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What Are We Wading For?

Our family was on vacation recently on the Gulf Coast of Florida. I love the beach, but I particularly love the Gulf Coast. The powder white sand is as gentle as snow flurries and the clear blue water takes my breath away. North Carolina beaches are fun for body surfing and boogie boarding, but the Gulf Coast waters just scream out “come in for a swim.” Why? Because the water is calm and clear so we can see what we are getting ourselves into.

We have all said to ourselves at one time or another that if we only knew what to expect next or what the future holds, life would be easier. The age old questions of what next and when next? The Gulf Coast clear blue water invites us to dive deep with all our might. I watched people kayak out so far they were barely larger than ants to the naked eye. People swam out farther than they could stand, climbed on floats and drifted gently with the surf. Carefree; because they knew what the immediate future held. They could see it before it came. They could retreat or remain adrift. In North Carolina most people stay about waist deep in the water, if that far. We have all stepped on too many fish, been tangled in seaweed or fishing line, and had too many “who knows what in the world that was” nip at our legs in the dark pounding surf to wade out very far. The North Carolina coastal waters hold secrets. It could be the desired fish lingering near bait we have cast into the waves or it could be the stingray we have seen pictures of and never wanted to see in person. It might be the perfect safe water we want, but we only wade in knee deep just because we see a reflection of what might be or might have been.

I began to see a striking parallel in life as I watched people along the Gulf Coast. The water that reaches the sand in North Carolina and the panhandle of Florida ultimately all comes from the same source, yet our approach is entirely different. In life we often timidly face our future based on our past. We’ve all been hurt at an unexpected time in an unexpected way and our defenses stay in protective mode for far too long. We’ve experienced losses of people, of jobs, of homes, of friendships or of our health and unconsciously we retreat. If our future was clear, clean and transparent, we would sprint forward and dive in, head first.

The source of life is always the same. God allows our first breath and He remains the source of our breath until He doesn’t allow it anymore. Yet we want to take control. Our instinct is to insist on holding the reigns and steering into a known path. In the same beautiful vision of our toes in the water on the Gulf Coast, God sees our toes in any water, even when they sink into the polluted muddy shores of Lake Norman. Why do we find it so hard to trust His perfect eyes and the plan that has been filtered through our Creator’s hands? How many times must He refine us before we sprint in, dive in deeper than we can stand and just float on His promises?

I don’t have the answer, but I want to be a person who can completely trust Him to guide me into waters he has cleaned for me, or promises He will cleanse for me. I want to be a person who knows it is better to give back the reigns that were never mine to try to grasp. I want to face life with the same confidence that we walk into the Gulf Coast water, knowing that the one who gave me my first breath will bring me through harsh currents and rip tides until I can carelessly remain adrift, floating on His promises from Romans 8:28 “to work everything for the good of those that love Him”.

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Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, July 2013

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Looks the same, Doesn’t work the same

Frustration. It comes and goes. It comes less frequently now, but when it arrives, its head is ugly and upsetting. My definition of a brain injury is that everything looks the same, but it doesn’t work the same.

I challenged myself this week to step outside my comfort zone and try something different. There are so many things I want to do but I know I’m not cut out for the task so I step aside. Other times I feel like I need to try, to push my limits and see where the line is drawn. I’m usually ok in a group to do just about anything. With a group, when I get confused there is always someone to help me, someone to cover for me, or someone that knows I might just need a little extra time or instruction. When I’m on my own, it’s all me.

This week I took a bold step to volunteer at church to help at VBS. Justin is working games, Hunter is helping lead worship, and the mom in me finds it hard to drop the boys off, with 300+ kids, and not try to help. Sometimes I feel guilt telling me I don’t help enough, sometimes I hear a voice just begging me to try. So this week I tried. Monday went ok. I couldn’t be there Tuesday so yesterday I was back in my assigned place. All was going fine until I was asked to change gears and help fill in a spot where more help was needed. The age group was bulging at the seams and they asked me to help with their snacks and crafts. Ah…..

Ok, to start with I simply don’t do crafts. It’s not in my genes. When I was in the Elementary church choir my mom had to make my own costume. I will never forget her telling me to lie down very still on the fabric while she traced my body on the fabric. She doubled it over and cut the fabric along the lines and sewed the two pieces together. My belt was a shoe string. I thought my costume was fantastic…until I showed up to dress rehearsal and saw everyone else’s costumes. Clearly my mother and I yielded ALL creative ability to my Uncle and his children, as they are artistically gifted in monumental portions and we are not.

Back to VBS…when I was asked to help elsewhere, everything in my servant heart wanted to, but the immediate swelling in my throat and rushed heart beat was screaming NO! How do I look at someone and say “I can’t”? They won’t understand me, I look able bodied but I knew as my brain began spinning inside my head this could not end well. I explained that I would try, and a gentle but confused face met my comment. My brain kept spinning and wondering what to do. I saw Justin and asked him for help. How desperate must I be? I’m 39 years old asking my 14 year old what to do in the face of a simple request to change direction? I felt like the 3 year olds who needed more help. Justin was sincere but stern “Mom, you can’t do that. You have to tell someone you can’t.” Oh, how I hate these moments when I can sense the physical symptoms emerging from the darkness of a brain injury and I know I have met my limit. I know I look the same, but things don’t work the same anymore.

I was alone. I wasn’t with a group that could explain, I wasn’t with a group that could cover for me and I wasn’t with a group that could pick up my slack. The people around me don’t know my brain has been hurt and I hate having to say it. I had to look at someone who hardly knows me and just say “I’m sorry but I really can’t do this.” Our world doesn’t understand adults who can’t pull their load, especially when the world can’t see it. No one is at fault, no one means harm, it’s just that no one expects a capable looking adult to say “I’m sorry but no.” With all my strength I spoke up for myself and felt completely useless as I walked away knowing there was a need that I couldn’t fulfill. My heart ached that I couldn’t help but I knew the increasing stress was going to lead to the public embarrassment of a seizure. I looked around and the noise of the kids echoed, the busy adults overwhelmed me. I felt like I was in a fog at the center of a carnival ride. I felt invisible, useless and helpless in the midst of need. I couldn’t help where help was needed and feeling demoralized by admitting my inadequacies, I slipped out the side door to the safety of my car and I drove away.

I stepped outside my comfort zone this week. Some of it was successful and in other places I know where the line is drawn. I have to be proud that at least I tried. I will try again, something different, somewhere different, and hope that I will find a place were I can say “yes, I can help with that”.

Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, June 2013

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Anniversaries

Anniversaries… dates that we recall for some special reason. Typically I think we relate anniversaries to celebrations. Often they are attached to sad or traumatic events. Whether the occasion marks happiness or sadness I think it’s worthy of recognition.

As this week passed, the 5 month anniversary of my Grandmother’s death passed. As I look forward to the weekend our family will remember the 75th anniversary of my Grandparent’s wedding. For the last 17 years this date has passed and she could only look back to the years they spent together. This year, at long last, I find comfort and peace that on their Diamond Anniversary my dear Emmer and Weed are reunited. He has been gone for many years now, but she still talked of how she would awaken in the night and try to be quiet so she wouldn’t disturb Weed’s sleep. Then she would realize he wasn’t there. Night after night, month after month, for 17 long years, she never got used to living without her groom. This year, this special year, on their Diamond Anniversary, we can all celebrate that young love has been rediscovered.

After 5 months I still miss Emmer. I still think about her at 9:15 every morning and often reach for the phone to call and wake her up. Sometimes I replay saved voicemails so I can just hear her strong voice. I wonder who has taken her weekly Wednesday 10:30 hair appointment. In the same way that her daily routine revolved around what she was doing with me, my daily routine revolved around what I was doing with her.

Adjustments and a gracious learning curve…that is the gift I have given myself over the last 5 months. Emmer used to have a saying when anyone hit a bump in the road. “It’s not an arm or a leg so we move on” and she would sort of shrug her shoulders. I’ve repeated that to myself many times. I’ve wondered what she might say to me if she could speak to me now. You know, I think she would say the same exact thing. I haven’t lost an arm and I haven’t lost a leg (though sometimes it may have felt like it) so I must remain grateful in ALL things, for all that I DO have. I must remain grateful for the years and life that I had with Emmer. I must glean from those years all that I can and then press on. In her 97 years she said goodbye to a LOT of treasured and dear friends. I watched her weep in loss and heartache and then laugh and reminisce.

Memories have carried me through darker days and her unique sense of humor has carried me into brighter days. What’s next? It’s always the million dollar question no matter where you are in life. My life has already defied many odds. My Grandmother lived past 97, my Mother is a leukemia survivor and I live with epilepsy everyday. “It’s not an arm or a leg” and I can’t imagine that God has washed His hands of me yet.

Heartache is heartache, no matter the cause. In hindsight, I can share of so many things I learned through epilepsy and my brain injury. Everyone in my family experienced heartache during those first few years. I know that was part of God’s plan for gaining insight I would need later in my life as I became Emmer’s constant companion. When my injuries forced me to walk away from my career, I couldn’t imagine what God what do with me. I was heartbroken. He mended my broken heart and made me stronger. He has taught me great lessons in this heartache. He has been mending my brokenness and He will beckon me to His next purpose for my life.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.”(Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, NIV)

So as we pass through a week marked with noteworthy anniversaries, I choose to focus on the celebration of reunions, the valuable lessons of heartache and the seasons of life God sees us through.

Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, June 2013

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…and Finally Going

God has been working on me, with me, and carrying me. His presence is evident to me in more ways than I can count. Honestly, sometimes the lessons are coming at me so fast and furious that it almost causes me to shut down because it’s more than I can swallow.

Easter came and went and we made it. I have been counting down the days until Mother’s Day, anxious for it to arrive and anxious to get through it. This was always Emmer’s special day where we rearranged our day to be with her however she wanted. With three generations of Moms now at two, it fell on my shoulders and Mom’s shoulders to decide how to celebrate Mother’s Day, which included remembering all that Emmer was and will continue to be through our lives.

The weatherman predicted rain, but as usual, he was wrong. It was a gorgeous day with sunshine and just the right amount of wind to keep it cool. Johnny grilled fabulous pineapple teriyaki burgers and shrimp skewers while we munched on Emmer’s favorite cheese straws. We topped off dinner with Hershey’s golden nuggets. For all who knew Emmer, I suspect you have already pictured in your head the small delicate gold basket that always held just a few chocolates which she always offered anytime you visited. We made it, and I think when I fell into bed Sunday night I finally felt myself exhale.

Yesterday I felt like I was ready to turn the page to a new chapter and take another step forward. Moving past Mother’s Day had given me strength. Running has been my “go-to” for almost 9 years. But I hadn’t run since Christmas. I had been out of town and then Emmer got sick. After she died, for a lot of reasons, I just didn’t want to run. Life and a busy sports schedule are keeping me at the ballpark every Saturday and the road had no appeal. A bit of fear about a seizure while running alone was creeping in as well. In my Mom’s ever so subtle way of encouraging me to run again she gave me a new pair of running shoes for Mother’s Day. Yesterday I decided my shoes needed breaking in. I laced them up and put on my new running shirt Mom bought me from the Boston Marathon Store on Boylston just a week after the bombings. I headed out the back door and hit start on my watch. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. After about a half mile it began to feel a bit familiar. My goal wasn’t speed and it wasn’t distance. My goal was to just get the feel of the pavement. A little over 3 miles later I was back home. My shoulders felt a bit lighter and I think I may have been standing a little taller as I walked down the driveway cooling off.

I won’t promise myself or anyone else that I will be on the road today, but in time I will have the strength and the desire to return to regular programming. Yesterday’s run was a step in that direction. Grieving, growing, grooming, and now finally going. I’m not going to rush anything, because that accomplishes nothing. I’m taking my time, learning as I move forward and making sure that I take steps forward in my time the way that I need to. Emmer was a tremendous source of strength for me. Her loss is huge but I’m learning each day how to channel her strength and use it to propel me forward.

Grieving, growing, grooming and going. One day at a time, one step at a time. It’s all progress.

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Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, May 2013

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It’s About Perspective

Sitting here on eve of Mother’s Day, I can’t really fathom what tomorrow will feel like without Emmer. I can’t imagine not eating lunch at the Pines. I can’t remember a Mother’s Day that I didn’t spend with my Mom and my Grandmother. We will miss her, no doubt.

I’m finding great joy in knowing that Emmer will celebrate this Mother’s Day with her own Mother! What joy, what joy! I have a feeling of how much she has missed her Mom all these years and I can’t imagine the celebration surrounding their reunion.

As Mom and I continue to figure out life as two generations instead of three, we draw on the strength we were taught from the best. Lunch tomorrow won’t be the same, but in her honor we will enjoy a few of Emmer’s favorite treats and we will celebrate the joy she is experiencing with her own Mom.

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So thankful for a wonderful Mother’s Day Celebration last year!

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Copyright © Gatewood Campbell, May 2013