Happy New Year

With 2020 coming to a close, it'll be a year that we won't soon forget, a year that was highjacked by an invisible enemy. 

And with the Christmas rush now over, resolution ideas are circulating. For various reasons— and with good intentions—many will want to start their new year with an incentive to turn over a new leaf. And while some will be successful at it, others will become bored and deflated before January is over, tossing their goals aside in defeat.

Why, then, do many begin the new year motivated to make changes, only to end up feeling like a failure when they relapse? 

A couple of reasons stand out as to why my New Year's resolutions didn't work in past years: 1) I'd made them on a whim (or a dare). 2) I'd set unrealistic goals for myself without giving any real thought to how I wanted to achieve them.

But by setting realistic goals for ourselves, we are more apt to keep our resolutions throughout the year because we are better equipped to avoid the pitfalls unwarranted pressure can present.

As you look forward to a new year, whatever you're planning on giving up or adding, bear in mind, even if you relapse at some point, it doesn't mean you are a failure, so don't beat yourself up. Instead, celebrate your progress. Reflect on how far you have come, not on how far you have to go. Most all of all: keep believing in yourself, stay resolute, and focused on hope. 

Happy New Year! All the best in 2021!

Middle-Aged Orphans—The Forgotten Grievers

I am not the same person I was when my mom died. I am not the same person I was when my dad died. I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am forever learning, forever growing, forever transitioning into a better version of myself, striving to accept life as a school rather than a victim of what it has taken from me. 

At the age of twenty-eight, my life was vibrant. I was happily married, a mother to a four-year-old and a five-month-old, and my mom and I were never closer. Then—in the blink of an eye—one week after her fifty-fifth birthday, she died of a massive heart attack. Nothing prepared me for her loss. Nothing prepared me for the raw sting of grief. Nothing prepared me for how my world would be forever changed.

 

When my eighty-two-year-old dad lost his five-year battle to congestive heart failure nine years ago, even though I anticipated his death, even though I'd the chance to say goodbye, to say all the things I wished I'd said to my mom, it didn't make my grief more accessible. I still grieved deeply for him. But the thought of being an orphan hadn't even crossed my mind. Nor did I encounter any feelings of the permanence of being parentless.

 

However, weeks later, the sudden awareness that both of my parents were now gone, that I'd lost my identity as their daughter, left a gaping void in my life, bringing with it inescapable loneliness.

 

While I realize everyone's journey is unique, it got me thinking about how middle-aged orphans are often the forgotten grievers. Why? Because, inadvertently, many in society deem middle-aged orphan grief less worthy of the attention it deserves, thereby robbing the unrestricted right to grieve, leaving grief in limbo. 

 

Like myself, you may have felt (or others have unknowingly made you feel) that because our loved one was older when they died, our daily routines should resume without much interruption because death is, after all, the natural order of life. 

 

But does that mean we should put a time limit on our grief? 

 

Can't we be grateful that our loved one lived to be a ripe old age and deeply bereave at the same time?

 

No doubt, losing my mom was very tragic, unlike the anticipation of losing my dad, but my point is: grief still altered my life in both instances.

 

Furthermore, when our last parent dies, whether we had a great relationship with them or whether we had unresolved issues or was estranged, their death marks an end to an era, sometimes forcing us to evaluate our lives and make peace with our imperfect childhood.

 

Helen Keller wisely said, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched; they must be felt with the heart." 

 

Writing became not only an avenue to tune into my emotions after Dad died but also the conduit that opened my heart to healing.

 

Whether it was through penmanship or sitting at my computer, the days I'd sit down to write about my childhood memories sparked a magical inspiration in me. It was the magic of a little girl coming to life in a new light. And as she wrote and dug deeper and deeper into her memory bank, whatever met her along the way, whatever rose in her body, soul, and mind, there in the midst, even amongst the tears, she found joy, she found laughter, she found happiness, as well as pain and regret. But most importantly, she found an incredible sense of peace. 

 

This encounter with peace paved the way to bridging the gap between my childhood and being a middle-aged orphan. It was the peace of knowing that both of my parents were finally together again, of understanding that being a middle-aged orphan doesn't have to represent an empty life or a lonely heart, nor does it have to define my personal history. Instead, glancing back reminds me that the good memories are to be cherished and the bad ones forgiven, if not forgotten. That the twenty-eight years I'd with my mom and the fifty-two years I'd with my dad fills my heart with so much thankfulness, presenting a realization that— as imperfect as my childhood was—my parents did the best they could for me.

 

All of us will have to cross the threshold of parental loss if we live long enough. Maybe you have already made the journey across. If so, while your parents won't be seated at the dinner table this Christmas, know that they will be present in your heart, sitting next to Christ, the Prince of Peace, lovingly whispering Merry Christmas to your soul.

                              Have a blessed Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

November is Adoption Awareness Month

Statistics have shown that when kids remain in foster care, they are more likely to be arrested and unemployed as adults. Denied the right to be adopted, they will eventually age out of the system and onto the streets, fending for themselves, with no family to go home to, no traditions to take part in, and no one to help with life's setbacks.

Fostering is an essential service, yes, but it was never meant to be permanent—every child desires and waits for their "forever" home. And yet, what is so disheartening to me is that so many still frown heavily on gay adoption.

Some fear that allowing same-sex couples to adopt will change the family dynamics. Others even fear that being raised by a same-sex couple will influence the child to be gay.

First of all, being gay isn't learned behavior. And secondly, same-sex couples want to love and nurture children in the same way heterosexual couples do. They aren't trying to threaten anyone's values. 

I truly understand people's fears, though. So I try to cut them some slack when they voice their opinions in a kind manner.

Eight years ago, when my daughter and her wife privately adopted our first grandchild, I'd mixed feelings and fears. But when our second grandchild (a foster child) was adopted fifteen months ago, I was onboard upfront. 

What changed? What generated me to be on the opposing side of this debate? 

I saw the face of it. And I am now seeing the face of it with both of my grandsons. They are thriving in their lives. They are being raised on a foundation of safety and trust and stability and love — a recipe for success in my books. 

Bottom line: Every child desires to be loved and accepted. Together we can take a stand to help end the stigma that still surrounds gay adoption. Together we can take a stand to help make the world a safer place for ALL families.
 
We can do this by starting at home, by educating our children, by teaching them about diverse families, about inclusion, about discrimination, and about how to value people for who they are. 

On a personal note: I am so thankful that gay adoption is legalized here in Canada because it's been an incredible blessing to us.

Why I Am Grateful for Rock Bottom

There's no shame in hitting rock bottom. What matters is that we strive to rise daily; what matters is that we endure the pitfalls along the way and become the person we were created to be.

 

I awoke in a fog of despair, not wanting to get out of bed. I knew it wasn't just another bad day. I knew it wasn't just a matter of "getting up and getting over it" because it felt like my body had been drained of energy, leaving me void of any hope of climbing out of the dark, eerie hole I'd found myself in. 

Cradled in a fetal position, sobbing, my heart ached unbearably for answers to the questions circling in my head: How did I get to this place? Who am I? And what is the purpose and meaning of life? 

Through sheer exhaustion, I was compelled to remember her: that strong-willed, tenacious person—who’s never been a quitter but rather a fighter. She was the one I tapped into. She was the one who gave me the fortitude to rise. She was the one who prodded me: "Do you want your story to end at the bottom."

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."- Maya Angelou

It's been over a decade now since I put pen to paper and began writing through the recollections of my emotional baggage, where I've found incredible insights into the experiences that'd shaped me, helping me to lean into the pain, allowing me to move into the acceptance of that pain.

How did I arrive at rock bottom? 

 

In retrospect, I didn't just wake that morning to find myself there. Consequently, I’d been running from myself for years. I hid behind masks. I had built walls so thick around my heart, you would've needed a sledgehammer to beat them down. The truth is, I'd ignored so many red flags that my past was spiraling me down until it eventually landed me at rock bottom.

 

To be frank, no one could have saved me. Not my husband, not my kids, not my friends. I had to be the one to take charge of my life. I had to be the one to throw away the blame game, the pity parties, the "woe is me" attitude, the victim mentality. And it didn't happen overnight. I am still a work in progress. Darkness still exits. But the difference now is: So does God.

Ironically, I'd struggled to believe that God was even there with me in my pain that morning. But I sure believe it now, that He knew it wasn't the end, that my rock bottom was no surprise to Him. It was where I needed to be all along. Only then could He heal me and help rebuild my life in the way He had designed. All I needed to do was reach for His hand and abandon my way of living. In other words, I had to take my hands off the wheel. 

While rock bottom is subjective, what we all have in common are choices: The choice to change, the choice to heal, the choice to seek help, the choice to say, "There is no way my story is ending at the bottom. I am worthy of so much more, and I will scratch and crawl my way out of this dark hole to find me." Or we can choose to stay stuck in the mire.

I can say wholeheartedly today that I've never been more grateful for my rock bottom experience. 

Why?

Because it led me to Christ.

 

Because it forced me to look in the mirror and ask the hard questions.

Because it pulled off my masks, crumbled down walls, ultimately leading to my truest self.

 

Because it taught me about self-love and self-compassion.

And because it gave me insight and understanding into the experiences that had shaped me, imparting the wisdom and knowledge needed to help others.

Perhaps you are reading this and (like I did) feel void of hope. Listen: You are stronger than you think. While the climb to the top won't be easy, while you will make strides one day and feel like quitting the next, keep pushing forward, remembering to take the time to rest and breathe along the way. I assure you: One day you will stand on the summit and shout: "I did it! All the moans and groans to get here were worth it!"

The Comparison Trap

Whether we do it consciously or unconsciously, we all, from time to time, fall into the comparison trap. We pull out our measuring stick and compare others by what they have, by what they wear, by how they look ... leaving us feeling either superior or inferior to them. 

Yes, it's natural to compare. Yes, not all comparing is unhealthy. But when it's entrenched in the philosophy that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, when it promotes an envious, resentful attitude toward other's success, it can be detrimental to one's well-being. 

The thing is: the greener grass view only allows us to see what's directly in front of us, anyway, which is merely a perception of someone's life. We can't possibly have an accurate assessment of someone's story from the other side of the fence. And (more often than not) when we do hear their story, either face-to-face or through social media — we come to realize that the marriage we envied fell far short of our expectations, or even ended in divorce. Or the person that we thought had it all together was actually insecure and lacked confidence.

I know firsthand hand that nothing derails joy and contentment faster than comparing oneself to others. 

Growing up in a low-income family, the comparison trap seeped into my life at a very early age. I longed to fit in but was always left looking over the fence. I was envious of those who were popular, who wore the latest brand-name clothes, and who appeared to have a fairytale home life. 

The bare bones of my story: The fear of not being good enough, the fear of not measuring up, the fear of failure, and the fear of rejection became a benchmark to prove my worth to the world in adulthood. The "I will show you" kind of mentality led me down a road of perfectionism and people-pleasing. And it not only held me back and prevented me from becoming the best version of myself, but it also left me ungrateful for the beautiful life I had in front of me.

I am not saying that the comparison trap never rears its ugly head in my life today. There are days when I doubt my abilities as a writer, days when my inner critic feeds me the lies that I am not good enough or smart enough to write, but the difference now is that I sit with my emotions. I address them for what they are, reminding myself to stay in my own lane and run beside those who inspire me, who push me up higher, and who believe in my gifts and talents.

Don't waste your time looking over the fence at someone else's life. Water your own gifts and talents. Be grateful for the life you have. Contentment doesn't come from what you own or how much money you have or how you look; contentment comes from inner joy, of knowing that you are enough.

As the wise Dr. Seuss once said, "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."

 Embrace your uniqueness.

Does Time Heal All Wounds?

"Grief changes us the pain sculpts us into someone who understands more deeply hurts more often appreciates more quickly cries more easily hopes more desperately loves more openly." –Author Unknown 

I am not an expert on grief and loss by any means. My greatest teacher has been my own life experiences, and with the help of online courses and through much self-awareness, the main takeaway for me now is this: grief has to be endured; loss has to be mourned, not cured.

We live in a fast-paced, quick-fix society that (by its very nature) prompts us to survive and press on after a loss, to put grief on a time schedule, but grief calls us to sit in the ebbs and flow of our wound, to surrender to it, to feel sad or angry or confused or guilty... 

I think most of us feel a certain level of discomfort and awkwardness when face-to-face with a bereaved person. As well-meaning people, we feel the need to at least say something, and so we pull out the old adage "time heals all wounds" in hopes of offering some support and comfort or in hopes of filling the silent void. 

But rarely does "time heals all wounds" have the intended outcome, especially in the rawness of grief, when one's life is so hazy. Saying I am sorry for your loss or simply being there with a reassuring hug or a listening ear is often enough to show we care. 

After the sudden loss of my mother thirty-three years ago, to say that I was in the throes of grief is an understatement. At the age of twenty-eight, a mother to two young children then ages four years and six months, my mother's death not only left an indelible mark on my psyche, but it forever changed me. I'd no roadmap or guidebook to help me figure out how to put my life back together for my children. I just got up each day and put one foot in front of the other.

"Time heals all wounds, Joyce," I was repeatedly told. And even though I believed the sentiment to be true because — if nothing else — it gave me hope that my grief would dissipate with time, that time would heal the gigantic hole in my heart, time didn't hold up its end of the bargain. 

Time passed, and days turned into weeks and months and even years, but instead of feeling better, instead of "time" healing me, I often found myself cast adrift in a sea of grief, kicking with all my might to stay afloat, as the waves steadily tried to devour me. 

  

In retrospect, time isn't meant to be an antidote for grief. Time is merely a "mourning period" to help navigate the choppy waters ahead, allowing us to find the inner strength to live within our new reality, with life forever altered.

In essence, time didn't heal me, but it did lead me to a healing God and my truest self.

However, the answer to the question, "Does time heal all wounds?" truly lies in the heart of the bereaved. Why? Because just as we are ALL unique, so too is our grief journey.

Blindsided by Fear and Anxiety

To have the luxury of a secluded beach area within walking distance of my daughter's house here in Saint John, NB is such a blessing. I don't know about you, but there's just something about listening to the ocean that brings calmness and peace to my soul.

A few nights ago, however, as I became transfixed by the high storm surges unpredictability, the ocean evoked different emotions in me.

Standing near the shoreline, with the force of the wind beating against my face, I closed my eyes and envisioned that the ocean was angry and sad and frustrated. I envisioned that it was lashing out and speaking to me about the worst and most frightening moments that you and I are experiencing right now.

COVID-19 has not only become the hallmark of fear and anxiety, but it has forced our lives to slow down in ways that we never thought imaginable.

Day in and day out, we are left scrolling the internet or glued to our tv in hopes of finding some positive news, some certainty, something to at least soothe our anxious mind. Only to be bombarded by the increased cases of the virus, by the increased number of deaths, heightening our fear and anxiety even more so.

And this past weekend, while still consumed by fighting a common enemy in COVID-19, we were suddenly blindsided by a horrendous mass shooting in Nova Scotia, leaving the victims' families caught in a raging sea of grief, with no peace in sight.

Not only does my heart go out to the bereaved in Nova Scotia and around the world, but it puts my quarantine woes with COVID-19 into a different perspective as well. Because despite days when my fear and anxiety are heightened, despite days when I feel cooped up, despite days when I wish for normalcy, my loved ones are still okay.

Forgiveness —The Recycleable Approach

The Earth, through God's immaculate creativity, is designed to recycle and sustain itself. All we have to do is look around to see evidence of this process.

Take the forest, for example. When the leaves drop—or deadfall trees and plants litter the forest floor—micro-organisms act as nature's recyclers and, in turn, put nutrients back into the soil to help produce new growth.

So up to a point, the Earth is very forgiving, right? But humanity needs to do a better job of protecting it, and one way to do this is by recycling our junk. 

For us here in Canada, one of the standard recycling options is a blue box program. Yet what became apparent for Derick and me during our east coast trip this past summer was that the rules for acceptable recycle materials (depending on the municipality) differed. We never did quite get it all sorted out and even got ribbed by relatives along the way. In each case, however, the common recycle goal was always geared towards helping the environment. 

Most of us would agree that looking after the environment is an essential part of sustaining Canada's beauty for generations to come. After all, it's our legacy to our children and grandchildren, and dealing with garbage in a throwaway society is becoming a real challenge; therefore, anything that can be recycled is a common-sense approach.

But what about our internal environment? How do we sort out what's trash and what's recyclable? How do we sustain our inner beauty?

Consider the phycological effects of being bullied or abused in some other way, especially in childhood. These hurts don't just disappear. They lay dormant in the recesses of our psyche, triggering harmful effects such as misunderstood anger and resentment and bitterness, in part, due to the inability to forgive and heal—not a pleasant place to find oneself in.

How do I know?

Because there were deep hurts that I'd thrown in the trash heap, hurts that I'd closed the lid on, but I forgot to take the bin to the curb (so to speak). And in the absence of forgiveness and healing, these hurts continued to fester, (slowly) releasing toxic waste into my character, resulting in the lid to burst off later in life.

Bottom line: Forgiving others and starting the healing process wasn't possible for me until I was first able to forgive myself, to feed myself compassion and love for the hurts that I'd caused others with my words and actions. It's no wonder I get emotional when praying, "Forgive us our sins, as we have forgiven those who sin against us." 

  

Quoting also—when Peter asked Jesus, "Lord, how many times am I to forgive my brother who sins against me? "Is seven enough?" Jesus reiterated, "I do not say to you up to seven times, but seventy times seven." Essentially, Jesus is saying we forgive as many times as necessary. 

What these two biblical references (as well as many others) signify is that forgiveness is one of the most critical aspects of the Christian faith, an on-going process that we must do over and over again. Why? Because God wants to heal our wounds, not just for ourselves but also for the people who have hurt us. 

Let's face it, though; forgiveness isn't as clear-cut as it sounds. On the contrary, it's hard work. I know when someone hurts my family or me, the last thing I want to do is forgive that person(s). It takes prayer to change my heart. Years ago, my tactic would've been to try and get even, to demand an apology, to hold that person captive in my heart. But Christ has fostered a new self-awareness in me; a calmness that has helped me grasps the notion that the power of forgiveness is the only true path to spiritual peace. 

Why then do the misconceptions surrounding forgiveness tend to give many a wide berth to it? Partly, perhaps, because (and I've been here too) of not understanding what forgiveness isn't: forgiveness isn't forgetting what happened or condoning the offense or letting the other person off the hook—forgiveness isn't necessarily reconciliation.

Instead, forgiveness, in a healing sense, is a gift God prompts us to give to ourselves, a conscious choice to "let go" and reclaim our life, usually through the evolution process of dissecting and then releasing our wounds. Wounds that, for some, are so egregious that it can take years of deep soul-searching, of connecting with the most profound and rawest parts of who they are, of continuing to forgive over and over again until they can experience the fullness of healing.

In truth, no one can force you to forgive. Forgiveness is a process where only you know when you are ready to move into a "more in-depth" understanding and acceptance of your pain. Because the thing is: when your wounds are still raw and bleeding, it's a natural response to throw your fists in the air and want to fight with a vengeance. And you have the right to feel what you feel, but at some point, you will need to let it go, in other words, you will need to forgive. If not, you will remain tethered to your pain, causing havoc on your emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being. 

In hindsight, I can tell you that holding on to past hurts had far more consequences for me than opening up my heart to forgiveness—the anger, resentment, and bitterness not only kept me chained to my past, but it blocked my emotional healing as well. Forgiveness, on the other hand, moved me into a brighter future, a future made possible through Christ's recyclable approach to forgiveness.