Children and Comfort Zones

I hit the sheets early last night, my body battery a bit low after staying out late (by my standard) on Saturday night and up early Sunday morning. An early to bed and early to rise type, my friends often kid me in the evening. “What’s your gauge?” they ask. If it’s past 9 PM, then the gauge is likely inching closer to empty. My dad is a gifted nap taker, I have the gift of falling asleep before my head hits the pillow. However, I also suffer from sleep apnea, so if I opt out of using the CPAP, I don’t usually get restful sleep. Last night, though, when I got home at 10 I walked straight from the front door to my bed. In my 1000 square foot condo, it’s a short trip. By 10:01 there were large Zzzzzzzzs over my head.

The loud boom of something hitting my front door, followed by the bang of the door opening suddenly, woke me suddenly from my revelry. I heard loud clumps from tennis shoes stomping on the front hallway floor, a duffle bag thrown into the living room. Instead of panicking, afraid that the police had mistaken me for a drug dealer, I simply pulled the covers back.

“Welcome home” I pronounced sleepily.

My son had arrived home from college, unannounced, as is his habit. I was expecting him tomorrow, but he decided he would rather finish up the semester from home. It was OK. Except for some Christmas wrapping paraphernalia littering his bed, the house was ready for the invasion. On top of that, I have today and tomorrow scheduled as vacation days. I don’t take a lot of vacation time. I rolled out of bed, half awake, pulled on some shorts and a tee shirt, greeted my boy. I cleared the Christmas cheer off of his bed as he ventured back outside to bring in the rest of his stuff, grabbed my laptop and a few files from the desk in his room. When he returned, I caught up a little with him, then told him I would see him in the morning as I shuffled back to my room. I closed the double doors to my bedroom behind me, something I will have to get used to doing for the next few weeks, the isolation necessary if I am going to get a proper night’s sleep.

He’s home. His routine is different than the haphazard childish chaos that existed just a few short years ago. This morning, he emerged from his bedroom, plopped down on the couch next to me, MacBook in hand. I watched him check emails, a large Yeti filled with strong coffee in one hand, then start prep for the online final exam he had to take in a few hours. The emails were correspondence for the internships he is considering, even though he has accepted an internship with the company I work for. The kid is networking like crazy and it’s intriguing to observe him at work. I am proud of him. In the three years since he graduated from high school, he has made huge strides with the motivation he has for work and school. Barely able to make the grades in high school, he is flourishing as a college student, even making the dean’s list last semester. I am impressed with the confidence I see as he talks to people, even as he talks to me.

It’s refreshing. Just a few short years ago, he was a confused boy, a bit messed up from the separation and divorce he had to deal with during his senior year of high school. The boy has become the man he needed to become. Even better, our relationship has become a relationship, with respect. If you asked me a few years ago if that was possible, I would have laughed at you. Now, he calls me, asks me how I am doing, seeks me out. We sit and talk, spend time together. Last summer, we were the tennis doubles team that everyone in our condo association league feared.

So, instead of dreading my son living with me, I enjoy it…. as long as it’s temporary! Frankly, I like living by myself, enjoy my own routine and neat, tidy home. But it’s OK to have my peaceful, comfort zone existence interrupted by my son. He’s getting used to me, as well, comfortable living with me now. We both have had to adjust.

One more note — tomorrow I get to meet my daughter’s new boyfriend. I don’t need to have a loaded shotgun ready or bring out a knife to sharpen while I am talking to him. The intro will be via video messenger. My daughter lives in another country (Turkey), thus the video. She is excited for me to meet him, a sign of how different this boy is than the ones the preceded. When I talked to her recently, it was really obvious that she has the M word in mind, even strongly hinted that to me. Like my son, my relationship with my daughter has matured, and she is confiding in me about this boy. Introducing me to previous boyfriends was a fearsome task, which I earned over the years. To see her eager to introduce him to me is also refreshing. I am looking forward to it. I will roll out of bed at 6:30 tomorrow morning, share my coffee time as I talk to them both.

This stage of fatherhood is good. I like it. After the divorce, I was afraid that my relationship with my children would be strained, possibly permanently damaged from what I feared as them considering me the bad guy. Kids are resilient, I know, something I was told by my friends. They will come around, my friends told me, as I am their father and have been a good one for them. When I see my kids coming around, I sense myself escaping from that big hole that I felt like I was sitting in. It feels good.

Christmas looks all right, even as the pandemic threatens to put a blanket on everything. I’m smiling.

presence

I have written about the times in my life when I do not feel close to God, those seasons where a sin or a painful circumstance causes me to feel distanced from God.  They are real, genuine, times where honesty is required simply to allow me to put aside what is keeping me from approaching God.  I feel filthy, unworthy to be in the presence of unfathomable purity.  God reminds us of that purity in many places in the Bible — Moses at the burning bush and on the mountain where he received the ten commandments, in the way the tabernacle and temple was set up, when John had the vision of the throne.  I can not put together the words to adequately describe why I think that is so.  I know it is that purity, character, perfection that gives God that indescribable power — a power that seems endless to me (and it is, indeed, endless).

Yet I am unique out of all creation in that God wants me to approach him, to be with him, and desires my presence.  He wants me to be with him even though I am flawed.  I know God is aware of those flaws, but those flaws are not what he focuses on.  During this time when my son is living with me again, I understand that a little better.  The kid does things that do not please me, has habits that clutter and dirty my home, yet I really do want him around.  He belongs with me, is my child, and I am happy that he wants to be with me — especially when he does.  I like seeing him grow, learn, progress toward becoming that someone I know he will be some day.  He is my son, after all, and I chose him by becoming his father.  God created me for a purpose in that same way, created this world for me and intends much more for me that I can see right now.  This world isn’t what God originally intended for me, just as the world I have set before my own son isn’t exactly what I intended when I was a new father.  I am happy when he sits with me, seeks me out, when I can see that he recognizes what is good about me, and I am satisfied when I see a little bit of me in him.  It’s OK for him to ask me for things, but sometimes I just want to know that he wants to be with me.  God intended for us all to be with him.  Too often, I forget that he is my father, am intimidated by who he is.

This morning, I needed to sit with God.  That is a challenge to me, as I think it is an obstacle to many people, whether a person chooses to believe in God or not.  Think about it, sometimes we just need to be able to sit down with God and actually see him.  I need to see him looking at me, need to hear him talk to me, be that physical father, give me that one on one face to face.  When I read The Shack, I understood a little more of that craving, liked the way the author reminds us that in reality we can sit with God.  We just don’t know it’s happening in our limited sphere of existence.  So this morning, as I felt God calling to me to come close as he does so often when it’s time to worship — and I think that’s what my own personal time as well as church worship really is — a call to come closer and sit with him.  So, what did I do this morning, when that call to worship is limited by this quarantine?  When my presence in church is electronic rather than going to a building to come to God with other people?  In a lot of ways, corporate worship is more personal during this time, even as it strangely is shared with a suddenly enormous church (which is awesome, a reminder that it has always been that way).  So what did I do?

I pulled off into the parking lot at Warrenville Grove forest preserve, connected to my church through my phone and watched/listened via Bluetooth inside my car.  I was in nature, in the place God created for me, and suddenly his presence was so much more evident to me.  Worship was incredible, the swelling flood of the river close by and the newly green trees right there.  God was right there with me.  All it took was for me to get out of my little sphere, meet him in a different place, let him see that I wanted to be with him.

So many things keep me from being able to approach him.  Sometimes it’s fear and anxiety.  Other times it is my flaws and dirt, my sin and my awareness of it.  There are times when I am angry, when I don’t want to be with God.  Or maybe I just feel like I am getting what I want from God, when I am asking and don’t understand why he doesn’t hand it over, so I stop talking.  Talking to God can also be overwhelming, intimidating, and I just don’t know what to say, so I don’t go to him.  I don’t understand that during those times he just wants me to listen.

Listen.  When I know he is there, it’s a little more easy to do that.  I am a father, but I am also a son as well, so I understand this one.  It took me a while, a bit of maturing, before I learned to appreciate just listening to what my dad has to say to me.  I know now more than ever than I need to hear what he has to say to me, not worry about what I think, simply…. listen.

This morning’s online service was on prayer and I wonder if being in the car, knowing that God was there, helped me to listen a bit better to what was being said.  I have been a believer for more than 50 years now, so what else could I learn about prayer?  Seriously.  I should know it all by now and have it down to perfection.  Pffffffffttttttt.  I don’t think so.  My dating and marriage relationships prove that being exposed to something for a long time doesn’t mean that I am going to have any more of a clue to what they are about.

In Acts 12, Peter is put in prison and the church prays in earnest for his release.  An angel comes to him at night, wakes him up, frees him and walks him right past the guards out of the jail.  Peter doesn’t believe it’s really happening, assumes he is dreaming it all, even as the angel guides him through iron gates that open for them, takes Peter to the front door of where the people of the church are praying for them.  When Peter knocked on the front door, the woman who answered the knock heard his voice through the door and excitedly ran into the room where the people were praying, announced Peter was at the front door.  What did the praying people say?  You’re out of your mind.  They didn’t believe that their prayer had been answered.  It was too unbelievable.

I hate to admit it, but I pray far too often with doubt.  I ask and pray because it’s what I am supposed to do, but I don’t really believe that God is right there, smiling and me, listening.  When a prayer is answered, so many times I don’t realize it because I didn’t really believe it when I prayed.

Today I listened.  God said See, I am here.  He was right there and I knew it, was ready to hear what he said, ready just as the thousands of people waiting with me did as well.  He taught this old dog something new.

OK.  There is my Sunday sermon.  Soon, I will get back to reporting on bike stuff and share more stories about my crazy neighbor.  There is plenty of that.

Essential

Like the majority of the people I know, I am working from home and have been since the middle of last month.  For me, the only real adjustment was staying home five days a week, instead of the one day I was accustomed to.  My commute to the office is 37 miles, one way, with $6.00 total tolls a day, so this is a time that I am enjoying.  Other people I talk to, not so much appreciation for the isolation.  Aside from not being able to work overtime, which I need to make my budget, there has been very little in terms of suffering for me.  On the contrary, this time has been a blessing for me so far.  I think I have communicated that here already.

I realize it’s not the same perspective for everyone.  I may even be in the minority.  Plenty are laid off, not being paid, stressed from financial worry or hunger or sickness.  This is not an easy time, could get worse.  Part of the whole difficulty is just plain not sure of what is in store for us or how much worse this whole situation will get.  Life as we know it has changed, some components of change could be permanent.

Life for me really isn’t that different.  This time of year, I am always waiting for the weather to change, am excited for the extra daylight each day.  Every day without precipitation is a bike day for me and I love it.  No one is making me stay away from riding.  Nothing has changed in my two wheeled world.  Adding to my bliss are the trail conditions at my favorite bike park — pristine trails nearly every day.  Needless to say, I am feeling like I am ahead of schedule on the bike, riding faster and stronger than I usually am this time of year.  A pig in s#@* has nothing on me.  The bike I bought last year still feels new to me, mainly because last season was so wet, so discovering the joys of riding a carbon frame are adding to that bliss.

Speaking of that carbon frame, I experienced a very frightening event last Thursday while driving out to the trails.  My son has been asking to ride with me, so I bought some new flat pedals and put them on my fat bike (the 9Zero7.. such a sweet ride).  The fattie was stuffed in the back of my Subaru, my Salsa perched on my Yakima hitch rack.  When I put the Salsa on the rack, I noticed that the swingarm felt ‘mushy’ as I swung it over the front wheel.  Eager to get going and on our way, I didn’t pay it any mind.  I should have.  Driving at 70+ mph west on I-88, I looked in my rear view mirror just as the bike disappeared from sight.

Alarmed to the n’th degree, I must gasped so deeply that I sucked all of the air out of the inside of my car.  My son had the same reaction.  He has learned to appreciate the value of that Salsa bike, so he was just as scared as I was.  I edged the car over to the left shoulder of the tollway, relieved to see in my side view mirror that the bike was laying flat on the bike rack.  How much longer that would be the case, I didn’t know.

The swing arm had rusted through at the bottom, had broken an inch from the bottom.  It didn’t break completely, so somehow it was still holding the front wheel.  The strap on the rear wheel tray was still holding the rear wheel in place.  I had been extremely lucky.  Nervously, I removed the bike from the rack, started to put the bike on the rear of the rack, only to notice that the bracket for the rear wheel tray on that part of the rack was beginning to rust away.  Unsure, I decided to try it there any way, leaned on the bike after it was secured, hoped the rear portion of the rack would not break.  If it did, the result would be a very nice bike tumbling down the road behind my car.

We made it to the trails.  My son followed me in without hesitation, rode to the back of the park with me, then asked me if it was OK if he rode on his own for a while.  I understood.  He wanted to explore and get comfortable on his own.  So I gave him instructions on how to find the parking lot if he got lost (the road is THAT way — point that direction if you get lost).  I took off, rode the park by myself for 90 minutes, met him at the parking lot, rode the front trail with him.  It was a blast for the both of us.  I have happily created a new mountain bike junkie.

The trails were packed with people, a lot of families getting out together.  It’s been that way nearly every time I have been to the trails in the past month.  I think it goes without saying that bikes are essential during this time, as are the outdoors and exercise.  If anything positive is coming out of this time of quarantine (there are many positives), it’s that families and individuals are once again getting out together.  This time could bring this culture back into a healthy perspective.

Oh.. and Yakima is staying true to their lifetime warranty on the bike rack.  With little to no hassle, and with a very prompt response, they are replacing the rack.  It was an expensive purchase, so I am very satisfied that I don’t have to buy another rack!

Christmas Past, Christmas Present

I wrote the title first, intending to mull over some of the thoughts I am having about my son during this Christmas present.  Christmas past has moments that I hope that spirit doesn’t make me visit, even as the past threatens to reappear.  Times are different now, at least it seems so, with some healing and maturing mixed in with a tad bit of learning.  Yet, I am afraid.

My son is living with me again, during his holiday break.  He arrived a week ago, almost unannounced, called me during the afternoon and asked me if I was going to be home in three hours.  I was on my lunch break at work.  I told him that I needed to help my friend, Jim, move some furniture after work, would probably be home around six.  My son was coming home a few days early.  That wasn’t a big deal.  My place was already clean, with clean sheets ready for his bed, the closet in my spare bedroom cleared so that he would have plenty of room for his stuff during his month long break.

I should take a picture of his room right now and post it here….

He is SUCH a twenty year old male.  No staging was required.  I just snapped a few pics and ran for my life.  How in the world did he manage to mess up the blinds?  I really don’t know if any of his stuff has made it into the closet or the empty dresser.  The rest of the house has been up for grabs, with his clutter extending into the living space.  That has been minimal, his awareness from existing with me during Thanksgiving break giving him some much appreciated knowledge of what it’s like to live with his father.  I have had to clean up after him, but he is also making sure he keeps things a little straight.  It probably helps that I don’t harp at him.  He is still piggish, but not the rude boor of a child I knew a few years ago has diminished considerably.  I can take some clutter as long as he is considerate, which he has mostly accomplished.  As it was at Thanksgiving, he has honored quiet hours and lets me sleep, important since I get up at 5 each morning for work.

Yesterday was the second warmest Christmas day on record for Chicagoland, the balmiest since 1982.  Nate opted for sleeping in, skipped a butt crack of dawn ride with me, yet managed to use up every last drop of hot water for his shower while I was out two wheeled sleigh riding.  I had to take a brisk and icy cold shower after my ride.  Let’s just say it was a blue Christmas without you (hot water… doo doo doo doo doo).  Not only did I get a ride in sans layers, but Nate and I played a few sets of tennis outdoors.. in shorts.

Christmas pasts have not always been pleasant, especially since my liberation from the chains of matrimony.  Nate had a major breakdown a few years ago, and it has been a challenge since.  Last year was good.  This year was good, except, well, he reacted poorly to my lady friend being with me Christmas afternoon, slammed the door to his bedroom.. twice.  She left rather than create further conflict and was pretty upset about the disrespect he demonstrated — which is characteristic of Christmases past.  He emerged after she left, acted like nothing happened, denied that he was upset at all when I confronted him about it.

Baby steps.  We survived and proved that we have learned a few things.  I am just hoping my condo survives the next few weeks of exposure.

Seasoning

As I write, the boy is snoring away, the wall in between my living room and the spare bedroom is shaking from the sheer force of the buzzing gale he is emitting.  It is a new experience for me to hear him, this holiday break the first I have lived with him in over two years.  A lot has changed in that brief period of time, including the emergence of the snore.  We both have matured a bit, evidenced by the peaceful coexistence all week, a bit of a surprise for me.

Geez, the kid is really sawing away in there.

What I expected to experience this past week was a lot of lost sleep, caused by a hulk of a boy that I remembered from two years ago, with loud late night X-Box marathons capped by a midnight marathon shower, his music blaring selfishly through a Bluetooth speaker in the bathroom.  Trails of stench and scattered debris would be all over my humbly overly cared for abode, left by a being who really didn’t care about the havoc he administered to the order of my peaceful existence.  What seems like an exaggeration was the reality of mere thirty months ago.  I flinched with anxious thoughts as I anticipated his upcoming visit this past week.

Those anxious thoughts diluted while they swirled amongst the stronger feelings of gratitude.  To me, the notion that my son even wants to stay with me was a miracle.  When his mother and I sold our house, separated to be together no more, there was not a single doubt that he would live with her.  In my mind, she had helped to create the monster, fed his enormous appetite, protected him from my discipline, and the two belonged together.  He would never want to or be able to exist in the same hemisphere with me again.  I am not sure if I have said it, and if I have please forgive me, but they deserved each other and the separation was an immediate relief from unbelievable stress.  That didn’t mean that I did not or do not want a relationship with my son.  One of the biggest let downs for me was that it did not seem that all of the effort I had put into him would ever be returned.  I never thought we would have a decent relationship, that my son would ever value his relationship with me as his father, would ever want to spend time with me again.

I think pretty much every father goes through that.  Thankfully, most do not experience that through divorce.  There are few days I do not wonder if my marriage would not have been different, maybe even survived, had it not been for the conflict created by my relationship with my son and the escalation of that conflict by the choice his mother made in that conflict.  I will never know.

What I do know is that my son and I were both anxious about our first cohabitation since the separation and divorce.  I was providing sanctuary to him, sanctuary from living in the small space provided to him at his aunt’s town home, a freedom of sorts.  He would have to live in my very orderly space, a space that has been mine alone for over two years, but he would have his own space in my home.  I know he preferred that, know that he has been reaching out to me and lifting me up.  I was anxious, but I really hoped that this time it would be different than it was two years ago.

I think we both were surprised.

He came home to my home, tentative, not knowing what I would expect from him.  I gave him a lot of freedom.  I think he liked that.  It was obvious that I am meticulous, not liking my space to be invaded, but he did a good job of adjusting to my expectations.  He wasn’t perfect, but he was respectful, careful, conscious of the world I have created and he did his best to fit his twenty year old male self into that world.  I did my best to accommodate him, not press him into a perfect little mold, let him live his own life while he was with me.  It wasn’t perfect, but I resisted telling him anything, cleaned up after him and noticed that he adapted to my expectations.  I didn’t lose sleep, although I worried more about him getting home safely than I have in the past.  He communicated with me very well, let me know what was going on, so I could sleep soundly.  Our last night, I didn’t even notice when he came home.

What meant the most to me during his visit?  Perhaps it is the realization that he values me, looks at some of my interests as positive things.  It is very obvious that he thinks my mountain biking is a cool thing.  I can tell that the time invested in him over the years was not a waste.  I feel valued.  I needed that.  One thing that cemented that he is thinking of me was Saturday night, when his car needed windshield wipers, and he wanted to borrow a car.  He acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t ready to loan out my ‘new’ car to him.  It was a good thing to me, a confirmation that he is starting to get it.  I needed that.

I am tentatively proud.  He is making strides, working on gaining my confidence.  This whole divorce thing is a tough journey and he is working through it.  Like the title of today’s blog, I know that we both are working into a new relationship, a seasoning of sorts.

 

 

 

 

The Path

I did not choose divorce because I wanted to be happy.  I chose divorce because I didn’t want to continue to be not happy.  There is a difference.  Unless you have been there, you won’t understand the difference.  When my wife and I sold our home a little over two years ago, separated and went our separate ways, I knew there was a tough road ahead, maybe more difficult than the crooked and uphill one I had been travelling for years.  And that was it.. I was tired.  The pain of climbing that road had become too much, and I knew that it would do nothing but continue the same way if I didn’t make the choice to take a different path, one that wouldn’t guarantee happiness, but maybe just maybe there would be relief.

There wasn’t another woman to turn to, no one pulling me away from my marriage of nearly 25 years.  Changing the path meant making an extremely difficult decision, one that I contemplated for years.  It meant losing a life that I knew and was comfortable with, estranging myself from in laws and nieces and nephews that I truly love, risking friendships and developing new ones.  I was Uncle Steve, a guy those nieces and nephews admired.  Suddenly I was no longer Uncle Steve — my status was former.  I miss them, miss watching them become adults, miss fawning over their children.  That was part of the happiness that was my marriage.  I knew I would lose that.  That is part of the sadness.

Oddly enough, I am glad that I have found out who my true friends are.  There have been people who look at me like an evil person who had left their friend.  That judgement is part of any divorce, for that is what happens — judgement.  There are the mutual friends who treat me the same now as they did before, I suppose they are the ones who made it through the character sifter, and I see that as a blessing.  Truthfully, a lot of time can be wasted on superficial relationships, and difficult times have shown me the good ones.  New friendships have developed, some of them renewed friendships, relationships that now feel like a true gift, as if I needed something to help me realize the value of true friends.

I have a lot of them.

I am a Christian, the #2 reason why the decision to divorce took so long in coming.  I had to figure out that God hates divorce because of what it does to me, not because it’s a sin.  He reached out to me during the heart wrenching times of the last few years of my marriage, through the loneliness and frustration.  I found it really hard to take God’s hand during that time, often enough I couldn’t.  Oh, I thought I was reaching out to him and I cried (and screamed) plenty to God.  During that time, I felt a gap, a vastness of separation from God.  Really, it was that pain that I honestly wanted to carry myself that wasn’t creating that gap.  Only when I made the decision that I needed to make… yes, I needed to make… was I able to approach God.  He is always there, always calling, always wanting me to come to him and it took laying down that burden at his feet before I begin to be not happy.  I had to learn to recognize God’s presence again, his constant blessings.  I am not one to say the things happen for a reason.  I honestly don’t think that is what God is about.  I think God is about showing me the way when I look to him, before and after and during the good times as well as the hard times.  Divorce changed the way I approach God, affected the way I trust him, renewed my ability to tell him thanks every day, helped me to see him in a different light.  He made me in his image, after all, and there is no way he hates his own creation.

That brings me to the #1 reason divorce was such a difficult decision — my wife and my children.  Yes, my wife.  A lot of people leave that out.  It’s not that I stopped loving her.  It’s that it hurt so much to love someone who could not, would not respect me.  Yes, I didn’t want to hurt my children, as well.  I wanted to and still want to be the best father I can be.  I tried very, very, very hard to be that father.  My wife would not let me be the father I wanted to be, would not support me as the father I wanted to be, got in the way and resented me in many ways.  I knew that divorcing would damage the relationship I have with my children for a while, but that it would also give me a chance for them to have a relationship with me without her influence.  I have seen my relationship change with my children over the last two years — most of it is good.  There is still healing that needs to take place, but that toxicity that existed two years ago barely exists now.

What is life like now?  It took over a year on my own before I could feel myself beginning to heal.  Separation felt like jumping into an ice cold pool of water.  There was no wading in.  That was what it took, because I had spent the last few years of my marriage dipping my big toe into the water, afraid of the cold reality.  I jumped in and it indeed it was a shock that took some getting used to.  However, I was in up to my neck, so I had to deal with it.  I had to get used to being by myself, find ways to reach out to people, learn to make new friends.  I have.  Slowly, I am learning to accept my status as a divorced man.  I am not sure it will ever feel completely right.  But, well, not happy has become at peace.. and I needed that so much.

Dating as a newly single 58 year old man is different.  I didn’t waste too much time trying that out.  Most men are that way, I think.  The only thing is that I really didn’t know what I wanted, just that it had been so long since I had someone close to me.  Shortly after my divorce, I met someone online and dated her for a little over a year.  I learned my lessons from her, good lessons, got to experience the life of dating as an “adult”.  I also learned a little about what I want in a relationship, and that I am not really ready for a new wife.  After that year of dating, I got to be the scum bucket who did the breaking up.  That wasn’t easy!  I swore that I was done with online dating — the pressure of a serious relationship is just too great with online dating (at least it is for me).  I have a profile, but don’t use it.  A few months after the break up, I started casually dating a neighbor of mine, someone who I have been getting to know since I moved into my condo two years ago.  It’s been a good thing, although it was a bit scary at first.  She lives in the building next door.  I like her, enjoy that she gives me my space (which seems ironic since she lives so close), am not feeling the pressure to jump into a serious relationship.  Oh, I get my hugs and kisses from her, but I don’t see a ring on my finger in the near future.  It’s nice to have a friend who enjoys getting to know me, fits me very well,… and respects me.

It’s my hope that my children will learn to let me be with someone.  They are not ready yet.  I know it’s different for everyone.  Some children want to see their parent enjoy dating again, others need a lot of time before they can accept that.  It’s OK.  I just hope that some day they will.  I am not going back to their mother.  It’s so obvious now that we, the both of us, needed that change.

Lots to learn.  The path is leveling off, becoming more and more straight as I journey on.

No longer a phone call away

Today is mother’s day.  I am staying away from Facebook today, avoiding any restaurant that serves breakfast or brunch.  It’s not that I don’t like seeing people honor their mother or celebrating.  On the contrary, I think it’s important that we do.  We all need to take the time to focus on the person who brought us into this world, nurtures us, loves us unconditionally.  Mother’s day gives us the opportunity to feel like we have done that.  Mother’s day is just as much, maybe more, for the children as it is for the mother.

Think about it.  It’s true.  Some give back to their mother well, do things for her and show her how much they love her.  Even that person needs that one day to validate their love, to help them to feel like they have really shown her how special she is.  Others, and I was probably one of them, MUST have a day to do just that.  We need to feel we have shown her.

My mom used to drool over the prospect of one of her sons saying something about her on Facebook.  That medium was her livelihood the last few years of her life, when knee replacement, foot and ankle surgeries made it difficult for her to get around for very long.  Mom was not one to let a walker or cane keep her from being mobile, her stubborn refusal to let anything keep her down one of her endearing qualities.  Those maladies forced her to spend more time in her easy chair, something that was more painful to her than her physical pain.  However, the Christmas my brothers and I chipped in together to give her an iPad changed her world, expanded it, gave her a way to move beyond that cushioned prison.  Mom was a lover, not so much a physical hugger, but nonetheless one who made her friends and family and anyone who came in contact with her feel deeply loved.  Mom had very few superficial relationships.  When that tablet brought into the world of Facebook, every post by one of her boys or her grandchildren or her friends or nephews/nieces received a comment from Mom.  Every picture shared, every little meme or joke or announcement of another Cardinals win received a like and appreciation from her.

She liked it when I reached out to her there every Mother’s day.  For her, it was better than a card.  I could get to her at the beginning of the day, essential for me since Mom and Dad lived three hours south of Chicagoland.  If I remembered to send her a present or a card, which happened most but not every Mother’s day, that would be the best I could do.  I tried to call her early in the morning, knowing that she and Dad would be up early to go to church and then out for a meal.  I can still remember that soft southern drawl, warm and tender, when she answered the phone.  Oh, hello Steve was always the first thing she would say, as if it was a surprise that I called.

This is the first year that I can’t call her.  I have my memories of her, I guess the best way I can communicate with her today.  Mother’s day is now in my heart, a day when I remember the woman who….

Tucked me in every night, until this little boy decided he was too big of a boy for that.

Waited for me to come home during those crazy high school years.

Showed me what it means to not just believe in Jesus, but to know Jesus.  There’s a difference.

Set the bar of honoring my father to a height that no woman will ever be able to reach.

Supported me even when I was wrong.. probably is the reason for my enormous ego.

Demonstrated a strength that every one of her children possesses because of her.

Cried with me when I needed someone to cry with… sometimes there was no one else.. and she never turned me down, never showed me the burden that sometimes carried.

Played the piano with her heart, something it’s nearly impossible to understand until you hear it, but anyone who heard her play knows what I mean.  I went to sleep many a night hearing her heart beat through her fingers on the keys.

This is my first heavenly mother’s day.  I didn’t to call her this morning, but I did get to reach out to her through my words, maybe one of the gifts she passed on to me.

Thanks, Mom.  I love you.  Somehow, it’s OK that you are no longer a phone call away.. because a memory is so much more closer because you are already here.

I gave in and posted this pic on FB, with this message — No phone call to my mom today, but somehow she feels closer.. because she is in my heart. Always cherish this picture of her with us, even though it doesn’t show her face, because it was taken before church — Mark and I and Paul (and Dad) grew up knowing God in a very personal way because of her. She was a passionate and strong woman whose passion for our Lord she couldn’t help but show. Missing her even more today.

1977

Outside the large storefront windows of the Panera I am sitting in right now, the snow is swirling steadily, a mid-April storm that is bringing a wetted white to the landscape.  Not one to groan too much about the weather, unless it is weather that interrupts my mountain biking for too long, I am enjoying the contrasting beauty of the winter whiteness mingling with the early Spring greens.  Here in northern Illinois, the buds are just beginning to appear, the grass pushing up and promising the warmer weather to come.  Today will be a day to relax in the way God intends, his creation observed from the warmth indoors as well as venturing outside to experience it firsthand.

A friend just texted me to lament the snow, her anxiety rising as she observed the large flakes surging past her window, all from the comforting warmth of her covers.  Stay in bed for a while, I encouraged her.  I couldn’t help but share with her how much I love these Spring snow storms.

My mind can’t help but go back to this time in 1977, the year of the huge Easter snow and ice storm that brought central Illinois to a two week halt.  I don’t remember exactly when the storm hit, just that it was shortly before Easter Sunday.  Thick layers of ice coated trees, yards, roads, power lines… everything, so much that we didn’t have power for nearly two weeks.  Travel was treacherous, not impossible, but only attempted when necessary.  No power also meant no heat in the house, the little bi level house my family lived in quite cold with the unusual weather.  We didn’t have a fireplace, so my parents cautiously heated our home with the gas kitchen stove in the evenings, and a Coleman camp heater in our living room when it got really cold.  My family huddled around the heater by candlelight, telling stories and singing while Mom played the piano.  We didn’t miss the TV too much, rather enjoyed the time without it.

Easter Sunday was special that year.  I remember going to church that morning, the church full despite the challenge to travel there (my family walked to church — or rather we half walked, half skated/slid).  Families huddled together in the wooden pews to keep warm, the church auditorium candle lit, the atmosphere warm with the quiet that comes when there is no amplification or organ music.  Mom played the piano enthusiastically as the congregation sang, the mood worshipful in a way that was special to the moment, people coming together and the stress melting away even as the ice was freezing outside.  I remember watching the fog in the air as everyone sang.  The scent of bacon and pancakes and eggs drifted up from the church basement as the church elders and deacons cooked the annual Easter sunrise breakfast.  Even an ice storm with a power outage could not prevent the annual breakfast from happening.  By the time the Easter sunrise service was over, my stomach was growling from hunger, the tempting smells drawing my thoughts away.

Somehow mom managed to get a nice ham with the fixings for our Easter meal.  We gathered around the table, snug in our coats, as we ate our meal.  The sun came out that day, the storm over, illuminating the bright landscape made even brighter by the ice.

1977 was my sophomore year of high school.  Our school Spring break was extended a week by the power outage and ice.  Even though my friends and I reveled outside during the break, I was anxious about going back to school.  The unplanned school closing meant that the first two track meets of the season would be cancelled, something I was looking forward to.  My freshman year had been a successful running season, a confidence booster as I established myself running the middle distances.  I was hoping my success from my freshman year would carry into my sophomore year.  I was itching to run the entire week.  Instead, my friends and I found ways to have fun on the ice.  We skated in our backyards and on the street, played broom hockey.  One afternoon, we tied a long rope to a metal disc sled and took turns whipping each other around in circles on the street in front of my house.  There was one problem — we swung one guy too close to a car and the rope broke just before the car, shooting him underneath the car.  His mother wasn’t too happy with us, especially when she had to take him to the hospital for x-rays on his (broken) arm!

Once the weather broke, the temperatures rewarded us with beautiful days.  Power was restored.  The ice was replaced by wonderful green.

The view from my living room yesterday.  Lovely!

The storm of 2019 was mild compared to that 1977 ice storm.  It was wet, with lots of pretty snow.  Of course, I wouldn’t have minded missing a day or two of work….

Bike Beginnings

I have talked plenty about how cycling has provided a therapeutic balance to my life and soul and body, rescued me in a sense, a type of salvation.  When life seems tough or I am not feeling physically well, riding brings me back to focus, calms me in a way that brings healthy clarity.  In a sense, riding also allows me to reach inside myself, find that place where I can approach my maker.  I believe that my existence is truly my soul.  Riding brings me there like nothing else can.  Cycling is God’s gift to me, one of the ways he is able to communicate with me.

The past few days have required calm and clarity.  Stress was affecting me physically, enough that I was concerned.  I need to think through the new challenges with a wisdom that I really don’t possess.  Thankfully, I have a strong relationship with my father as well as solid friendships that provide support.  When it comes down to it, though, the decisions are mine to make — although the decisions also involve my son and his mother, my ex.  There is temptation to simply appease them, bandage the new wound caused by the loss of my son’s car.  If the decision is a quick fix, it’s not likely going to be the most sound decision.  My ex wants to buy him another car.  That’s the quick fix.  But I have a large federal tax bill to pay, property taxes due by the end of May.  Adding another payment to an already tight budget will not be a wise decision.

It took some slowing down to bring me to the point of knowing that waiting is the best approach.  My body and mind had to slow down together to come to that point.  Cycling and prayer has done that for me, I think, as well as spending some time with a good friend.

Monday night, as I felt the affect of the previous day’s elevated stress and blood pressure, I skipped the opportunity to ride.  Instead, I opted to ask a neighbor to share the fajitas I had slow cooked all.  It wasn’t an evening of woe is me soul baring, it was an evening of enjoying the company of a friend, my body telling me quickly by the way I felt as I relaxed.  It was the right thing to do.  Funny, as I arrived home from work on Monday, I prayed and knew what to do that evening.  It didn’t take a bike ride for me to be able to listen.

I needed more, though.  My body needed to recover from the stress, even as I had began to relax.  Tuesday evening temperature was in the upper 40s to low 50s, so I set out on my fat bike for a ride through the area forest preserves.  Most of the crushed limestone trails were dry enough for an easy ride.  As I warmed up, I felt the ease of pedaling and my pace picked up.  Halfway into my ride, I crossed paths with two experienced riders, exchanged pleasantries as they admired my 9;Zero;7 fat bike (it’s a conversation piece as it’s a little unique).  The pace was brisk and I was up to the task, my attitude coming up the more we rode.  After a few miles, they headed in another direction as I broke off in the direction of Mount Hoy, a former landfill that provides a progressively steep and moderately long climb.  I chose the path up the side of the landfill rather than the grassy slope for my climb, the satisfaction of pushing through the last 20 or so yards giving me energy as I crested the top of the landfill and was treated to the awesome clear view from the top.  I circled the top a few times as I caught my breath, then streaked down the grassy slope on the other side, exhiliarated by the speed while I rushed towards the bottom.  I cruised home through the woods and over the river bridge that had once served as the entrance to a franciscan sisters prayer retreat.  The energy of the ride buoyed me the entire rest of the evening.  I could already feel myself beginning to process more clearly the thoughts I need to address right now.

Last night was awesome, shirtsleeve and shorts weather, a welcomed day after the winter temperatures.  Trail reports for the mountain bike trails I ride were that they were in prime condition.  After making some adjustments to my bike, I loaded my bike up on the bike of my car, went to the trails.  I was greeted there by Deni, an enthusiastic 19 year old who loves to ride with my friends and I.  He and I rode for an hour and a half, once again at a strong pace, the rush of the singletrack adding even more energy.  Once again, I came home feeling even better.

Cycling.  Friends.  All gifts from God.  All ways he speaks to me.  I feel it, understand more, thankful that I am able to listen.

BOOM!!!!!

Life has been a literal whirlwind lately, with a lot of challenges thrown at me almost simultaneously.  I like to think that somehow I am more equipped to deal with those challenges now, whether that is true or not.  The past few days tested me more than a little bit, pushed me literally to emotional limits that also affected me physically.  That wasn’t unusual during the course of my marriage, but my response to the current challenges has me proud.

Last week started with a work trip to Florida, responsibilities a bit out of my comfort zone as those responsibilities required me to lead training seminars for a customer with enormous potential.  While I found that I am more than capable and performed very well, my normally adequate ego was feeling the shrink caused by the cold reality that I am self trained.  I felt inadequate going in to the trip, made me overcompensate a bit to the point of being over prepared.  The salesman I accompanied gave me high marks to my boss, something that was shared with my tired soul when I returned to the office last Thursday.

Yes, the innuendo is intentional.  🙂

Tired was the word, but not too much.  I had tried to save my company money by taking the red eye flight home to Chicago from Tampa, a $97 flight, arrived home after midnight.  I still arrived to work at my normal 8:30 AM start time, beat both of my coworkers in.

Yes, the adequate ego is still adequate.

The challenges started last Friday, when I received a call from the internet and cable TV provider that shall remain unnamed.  I think they are getting too big for their britches.  The caller informed me that my promotional rate was about to expire.  What promotional rate?, I inquired, I didn’t sign a promotional contract.  I was informed that 24 months, I did get a promotional rate that is going to expire in a month.  If I didn’t sign up for another plan, my monthly rate would be roughly $280.  SAY WHAT?!!!!?  All I can say is, that’s a crappy sales pitch.  I asked the salesman to send me the options via email and I would consider each one, then make a decision.  He had called me while I am at work, after all, and right in the middle of preparing a rush quote.  That wasn’t possible, he told me, it had to be done over the phone and at that moment.  If not, they would call me back at a more convenient time, but nothing could be done by email.  I wasn’t kind to the guy (no acid, just firm), didn’t cut him any slack, told him that I don’t do anything over the phone.  Why not just give me the same plan, at the same rate, and be done with it.  Was that possible?  No.  The guy wouldn’t budge, but he was also getting frustrated with me… and hung up.

Yes, that’s how my weekend started.

Friday therapy night was great, as usual.  My friend John was back from his vacation travels, raring to go after signing up for an online dating site.  Jim and I spent a good deal of the evening helping him with his profile message and picture choices, even enlisted the aid of Jim’s girlfriend (via text) for the profile.  There was a joke that one woman on the site rejected and didn’t respond at all to Jim when he was using the site, and Jim would pay for their first date if John got her to respond.  “We” sent her a message — and SHE RESPONDED.  They are planning to meet this weekend, are hitting it off.  John is off and running.  Jim is annoyed — he’s not used to rejection.

Saturday was nice weather, low 50 degree temperatures, which means I rode the trails in shorts.  Woooohoooooo!  I finished my ride, loaded the bike up on the car, got in and checked my phone.  Uh oh.  A message from my ex that simply said call me as soon as you can.  Another message from my accountant, who is doing my taxes, an ominous message about not having enough withholding that looked scary.  I called my ex and found out that our son had a car accident, was OK, but his car was likely totaled.

Yes, GULP.

I hustled home, as I needed to not only prepare for a 5 o’clock meeting with friends and I also had to walk the cute little 3 month old female chow puppy that my brother had dropped off earlier in the day.  I was going to be dog sitting in my second floor condo for five days.  I made it home, walked the puppy, played with her a bit, cleaned up and left to meet my friends.  We went to a bonfire later on, had a grand time.  It was a great evening.  I came home fairly early, around 10:30 PM, to find…. uh oh.

Yes, uh oh.

Chows are very strong dogs, even as three month old puppies.  While I was gone, she decided that maybe I or someone else was on the other side of the heavy sliding wooden door that I had closed to keep her in my little galley kitchen.  She slammed into the closed door, likely multiple times, and knocked it out of track.  When I walked through my front door at 10:30, she greeted me at the front door.  The bottom of the door was extended out at least two feet.  Oh no.

Yes, OH NO!

My crazy downstairs neighbor must have been freaking out all evening from the noise of the dog.  Sure enough, the sound of my footsteps must have cued my neighbor of my arrival, because her patio light went on immediately and I could see her pacing out in front of her patio.  Moments later, I was treated to the sound of a Polish woman screeching loudly up at me.  I guarantee she was waiting for the drama, as she had observed me walking the puppy earlier that day.  I had also seen her husband in the hallway, where he asked me if I had a new dog and I told him that I was just dog sitting.

Yes, just dog sitting.  It was completely obvious very soon that did not matter.

Chows are darling, especially three month old puppies.  Chows are endearing.  Chows bond quickly and are very loving.  I was immediately Chloe’s best buddy.. and she would not leave me alone.  Chows are also very aggressive, which combined with their strength and intelligence makes them excellent guard dogs.  Note that in the picture I was sitting on the floor.  That worked better with her, because otherwise she would have demanded my attention.

Yes, that’s a black tongue.  Isn’t she adorable?  The short snout also causes her to snort.

I tried to leave for church, abandoned the closed kitchen door strategy, gave her a long leash and tied her to the kitchen table.  Chloe was barking before I even came close to the front door, and loudly.  Arrrrrggggghhhhh.  Teresa the Terrible, my neighbor, was already freaking out.  I left any way, hoped that the barking would cease shortly after I left.  Alas, I could hear barking as I walked outside through the courtyard and from my car.  I drove a few miles, the stress starting to rise and my better judgement telling me that I had better go back home.  I did.  She was still barking.

Yes, so was my downstairs neighbor, although her bark is a frantically anxious shriek.

I could hear her through her door as I walked up the stairs to my unit.  With each shriek, I could feel my blood pressure rising, something I have not felt in years.  Barking greeted me as I walked through my front door.  Nearly defeated, I released Chloe from her leash and hugged her as I sat on the floor with her.  She ate that up, little licks and nibbles demonstrating her enthusiastic affection for me.  What could I do about the situation?  I was beginning to feel trapped.  Not wanting to be held captive by my furry guest, craving the calm of a church worship service, I decided to risk letting her have the run of my small house.  Maybe she wouldn’t be so anxious, maybe she wouldn’t destroy anything from anxiety?  Cautiously, I walked out the front door.  She wanted to run out with me, but I stopped her, frowned as she whimpered at me.  I closed the door, walked slowly down the stairs as I listened for barking, hearing a loud whining whimper but no barking.  Maybe this was going to work?  I stopped at the landing, listened some more, hopeful I would be able to leave.

Yes, I was too hopeful.

As I stood on the landing, listening to the quiet whimper of the puppy from my condo unit above, a sudden loud commotion emerged as my neighbor loudly barged through her front door.  Complaints of he and that dog were making loud noise all last night, as well as I am getting sick of him nearly bowled me over as my neighbor angrily emerged while shrieking back at her husband, only to see me and zip back inside her condo as she slammed her door behind her.  The commotion continued on the other side of the door.

Yes, it was obvious she was destined for my front door.

It was also painfully obvious that I couldn’t keep this puppy, even for the few days I was supposed to dog sit.  Defeated, I trudged back upstairs to my home, greeted by a happy furball.  I looked down at her, apologized with the tears beginning to form.  What could I do?  My brother in his family were hours away, enjoying the sites in Washington, DC.  No way was I going to be able to leave this dog alone.  The next day and the days to follow until my brother would get home, I knew there was no way I could go to work — and I had to go to work as my boss was going to be travelling.  With dread, I texted my brother, asked him if it was possible to put Chloe in a kennel.  I knew the answer to that.  This puppy is only three months old, so she hasn’t had the shots required to board her.

My brother tried to find a kennel, but confirmed what I already knew, that she could not be boarded.  He called and apologized, assured me that he understands my situation.  Go ahead and load her up, drive south towards central Illinois, where our brother and our father live.  He would contact them and ask them to meet me halfway, take the dog from me.  This was something he knew might happen, that the dog would make too much noise and possibly become destructive.  It just looked like it wouldn’t happen.  The kitchen door should have been adequate to contain her and keep her calm.

I loaded her stuff in my car, put her in the back seat and began the drive south, not knowing if either my other brother or my father would be able to meet me.  The stress was really beginning to affect my blood pressure, the dizziness of elevated blood pressure starting to show up.  It didn’t help that the puppy wouldn’t stay in the back seat.  I tried letting her have the passenger seat next to me, but she wanted to be in my lap.  She also was getting anxious, her snorts increasing, my own anxiety increasing as I tried to deal with driving and her persistence.  Eventually, my dad called and just in time.  My blood pressure had elevated so much that I could barely breathe, much less drive.  He was worried, told me to turn around, go home and he would pick her up at my place.  I bought a bottle of water, sipped it as I drove carefully home, downed an extra dose of my blood pressure meds when I got home — which worked but really threw me into a loop.

Yes, I survived the day.

Monday was a new day — and an extremely busy day.  After lunch, I had to deal simultaneously with the insurance company calling about my son’s accident claim, my accountant wanting to talk about my tax return, my son calling about my accident,.. and another friend who wanted me to dog sit for him!  I survived, but had to deal with several items of bad news at once.  Over $4000 owed to federal taxes due to a withholding error, my son’s car totaled and too expensive to fix (liability insurance only).  I could only shrug my shoulders.  I can make it through this as I have many times before, said a prayer (which calmed me), then sat down to catch my breath and focus on the many blessings.  That helped me to see that it’s not so bad.

A friend came over that evening to share dinner with me, brought relaxation and calm back to me.  Calm and slightly warm weather has allowed me to ride, and ride quite well I must add, the last two evenings.  All is well.

Yes, all is well.