAM!  That hit us both hard -- we interpreted it as a statement on our aging (we're 74 and 65!).  We've struggled this week about what to let them do as we all know that no one does things the way we do ourselves.

A friend pointed out that they are trying to do the only thing they can and know to do.  Our medical issues are beyond their control and assistance, so they are looking for a way to ease the burdens in our lives.  She is most likely correct.  We've prayed for God to shower us with gracious thoughts and attitudes today as we don't want to have hurt feelings among family, and we want to honor our son and daughter-in-law's caring nature. 

Our plan is to take them to lunch so that we can at least have some time of sharing about our recent days and weeks, and also to spend time with our son who travels out of town quite a bit in his job.  The reality is we don't see them often even though we live in the same town, so beyond the help offered this is a chance to spend quality time together. 

Father, I ask that you watch over our thoughts, words and deeds today that we will honor Craig and Gigi and their caring for us.  Give us quality time together and sharing around the table not only sustenance for our bodies but for our souls.  Amen.

Q4U:  What similar experiences have you had and how did you handle them?

Life's Changes

Today I'm linking up with Beck Gambill over at Beck Far From Home in her Sister to Sister spot.  Today's word for our thoughtfulness and writing experience is "change."  Believe me, it didn't take me long to figure out what I'd write!

All I have to do is take a look in any mirror to see the chronology of changes that have taken place in my physical life.  The gray hair is more abundant than ever, and the hair is thinning.  What happened to that thick, luxurious hair I once had?  And that dewy skin?  The wrinkles are beginning to take up residence there and have changed the surface quality of my face, arms, legs, and other body parts.  We won't begin to talk about sagging -- it's too embarassing!

And then there are those stiff joints and sore places that I wake up with in the morning.  The long walks we used to take aren't so easy any more, and I haven't been on my new bike (it's 2 years old now!) since I got it.  I also see the changes in my husband both physically and emotionally.  As his siblings age (he's the youngest of six), he takes on more of the caring role and it's not easy for him.  But we both know we're not that young any more.  After all, the grown kids are now calling to see if they need to come over and "help" us get things done!  OK, we're not that old yet!!!

But these are only a few of the changes that have come about in life.  These are the physical ones, the ones I can see.  There are other more important, more impactful changes -- like the growth in my marriage of 30 years, the joy of grandparenting and now great-grandparenting, the love of having time in retirement to volunteer more in community and church, the ease with which Bob and I share morning devotional and prayer and reading the Bible. 

My willingness to stand in front of a group and share my witness is something that 20 years ago I would have never believed I would do.  Now, I take great joy in sharing God's love with young moms, young marrieds, anyone who will listen willingly.  And writing -- it has come to me later in life than most who will read this and I love putting words to "paper" and enjoy thinking about what I will write today.  Then, what will I do with it next?  The anticipation of possibly appearing on someone else's blog, in an article for an online magazine, or in an actual printed publication excites me.  I want to write my memoir, and I'm trying day by day to accomplish this.  Yet, I feel the pull and tug of God to do more writing, perhaps devotional writing or maybe even a novel with Christian principles throughout. 

So, you see change never ends.  It is a lifelong process.  One that God plans so far ahead we can't anticipate the changes.  I like to think of the changes, both physical and otherwise, as God's marks on my life, the places where He has touched me for some reason and left His hand print.  In that sense, change isn't so bad, is it?