The Common Volcano

We like to keep up with celebrities. Most of us, anyway. We like to know about their personal lives...who are they married to? Where were they born? What kind of childhood did they have? We sympathize and relate and try to personalize them as much as possible because it's fun to have something in common with a famous person.

I have the same birthday as Rob Lowe, Gary Sinise, Kurt Russell, Mia Hamm, and Nat King Cole.

I was born in Texas...just like Beyonce, Patrick Swayze, Dennis and Randy Quaid, Luke and Owen Wilson, Forest Whitaker, and many more.

I also share some of the same struggles as some celebrities. I had endometriosis like Julianne Hough, Jillian Michaels, Padma Lakshmi, and many more.

It's cool to share something personal with a person in the lime light. Unless what you're sharing isn't cool at all.

Like Tyler Perry, Oprah Winfrey, Terry Hatcher, Queen Latifah, Drew Carey, Tatum O'Neal, and too many more, I was sexually abused as a child. This is not something anyone likes to share. But it's something we need to talk more about.

I was sexually abused from the age of 2 until I told at the age of 10. After I told, my world went into a kind of dream-like status until I was able to adjust and feel "normal". But recently, normal hasn't been cutting it. I wasn't told any details of what happened after this came to light. My parents thought they were protecting me. Their hearts were in the right place and they DID protect from a lot of the shrapnel that fell out. But I didn't FEEL protected. I didn't know they were doing anything about it. It was a difficult time for everyone involved and, for my brothers, sister, mom and dad, they just wanted me to never have to deal with it again. They couldn't know that, by not talking about it and dealing with it to my face, it would lay burried like a waiting volcano inside of me.

It recently erupted.

I'm 38 years old now. Shouldn't this all be in the past? Shouldn't I be over it? Not even close. I have nightmares, flashbacks, body-memories, and good old fashioned crying jags. My husband and children and friends have cushioned themselves around me to soften my blows and to reassure me that it's not too late to "fix" this inside of me.

I know there are more of you out there. Talk to me.

onceuponahousewife@gmail.com

I'm the kind of gal who keeps things in the light...out in the open...where Satan hates it. I don't mind sharing my journey and I hope it's encouraging and helpful to somebody out there.

I start therapy one week from today. I'll let you know how it goes.

Doing Christmas

Christmas. Bah humbug! Not really...but sometimes it's so overwhelming that I consider canceling it altogether. As if I could. But what if I could?! What if we could have a winter break from school and work that DIDN'T involve mad-dashes to the Dollar Store to buy gifts for kids' classes and teachers and whoever else the kids forgot to tell us needs gifts? A break that still focused on our Jesus, but NOT on bringing thousands of tinsel-laden objects in from the shed and filling the house with more clutter than was there before? What if there was a way to discontinue the greedy looks in the kids' eyes when they discover a new this-and-that to add to their Santa Wishlist?

Who am I kidding? It's not even about all that above. I'm just tired. I'm tired of everything having to be a little more perfect during the Christmas season. There must be Christmas-themed television programs that I have to find, preview, record and have ready that pleases EVERYONE. There have to be decorations that we MAKE, involving purchases, preparation, messes, and clean-up. What about wrapping? So. Sick. Of wrapping. I'm not really sick of it. I'm just tired.

Why do there have to be nightly finance-meetings between husband and wife...trying to figure out how much to spend on each other, each child; and where will we get the money to cover what's already been bought that we weren't planning on?! And, though you don't want it to be about the money, it just is. Every gift I buy falls short of what each receiver deserves. It's enough to make me want to give up. I don't really want to give up. I'm just tired.

And then some old advice pops in my head. "Kim, when you're feeling blue, serve someone." Serve someone? Isn't that what I'm DOING?! I serve meals, laundry, homework, extra this and extra that! I serve! I'm shopping, baking, signing, and arranging like a mad woman! I'm doing Christmas the best I can!

But am I serving...or simply doing? I do what is expected. I do what needs to be done. I do. So, what's the difference?

Well...serving is going the extra mile. It's considering the joy that my "doing" may bring to those I'm doing for. It's finding the Christmas movies on t.v. and then sitting down to watch them WITH the kids...watching their faces and listening to them laugh. It's finding something funny in those mad-dashes to the store that is creating a memory for each of my children to look back on in their Christmases to come. It's making decorating the house more about MAKING the mess than WORRYING about it. Letting the kids decorate so that they own these moments is more of a joy than worrying about vacuuming up every silver strand that covers the floor. It's about getting creative with the kids' letters to Santa. So, we don't have the money to buy these things....how else can we make their dreams gleam on Christmas morning?!

Doing is...well...doing. Serving is GIVING. It's giving the one thing everyone in my house wants most. Me. They want me to smile and enjoy this Holiday Season with them. It doesn't matter how many gifts rest beneath the perfectly decorated tree if I'm grumpy. It doesn't matter how many snow-flake cookies are iced and delivered to classrooms if I don't stay and enjoy the children I baked them for. They want me.

Moms, if it kills me, I'm going to do it this year. I'm going to ENJOY this Christmas...and that's my gift to my family.

Scar-Light Scar-Bright

This is my friend Emily. She's 16 years old; loves marching with the flag corp in her high school band; holds straight-A's in all her classes (honors classes!); is active in her church youth group; loves to do community theatre; babysits my children with expertise; and smiles 99% of the time. A few months ago, Emily was in a car accident. She was in the front passenger seat, which took the brunt of the crash. She was pinned in for over an hour and a half. Remembering conversations she heard from the paramedics and firemen cutting her out, she knows they didn't have much hope for her survival.

After being care-flighted to a hospital in Little Rock, she remembers hearing more conversations from doctors and nurses as they assessed her wounds. If she made it through any of the urgent and necessary surgeries, she would surely not walk.

After the first several surgeries and the first few weeks, walking was a possibility. But she could hear the whispers and knew that her right leg may never be able to hold weight again. Walking would mean a walker or brace for the rest of her life.

Emily is 16 years old. She is beautiful. She's been complimented on her beautiful legs all her life. You know those girls we all love to hate who have those perfect legs? That was Emily. Never immodest or boastful, it was just a fact that her legs were awesome. Were awesome.

Emily's pelvis was broken; her legs had around 50 fractures, with breaks that had bones sticking out of her legs at odd places and angles; her right foot was so swollen and misshapen the doctors couldn't accurately assess the damage for several weeks. Her wounds were so raw, she had to be constantly hooked up to a wound-vac, which would suck her wounds clean every few minutes (this made an offensive sound which would cause embarrassment anytime someone was visiting her).

Emily was finally able to come home. She has a cute upstairs bedroom all decked out in girly-girl 16-year-old style. She hasn't seen her room since before the wreck though. The family room has been her bedroom now. It's been curtained off for a semblance of privacy, but curtains do little to shelter Emily from the life going on all around her. She spent the first several weeks at home in her hospital bed, her mom sleeping on the daybed beside her, either asleep or in pain. Even in sleep, there was pain and traumatic nightmares from her emotional injuries.

Her friends came to see her often...to tell her how cool marching band was; how this and that had taken place in so-in-so's class; and even to complain to Emily about their own dramas. Emily has always been the best friend with the most encouragement to give...she's been the shoulder to cry on and the strong arms that have carried her friends through their teen-angst. This seemed to still be expected of her.

Whenever anyone drew back the curtain and entered the makeshift bedroom, Emily would paint on a smile and endure hugs and visits...because she is determined to make everyone feel comfortable.

Emily is 16-years-old. At this age, girls don't talk of thinks like passing gas, bowel movements, or shaving unmentionable areas. Emily's life had taken a wrong turn however, and now she was equipped with a porta-potty beside her hospital bed and all manner of medications and apparatus in the room around her for all to see when they'd stop in for a hello. And, yet, this seemed to amuse Emily more than anyone else.

After more weeks of working through pain, Emily was able to maneuver around in a wheel chair. Where did she go? To her high school Homecoming, of course. She cared more for her friends than for herself that night. She couldn't join in all the regular activities, but cheered her friends on all the same.

She also attended a Halloween party...dressed as a marathon runner!

Her right foot began to finally heal, though the process has been very slow and painful.

Emily has fought through months of painful physical therapy to overcome all the odds. The swelling in her right foot went down enough for surgery; and then was even able to be put into a walking-boot. She cannot walk on it...yet! But she's not giving up. Against all the doctor's predictions, she is not only walking now (with the help of a scooter), but she is already flexing her right foot with plans of walking into her high school to join regular classes in January.

What does Emily say about her once-perfect-legs now? She owns every scar. She sees them as proof of her survival and she dares anyone to see them as anything less than beautiful. Isn't that how we should all feel? Don't we all have scars? Even stretch-marks...from beautiful births. We should own them. They are proof of survival. Just as Jesus' scars are proof of our redemption. Scars and beautiful.

Emily is still beautiful. More so, I believe, than ever before. By the way, even doing her honors classes from home with no help, she's maintaining her A-average. She's still giving her friends good advice. She's still attending church on Sunday mornings. Emily has changed only for the better since this accident. She told me it's a choice. No one and nothing can make your life miserable but you. And miserable is something Emily will never be.

Togo

Mark and I left the next morning without the children! Maggie, Phoenix, and Luke stayed at Grandmother and Granddad's house for the first time by themselves! Yikes!

We headed to Minnesota. It took us all day, but we finally arrived at Flaming Pines! Who's been?

I can't tell much about this camp because I was suffering from a little migraine that night (Probably from all the blubbering I did after leaving our babies behind). But I can say that I enjoyed meeting up with my cousins Paul and Robin! Woo-Hoo!

Mark spent a great evening with not only prospective students, but with quite a few who are already enrolled to come this Fall!

IT'S GREAT TO BE AT HARDING!!

Brighton

Our next stop was Midwest Bible Camp (MWBC). But, on our way, we drove through St. Louis. Mark knew of a cool transportation museum and wanted to show the kids, but we were pressed for time. We went ahead and stopped and just enjoyed all the neat items outside instead of taking a tour. It was fun!

Next was Brighton, Iowa. Who's been to MWBC? This is the camp Mark grew up going to and being a part of. Maggie will go next summer! It was a lot of fun. (And a shout-out to Laura and Molly...my Iowa peeps!)

We enjoyed "playing" with old friends and then listening to Mark's talk.

(Everyone who's ever been a part of MWBC knows my husband is a legend for singing "Low Budget"...these young campers requested a private performance. :)






After camp, we drove to Muscatine where we met up with Mark's parents at church and enjoyed their VBS!

Finally we got to go to Nichols and spend the night with Granddad and Grandmother. We were so ready for a comfortable bed!

IT'S GREAT TO BE AT HARDING!!

Rolla

This summer, the kids and I got to go with Mark on his Mammoth Trip. Every year, he travels through "his" states recruiting for Harding. The kids and I went this year and had a blast! Part-way through the trip, we dropped the kids off in Iowa at Mark's parents' house and he and I went on by ourselves. It was a trip full of adventure!

Our first stop was Little Prairie Bible Camp in Rolla, Missouri. Who's been? I never had. It was a nice place full of nice people. The minute we opened our car doors and stepped into the heat, we almost melted. It was a grueling 116 degrees (at 6:00 in the evening)!

Despite the heat, however, Mark was in his element. He jumped right in and started playing a little b-ball (knock-out!) with the campers.

While he played, we sat in front of a gigantic fan and tried to stay cool. (Thanks, Josh, for the popsicles!!)

We were surprised when Mark was asked to lead chapel, which he did very well. I began to appreciate my husband anew and see a side of him I don't often get to see.

IT'S GREAT TO BE AT HARDING!!

Romance vs. Reality (Part One)

Is it just me, or are things often better read than experienced? For example, dancing in the rain. This sounds so poetic, dreamy, beautiful...and if it's the perfect rain on a perfect day (i.e., warm, light rain, no wind, etc) then it actually is very nice. But, most of the time, dancing in the rain means getting soaked, having to change clothes and warm up, and then frizzy hair. This is romance verses reality.

I am a writer. I actually love to write the romance view to extremes. I, in fact, am a romantic at heart. However this can be a huge roadblock in enjoying real life. I'm not talking about the Harlequin paperbacks that lead one to believe that all women are perfectly shaped and all men are rascals until their eyes fall on that perfect woman...and then they're reformed and wonderful, bla bla bla. No...surely we all know that's hooey.

I'm talking about how we word things, or more how we see things. I like to read about other people's experiences. Yay for modern technology...FaceBook, Blogspot, etc... I am able to see into others lives in ways that I never could before. Yes. I am nosy. Well, more to the point, I'm interested. And I get caught up in reading about how so-n-so went to the beach and laid on a soft towel, soaked up the sun, read three novels, and relaxed wonderfully.

I start thinking, I want to go to the beach!! But do I? I mean, yes it's fun. But I need to think about the reality of it...the sand that gets in those oh-so-uncomfortable places; the sunburns; the heat; did I mention the sand? Add that into the experience and it becomes reality. Still a great vacation...but not so "perfect" see?

The same can be said for camping. The fresh air, the scenery, nature...ah! AND, the bugs, the critters, the lack of plumbing.....

Taking this a bit deeper, I seem to "romance" other families. I see how "perfect" some families are. The children are well-behaved; the mom is smiling and trim and stylish; the dad is present and happy and ironed. How do they do it?!

In reality, they do it with a lot of hard work! The mom has to catch up on sleep every chance she gets and pray a lot to keep that smile on her face. The stylish clothes come from hard work and penny-pinching. The children are well-behaved because of many disciplinary moments...many crying and arguing moments...many fit-throwing moments. The dad is present because he has learned to sacrifice and re-prioritize. He had to get up and iron his own shirt this morning, but did it because he knows his wife needed those few extra minutes to sleep. That's the reality of it.

I don't really know what my point is....this is me just rambling and sharing thoughts I haven't organized yet. But, for those of us romantics out there, life can get depressing if we don't force ourselves to take off the rose-colored glasses and see things as they really are. We romantics are often afraid to do that because giving up the dream of wanting things to be perfect might mean finally realizing things are NOT.

What I've pleasantly found is that the not-perfect world is so much more likeable!!