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.

The Eye of the Storm

On Sept 6th, after our three-week stay in Newfoundland, Derick and I landed in Halifax, excited to spend the weekend with my sister and her fiancé.

I am an anxious flyer, so I was thankful to finally be on the ground again and to have had a "turbulence-free" flight to boot. Noting this to Derick, he leaned in, looked me in the eyes and—with a wry sense of humor—said, "You do realize hurricane Dorian is expected to hit the east coast tomorrow, particularly Halifax, and you are glad to be here on the ground, uh?"

In my defense, I hadn't given much thought about the hurricane heading our way. It's not that I was oblivious to its destructive path throughout the Bahamas and the U.S., at that moment, I was just glad to be off the plane and not yet ready to comprehend the dangers that Dorian might pose—one fear at a time, please! 

Upon arriving at the baggage carousel, however, I was no longer thankful to be on the ground. My sister had confirmed the brutal facts: We'd indeed be taking a direct hit from hurricane Dorian early Saturday a.m., with forecasted wind speeds ranging from 120 to 150 km an hour (yikes!). 

And true to form, the torrential rain and blustering winds struck us with a vengeance the next morning, and in its wake, widespread power outages impacted the region. 

Fortunately (as the storm raged on outside), a generator afforded us a sense of normalcy, a means to have breaking news updates as well as coffee and food and lighting.

While Dorian appeared to pause shortly after lunch, we were left wide-eyed, frozen, by the stillness of nature's rage. I am not sure who blurted out, "I believe we are in the eye of the storm!" Nevertheless, this turbulence-free zone filled the air not only with calm energy but an eerie yet peaceful feeling as well. I mean, even the trees seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Regrettably, though, the brevity of nature's rest soon gave way to pounding winds from the opposite direction—casting us into uncertainty once more.

Hours had passed since the stillness in the eye when, from the living room vantage point, my eyes caught sight of the dusk sky peering through the kitchen window. Its shadowy outline lured me into taking a closer look. And as I stood there (pretty much on tippy-toes, to get the full view of the outside) and watched the treetops fiercely sway back-and-forth against the darkening backdrop, a wave of panic gripped me.

You see, during the day, I was somewhat comforted by the fact that my "hawk-eyes" could take in every detail of the storm's rage around me. But knowing that it'd soon lurk in the dark, knowing that it'd soon hammer us with hidden fury, caused anxiety and fear and a pang of uncertainty to flood my body. Yet, I knew I had no control over the results of Dorian. So I did the only thing I knew to do: I prayed.  

Thankfully, we all survived that horrifying night unharmed. And although for several days nearly a million people were without power throughout the Maritimes, there were no human casualties. There was, however, significant infrastructure damage, and many of the areas majestic trees had succumbed to Dorian's wrath.

I liken Dorian to life storms. Many of you reading this have weathered them. Many of you have suffered significant losses in their aftermath. And yet, you have found a way to rise above. Not unscathed, not without being changed and shaped differently, no doubt. And rightly so. Your life was serene, and then—in the blink of an eye—you were tossed into a raging storm, battered and broken and uprooted from the life you once knew.

I can relate to storm damage in my life, as well. 

I was twenty-eight years old when my fifty-six-year-old mother suddenly died. In an instant, without any warning, she was gone. One day I had a mother, and the next day I was motherless. In its wake, this tragic event triggered a slow-moving grief hurricane, where the winds of pain came at me in many directions, where I went through life searching for the serenity of the eye.

The backstory is: Although I went into survival mode for my, then, four-year-old daughter and five-month-old son, it took years to work through my grief. The truth is, it wasn't until I found Christ in the eye of yet another storm, over a decade ago, was I able to find true peace and calmness of spirit. And even though I still succumb to fear, I've come to the realization that (unlike the trees), if we survive the fall, our life isn't over. We can choose to rise again. We can choose to embrace the lesson's grief offers. We can choose to become generators of light for others, even though the gaping hole in our heart is irreplaceable. 

With the Christmas season fast approaching, many will be stressed and lonely and sad this year—loss of traditions, an empty seat at the table, financial difficulty, illnesses, loss of hope...have trapped them inside one of life's storms.

Christ draws us ALL to the eye of the storm, a place of rest and calmness and peace. But for those who are burdened by circumstances, generators of light may need to come alongside them. Perhaps you/we can be that light this year? 

Adoption

In all its beauty and inevitable struggles, in all its changes and transformation, I marvel at how the seasons of life mirror the seasons of nature.

And on a personal level, I can relate to the cyclical seasons of change because I, too, have traveled through many dormant seasons in my lifetime, only to be blessed with new beginnings, leading me into a season of growth before reaping the benefits of life's harvest once again.

Spring (especially) reminds me of how nature has a way of letting us know that the season of dormancy is over. Similar to the stroke of an artist brush, a new painting begins to appear: Birds return busying themselves building nests. Trees and plants burst into bloom. And the spirit of humankind perks up in anticipation of the seasons ahead.

So, what does the cycle of life/nature have to do with adoption?

Well, whenever I've reflected on a child wounded by abandonment, stuck in the system of adoption, not knowing whether a permanent placement would happen, I've imagined how tough life must have been for them, how fragile and dormant their growth must have seemed.

On the other hand, I've pondered what it must have felt like when a family finally reached out and offered a "forever" home to that child: Did it feel like the four seasons combined? Was it with mixed emotions that they left the dormant season behind, yet wantonly looked forward to a new life, with a chance to grow and thrive and reap the harvest of love in a family that had chosen them?

Surprisingly, some of my answers have come through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy named Joshua.

Joshua entered foster care when he was just five years old, removed from his biological parents, and placed in the system. While he was fortunate enough to be blessed with great foster parents, he knew it wasn't his "forever" home. He continued to wait in anticipation for the day he'd belong and be loved in a family that he would call his own.

 I am happy to announce that the season of dormancy and waiting for Joshua is finally over. He is now part of our family—the Rice-Sawyer clan! Our daughter and her wife have adopted him. We now have a new grandson, and Thatcher has an older brother.

It's been a few months since Joshua entered into the growing season with his new family. Right from the onset Derick and I were eager to show him (something that his brother Thatcher already knew) the unfailing love of his nana and pap, and we had the opportunity to do just that when he visited our home this July.

Of course, we wondered if we could earn this little boy's trust in such a short time, being that his life had been burdensome for the first eight years, especially the first five.

A couple of days into Joshua's visit, however, I overheard him say to his moms, "I am comfortable here at Nana and Pap's house." And "comfortable" became more and more evident as the days went on. Watching him blossom was/is a remarkable depiction of what love and trust and nurturing and stability can do in a child's life. Needless to say, he learned quickly that—in our family—no matter what season of life we may find ourselves in, our harvest of love is never-ending.

While the details of Joshua's past must remain private, it isn't hard to see the hand of God at work in our adoption story.

There are inspirational biblical accounts on adoption as well, and through God's artistry of purpose, He shows us how adoption has played (and is still playing) a vital role in His love for humanity.

For instance, if Jochebed hadn't put Moses in a basket and sent him gently down a river, he'd have been killed by the leader of the royal family that adopted him. But, instead, he grew up to be an essential leader of God's plan to bring the Israelites out of Egypt.

Most importantly: How would the world have looked had Joseph not stepped up to the plate and adopted Jesus? Mary might have been stoned to death, but God had other plans, and together they raised a Son that changed the course of history.

As Christians, we, too, are offered a new life through the sacrifice of Christ. Not unlike an adoption of sorts, with new possibilities and hope for the future, at the end of our Earthly journey, Christ also promises us a "forever" home.

Thanksgiving is just around the corner. What are you most thankful for this year?

I know for me personally, there are a few things that come to mind, but as a family, Derick and I are incredibly thankful for adoption and the role we get to play in our boys' lives. It has enlivened our purpose beyond measure—to say the least.

With regards to the future, perhaps our grandsons will grow up and become leaders for God. Perhaps they will show the world just how blessed they are to have been adopted by two loving mommas and be part of the solution that ends the fear and stigma that still, to this day, surrounds gay adoption. One can only hope, right?

Reawakening Our Core Being

"Authenticity is a collection of choices that we have to make every day. It's about the choice to show up and be real. The choice to be honest. The choice to let our true selves be seen." ― Brené Brown

The authenticity Brené Brown speaks about in the above quote is all about choices, and these choices (for me) wasn't attainable until I came into an understanding of who I was, the knowing and the unknowing parts, in search of my core being.

So many of us go through life without being aware our true self is overshadowed by our wounded self, and it can send a false notion that we need "fixing," that something must be wrong with us, that we are broken in some way.

Why?

Because somewhere—along life's path—the need to express and feel and be in touch with our emotions was, in some way, conditioned out of us by traumatic events, especially if these events stemmed from childhood.

Subconsciously, negative defense mechanisms can develop and become part of our personality, but in reality, it isn't the way we heal. Instead, we lose touch with our core being. Our inner growth is stifled. And our own passions and creativity are shielded.

While many factors contribute to the development of negative defense mechanisms, one of the ones I'd locked away from my childhood was the effects of being bullied.

I am the second oldest girl of fourteen siblings. We were known as one of the poorest families in our small community. There were times we barely had enough money for food, let alone brand-name clothing or footwear. Suffice it to say, I didn't fit the "norm"—especially at school—and often fell prey to ridicule and bullying.

In the tender and formative years of my life, my brain had already wired itself to be a certain way: I suffered from low self-esteem, I was an underachiever in school, and I'd trust issues. But being the strong-willed kid that I was, I grew a thick skin and moved on with life. (Or so I thought.)

The ramifications from my bullies by no means left me unscathed in adulthood. For years, the sting of their words continued to play havoc on my self-esteem, shaping the way I saw the world, myself, and my relationships. The "thick skin" of my youth had now become impenetrable, not just from the outside but from the inside as well. So, if I wasn't allowing others in or allowing my inner core to be seen, how could I possibly be authentic?

Around my mid-forties, I began to question the pathway of my existence. On the surface, I was blessed with a great life, but there was a longing in my soul—a gnawing ache that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

I'd no idea how God would mysteriously move in my life when my daughter presented me with the book "The Purpose Driven Life: What On Earth Am I Here For," by Rick Warren. In fact, it was so life-altering, it became the springboard that eventually led me to Christ.

Amazingly enough, through God's love and forgiveness, the walls that once shielded me ultimately became the doorway back to the authenticity of my core being. And, in turn, life has handed me a gift: The sensitivity toward those who are bullied and ridiculed and discriminated against. The deepest and truest parts of who I am today.

The hurts we endure become like dark clouds that move in and out of our lives, clouds that (at times) become so heavy they rain tears of sadness upon us. But as we begin to slowly process and let go of those dark places, rays of sunshine will pierce through, offering us hands of hope for the future; a future where our truest self has reawakened and is no longer fearful of being seen.

There’s Two Sides to Every Coin

"I'm gay." Words that shattered our dreams and shook us to the core—words powerful enough to burst our daughter's closet wide open and yet words distressing enough to send Derick and me into the closet.

That was over a decade ago, now. Since then society, including many Christians, have softened their outlook toward homosexuality. And while acceptance still generates division among churches, families, and communities, in many aspects, our approach with one another is more respectful today.

Over the years Derick and I'd heard and read both inspiring and heartwrenching stories about youth coming out, about how their parents had reacted. Not all parents went into the closet as we did. Not all dealt with faith issues from a Christian perspective like our family had. Some LGBTQ were estranged and homeless, some had suicidal thoughts, and unfortunately, some ended their life.

While stories influence us and make us feel less alone, they empower us to share our story as well.

So after much reflection, I share a fragment of our families narrative—not to debate who's right or wrong—but to speak openly and honestly about our once "secret" homophobia, and to reveal how the fault lines of our beliefs had severe consequences in the way we handled our daughter's coming out.

You see, we held an oversimplified view on homosexuality, formulated by pieces of information we'd gathered from the secular world as well as the Christian world. So we had no reason to believe otherwise: that it was merely a result of a dysfunctional society, or worse, sin and abomination in the eyes of God.

But our world soon stopped on its axis when we saw the face of it in our own home. We questioned: How could our daughter be a lesbian? We'd raised her in a loving home. And more so, how could she be an abomination? On the contrary, her spirit exuded beauty, even in the midst of struggle. We wondered what our friends and families would think, what our church would think, what the future held for her/us now? And could she be both gay and Christian?

This new reality plopped us smack dab in the middle of the homosexuality debate, bombarding us with questions and opinions that we were ill-equipped to handle. To say we needed a more in-depth understanding of this issue was an understatement, yet our simplified view remained intact, at least for a while. So we aimed to pray the gay away. We attempted to threaten the gay away. We even bargained with God. However, God changed nothing—except our heart, an awakening that, ultimately, altered our stance.

Inside the "changing" walls of our closet, we grieved our losses, but the homophobic mindset had dissipated. In fact, we found ourselves on the opposite side of the coin, where homophobic slurs were now like daggers through our heart. Therefore, around most of our friends, especially in our church and workplace environment, we avoided the topic of homosexuality, which, in some sense, caused us to live a double life until it finally took its toll on us. Ironically, the painful and humbling experience gave us a brief understanding of what our daughter had endured.

In retrospect when she came out, Derick and I had each other to lean on. Whereas for years she felt compelled to hide in a closet of fear and loneliness, trapped inside a fake identity. As parents, we shoulder some guilt for her ordeal. Consequently, the homophobic undertones of our actions and words hadn't created a safe space for our child to come out.  But to save herself, to be innately at peace with who she was and is, even at the risk of losing her family, she burst out of her closet, anyway. After all, if you can’t be yourself, at some point, it not only becomes a mental impairment for helping others but puts the individual in an unhealthy state of being as well. (At least that was the case for our daughter and, to a lesser extent, for us, too.)

While we don't pretend to have all the answers on this delicate topic, through tears and disagreements, we are thankful that our family found forgiveness and acceptance and unconditional love on the flip side. It has transformed us, no doubt. So much so that we are not only advocates for LGBTQ rights but for ALL who are marginalized.

Whatever side of the coin we find ourselves on, though, we must treat one another with love and respect. Also, if your child has come out, I implore you to keep the lines of communication open. Because while it brings much freedom for them, the exposure to discrimination and stigma will be at the forefront of their lives, as such, they will need their family more than ever.

A wise man once said: "Be humble. Stay humble. Never think you are better than the person sitting next to you because everyone has something to offer that you can't." Such great advice to keep in mind when debating this evolving issue, isn't it? 

The Twisted Post

At the end of our daughter's driveway sits a cluster of mature cedars, a once stagnate piece of property, now transformed into a magical tree house setting for our six-year-old grandson, Thatcher (T). What if we were able to change the stagnate parts of our world into something extraordinary as well?

Each day after school, excitement filled the air as T bolted down the driveway to greet his Pap and inspect the tree house progress. In his little world, the tree house represented a big wood LEGO project, and those daily interactions were often priceless. But none was more precious than the day he picked up the level and began to shake it vigorously. "What's this used for, Pap? And why does the bubble move back and forth?"

Derick playfully wrested the level from T's hand and lodged it up against a nearby post. "See how the bubble sits in the middle? This one is considered to be a perfect post to build on." 

 "Huh, okay Pap."

Now our grandson tends to be a bit obsessive when he learns something new. So this new-found "bubble in the middle" revelation sent him on a mission, where he lunged from post to post, to make sure all had passed the test. But it wasn't long before he spun around and yelled, "Oh no, Pap! This post is twisted! The bubble isn't in the middle! You have to get rid of it!"  

"Yes, I agree this post is different from the other ones, Kiddo. But I decided to build around it because, well, it's sturdy and remains an important part of the solid foundation. Besides, it'll add character and uniqueness to your tree house."  

A valuable teaching/learning moment that day perhaps helped our grandson better understand the concept that—in the (grand) scheme of things—being different is okay.

Imagine what life would be like if we lived by the principle that although we are different from one another (or don't fit a particular mold), we can still be a pillar of strength and character, built into a foundation of inclusiveness. 

Unfortunately, though, throughout history, humanity (including inside the walls of religion) has struggled with this view of "perceived" perfection. And while my tree house story is light-hearted, some of life's teaching moments aren't. 

Take the biblical account of the religious leaders who denounced Christ, for example. To them, He was seen as a threat to their power, a false prophet, not worthy of the religious rite that they had perfected. Primarily, He was seen as a twisted post, spreading a different message forward for God, effectively putting their foundation off level.

Christ had tilted the bubble of the religious leaders so far off center that they started to plot against him, instead of building around Him, eventually pushing the ruler of the times to crucify Him, so that they could remain inside a non-inclusive and unchangeable bubble. It was indeed a historical teaching moment because Christ's resurrection burst their view of God, wide open.

In reality, Christ became the only perfect corner post of the Christian faith, and His life story reminds us that if we choose to follow him, we become the "light of the world." In other words, we become the way the world sees God. But yet, we remain divided. And the thing is, whether our conflicting views fall left or right of center, divisive rhetoric has never generated light in the world. Instead, it fuels hatred. 

Christ, on the other hand, taught us to show patience when dealing with our differences; He taught us to show kindness and mercy, to look after the poor, to control our anger, and to recognize that the Kingdom of God has a place for ALL who sincerely seek it. 

As Christians, we envision our stagnate divisive world transformed into one of beauty, through the extraordinary teachings of Christ. After all, He provides us with the tools to build unity, right? 

So let’s continue to be twisted and stretched, to allow our light to remain a representation of His goodness. In turn, we may add to His foundation—one twisted post at a time—through the people we impact.

The Long Goodbye

"The long goodbye" originated from the former first lady, Nancy Reagan, regarding her husband's long battle with Alzheimer's. Many caregivers and their families have since used this phrase when describing their journey with dementia because the roadmap forward is very vague and unique to the individual travelers.

I write on this dedicate topic not to minimizes its prognosis in any way, but in hopes of bringing some level of comfort and awareness to those who may find themselves engulfed by dementia's emotional rollercoaster. And my approach is twofold : (1) To share a piece of what I've witnessed throughout my own experiences. (2) To help others recognize the role grief and loss contributes in the long goodbye.

Having worked with dementia patients throughout my career in long-term care, as well as having witnessed a dear friend's life unfold with this illness, gave me a firsthand look into the different degrees of losses and grief that were present for caregivers and their families. And although its progression varied from person to person—depending on which type was diagnosed (the most common form being Alzheimer's), I'd not witnessed any loss more painful than the loss of normalcy in their interactive relationships.

For instance, impairment progression brings with it immense changes and challenges to one's personality such as confusion and bouts of agitation, which can become physically and emotionally taxing for everyone involved, in particular, the spouse. On the positive side: These relational changes usually happen over time, with many periods of normalcy in between.

However, due to the unpredictability of this illness, it's impossible to know what yours or your loved one's experiences will be like.

For me, unlike when I worked with patients in the latter stages of dementia, where they were severely impaired, and full-time care was required, I was involved right from the get-go with my friend's prognosis. For the first five years, there was hardly any change in our relationship. Furthermore, even when his memory did decline (because of our thirty-two-year history together), I was fortunate enough to be able to help him piece together positive events from his past, where he and I'd often found commonality and laughter.

During impairment progression, reverting to the past more so than living in the present is not an uncommon occurrence for your loved one, nor is it unusual for a significant other to want to keep them attached to the present—as such we are always adapting our communicative approach. And sharing memories through this communicative approach is one of the treasures in the long goodbye, for the reason that memories are the foundation of who we are; therefore, the positive ones need to be cherished as a precious gift.  

Think about it: Who better to bring shared memories into the present for your loved one than you. Whether that's helping them navigate their own or whether you are the voice that carries the conversation for them, your memories will always be the love connection that binds.

Unfortunately, though, there will be other times when dementia—like a thief in the night—will rob valuable pieces of your loved one's past, leaving you grieving over the relationship that once was.

And while grief is a personal experience, and everyone will cope with it differently, at their own pace, it's important to understand that grief is very much a healthy and natural response to the many painful losses you will experience on this journey. Don't be afraid to permit yourself to grieve, because (all too often) grief gets misunderstood and overlooked, causing emotions to mask beneath the day-to-day challenges, which can become unhealthy for one's well-being.

Last but not least: Be kind to yourself. Don't try and make the journey alone. Lean on the people you trust as well as seek professional help when/where you need it. Also, reach out to others who have gone through similar experiences. No doubt your "long goodbye" is unique, but you will be surprised how much your stories will have in common.