grace
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Timeline tiptoe
I’m constructing a timeline of what I know about Jake’s life from the past year, ostensibly to gain a better understanding of his mindset leading up to his disappearance, but honestly in order to be doing something.
It’s been hard to just get started; I’m afraid of the grief simmering under my skin, and I’m afraid everything will point to my worst fears. Plus, doing this timeline means making phone calls and connecting with people in Jake’s life; it feels so invasive that I have the urge to tiptoe. Does it do me any good to understand his grieving over the loss of his friend? Does it do him any good for me to understand it? Whatever the case, I’ve found a site that helps me: http://www.whatsyourgrief.com.
This page has given me plenty to noodle on.
Photo Grief might be something I want to explore later, but for now, I’m taking this route: the 30×30 nature challenge.
(We’ll see how that goes, eh.)
A friend delivered flyers to the SD police department today, and she was so touched by the response she received that she called to tell me about it. “I gotta be honest with you, Stacy,” she said. “I fully expected to be brushed aside and have the flyers forgotten on someone’s desk, and frankly, I wondered if this was just a waste of our time. But not only did they not brush me off, they pointed me to the precise person to handle this, and that person was kind and worried for Jake, too!”
I’m thankful for those who have helped, and for those who are praying.
It’s because of these people that I am not this:
No 30-day guarantee here
A lot can happen in thirty days.
We have 30-day guarantees, 30-day cleanses, 30-day health challenges.
One month. The sun has risen, and set, thirty times since I last knew Jake was safe.
Tom and I went to the Rock church in San Diego yesterday. When I realized a football player was going to give his testimony I wanted to be elsewhere. The beach.
I was surprised by how his story resonated in me.
He was interviewed by Miles McPherson, the senior pastor of the church, who also opened it up by talking about 1 Corinthians 1, where Paul states that God uses the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and the weak to shame the strong. (I am particularly intrigued by this: God has chosen the things that are not, that he might nullify the things that are.) What things are not? 
Thinky things are distracting and welcome.
So. The interviewee was Danny Woodhead, and his journey of ups and downs reminded me that God is always working behind the scenes. No one has the big picture. This comforts me (sorry, Danny) because I’m flying in the dark lately.
Later in the bookstore at the Rock, I saw an art print about faith:
Faith is the bird that sings in the dark knowing that dawn will come.
…which reminds me of a song by Bryan Duncan:
Lyrics found here.
The sun rises, all right. Tomorrow will be 31. It rises, and yet it’s dark.
I just want him to be safe, you know.
But I couldn’t ensure that in the days before he disappeared, either. What is it exactly that I think that knowing will accomplish?
28 days into a dark summer
I’m tired. So very.
Jake must be tired–where’s he sleeping?
Did he eat today?
Now, every time I see a homeless person, I think, That’s some mother’s child.
I had compassion before; this is different. Before, I speculated and sympathized. Now I know.
How can I build something good from this?
I’ve started something rough–if you’re interested, you can check out the resource page I’ve started. Just hover your mouse over ‘a little about me‘ in the menu bar near the top of this page. A drop-down menu will show the page I’m working on. (When someone you love goes missing.)
What brings the light
Thank you, Candace Payne, for reminding me that joy in simple things brings the light.
My husband insisted I watch this. I’d ignored it on Facebook because it looked dorky, and actually, it kinda is, but therein lies the charm.
It made me remember to be myself, to pay attention to small things, like talking to a 5-year-old sharing her Disneyland trip for her birthday. She told me about a naked human climbing up into the air, right after she explained about a donkey doing something, and I got confused, and asked, “A naked donkey climbed into the air?”
And she did this:
And all I wanted to do was say other silly things just so I could see that face. Makes me laugh now, just thinking about it. I probably didn’t hear right, but who cares. Listening to her code-switch between Spanish and English made my day. She and her mother were a spot of grace-filled sunshine today.
I can’t cry. It’s like the sorrow is hiding, and now panic hovers on the edges, like not feeling constant sorrow means I’m giving up, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, or what I’m supposed to do because my adult son has vanished and people keep saying the fact that his body hasn’t been found is a good thing.
I get it. But I also wonder if he just did a good job of hiding himself.
I suppose this is where I should tie things up neatly with something light, but
The blog of missing: Day 25
Yesterday started out a little cloudy, but manageable, and then I had an encounter with someone who made me cry. It was nothing monumental; he was just not as kind as he could have been, and since I’m raw these days, it doesn’t take much to undo me. It was the culmination of several unmindful things this person has said to me that was my undoing.
My friend witnessed my distress, and told me, “Just because someone hands you a bag of crap it doesn’t mean you have to keep holding it.” The word picture was perfect; I let it go. Because, y’know, gross.
One day later, we talked about the situation, and when she saw I’d taken her advice, she asked me how I was able to let things go because she was still mad at this guy, and then asked if I could just explain the process I go through.
My reaction:
I always think I should say, The Holy Spirit enables me, or it’s all Jesus.
But I believe it all comes down to conscious choice. I choose what I focus on.
I have the Holy Spirit, which gives me peace and guidance, but I have the choice to shut all that out.
I want to be careful here because I am not a mindless automaton, but the Holy Spirit’s power is a real thing in my life.
I guess it’s a matter of surrender and trust. When I choose the higher path, I’m trusting that I don’t need to retaliate or be bitter.
I can’t figure out how exactly God works in us so that forgiveness and grace becomes part of our regular menu, because frankly, I have forgiven some very hard things that I couldn’t have done without the Holy Spirit. But walking gracefully is a choice. (And if you’ve seen me walk, you know this is a figurative statement!)
I promised her I would blog about it, and I half-suspect she’s asked this as a means of getting my mind off my worries about my son. She wants something practical to try for herself; I don’t know if I can do that yet. This will be a process, I think.
First a disclaimer: I have not let everything go.
And my way of doing it is just that: my way of doing it.
Letting go of something is like getting undressed, only your clothes are disposable.
Off comes the shirt(s) over your head, mussing your hair. Hair shirt! Of course. Because you’re the only one suffering when you hold onto a hurt, right? Into the wastebasket.
The shoes and socks and pants–everything, into the bin.
Just like the process of getting undressed is done one thing at a time, so it goes with letting go of what hurts.
You don’t just jump out of your clothes, and it’s rare that you can just shrug a hurt off.
Not only must you take them off, you must choose where to put them. If you put the clothes into the laundry basket, then you obviously expect to put them back on. So: trash.
My steps:
- Shirt: I take off the first layer by thinking: my stuff or his/hers?
If it’s mine, I own it. (To the best of my ability. Sometimes I get this wrong.)
If it’s the other person’s, I toss it, and move to step 2. - Pants: I seriously consider the other person. What path is this person walking? What’s going on in his/her life that would prompt what s/he did or said?
- Shoes & socks: I put myself in that person’s shoes. How would I feel in similar circumstances?
- How would I want to be treated? Do I want to be forgiven when I’m a jerk? (yes, please. lol)
Dear beloved friend: if you were trying to get my mind off things, you done good. It worked. Thank you.
And I’m going to take time every day to focus on something I have control over. Thank you for that, too.
The blog of missing: Day 23
Today’s a bit of ok. I’m gliding on the surface, not dwelling on what freaks me out. I’m dwelling instead on this:
“Beneath the garments of the world is joy.
A miracle is a gift of light, not a gift of worldly goodies. It shines through the world I see. Each new crack in the scenery tells me there is something else going on behind this play I think I’m in.”
–Hugh Prather, Spiritual Notes to Myself
Beneath the garments of the world. Huh.
I find that incredibly moving.
I was reading back over my journal from the past year, and this date last year I was grieving over the rift in Jake’s and my relationship. Here, incredibly, is what I wrote that holds true right this second, if I could just remember it:
“Here is what I know:
I am not in control here.
He’s God’s, not mine.
I can trust that whatever happens, I will be ok, and so will Jake.
I don’t know where the wind blows. I know tiny human things.”
What finally gave me peace: Matthew 9: 16-17.
Our old relationship could not work. We must be transformed in God’s image.
Last year at a Mother’s Day banquet, a speaker said, “We mothers get in the way because we don’t let go.”
I’m sick with worry for legitimate reasons, yet I recognize he must find his own path without me.
I do not like this place I’m in, Sam I am.
Last year for Mother’s Day, Jake dropped off flowers when I wasn’t home. He told Tom, “Give these to your wife.”
I did laugh. I was delighted to be remembered. He came by! Scowling and sullen, but present, if only for a wee moment.
And when he apologized for the past two and a half years, he just kept bringing me flowers. I’d already forgiven him.
Eventually he got it, I think. I don’t know. I hope so.
More than ever I understand that the past doesn’t matter. Only right now matters. I am in the perfect place. I can’t be anywhere else. I ache with mother empties. I don’t know what’s wrong with my son. But.
Everything’s led here, and if I truly believe God has this, then all is well even in the tumult.
The blog of missing: Day 21
I feel a certain tenderness toward people who witness when grief visits me unexpectedly. Grief is a rude fellow, with no appreciation for proper timing; he gives no figs about propriety in any circumstance that I’ve noticed.
Mostly people look like they feel cornered.
One guy asked about the situation and the minute he heard the catch in my voice he put his hand up and said, “No, no. You don’t have to explain.” Sheer panic in his voice. It’s ridiculously endearing. I don’t know, maybe it should annoy me that I can’t express myself to people, but it really doesn’t. This isn’t about me. It’s about my son.
Tonight I heard that Jake was seen by a woman who visited the Circle K in Imperial. Apparently he (or someone who looks like him) asked to use her phone. She refused, which I understand. Jake’s big, and he may look scruffy.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that she didn’t call the police when she learned he was a reported missing person.
If you’re not directly affected by things like this, it may not really strike you as necessary. You don’t know the anguish. None of us do unless we’re in it. Grace!
I am only able to be in this place because of my husband. He said, “Honey, we don’t know that this was Jake. You have to be prepared for a roller coaster till we find Jake.”
Actually: much longer conversation than that. I was a basket case. I’m getting better at truncation, eh.
So today I was helped by two angels in disguise: both passed out flyers and their paths intersected while they were helping me. Just regular people who give a damn. This is why I have hope. Love will find a way.
ps: I’m on an Amy Grant kick 😛
The blog of missing: Day 20
It’s weird how some things stall you in your writing, and other things rip you wide open.
When my son disappeared 20 days ago, the first report I wrote for law enforcement was three pages long. It had bullet points for easy reading, but still. Three pages. But how can you know how to properly track someone if you don’t know the little things?
It took me several drafts to pare it down to the essentials so I could fit them onto a flyer with his picture.
Along with a physical description:
Missing. Gave all his things away. Call me.
I continue bleeding words onto a page of updates. I don’t know who gives a crap about what steps I’ve taken–I’m not really sure I myself care–but I’m compelled to keep track or I will feel like I’ve done nothing.
The words are a trickle on my Facebook page now, and now, well. Here I am. The list is maybe not so important. But this has substance.
This, I think, is better than sending emails to the ether. Better than Facebook messages to my son that withhold that precious “seen” checkmark. Better than editing the updates page with TO DOs and DONEs.
At 1:06am today I woke with a snap, Jake’s slurred voice in my head saying, “Where are you?”
I got dressed and drove to the house where he was staying before he vanished. Convinced he had spoken to me in a dream, in a stupor, helpless.
Shined a light in the window.
Sniffed around the window and front door for a dead body odor.
I’m not crazy, but that’s crazy behavior. Who sniffs windows?
And why? Dead people don’t slur.
Reminder to Stacy: You have no control over things you can’t control.
In all the encounters I’ve had over the last 20 days, only two have been negative.
One man lectured me via text about children who don’t want to talk to their parents and how we need to accept that. I engaged at first, then realized I don’t care what he thinks he knows.
Another man messaged one of Jake’s friends on Facebook, saying that my son was found living in my basement.
Someone actually did that. Part of me accepts that this is just a dopey person who doesn’t realize how callous that was.
Maybe thinks he’s funny.
The other part…well.
Perhaps he will call me with his theory and we can talk.
It’s only been 20 days.
When does it become valid?
Why does it seem invalid?
I make it by grace.
That’s all.
Grace, by U2
Grace, she takes the blame
She covers the shame
Removes the stain
It could be her name
Grace, it’s the name for a girl
It’s also a thought that changed the world
And when she walks on the street
You can hear the strings
Grace finds goodness in everything
Grace, she’s got the walk
Not on a ramp or on chalk
She’s got the time to talk
She travels outside of karma
She travels outside of karma
When she goes to work
You can hear her strings
Grace finds beauty in everything
Grace, she carries a world on her hips
No champagne flute for her lips
No twirls or skips between her fingertips
She carries a pearl in perfect condition
What once was hurt
What once was friction
What left a mark
No longer stings
Because Grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things
Grace makes beauty out of ugly things
A strange but compelling love story
I got married last year after being in a ten-year long-distance relationship. People regularly express wonder at the length of our time living apart, and everyone asks the same question: how?
For the last 9 months I’ve been shrugging off the question because, you know, we just DID it. It was just the way things worked out for that time frame, and we dealt with it. But today I was asked again, and it finally dawned on me (because I’m quick like that) that people really want to know what it is about our relationship that made it last through ten years of being about 3,000 miles apart.
Some reasons we have lasted:
- Trust. That seems obvious, perhaps. You HAVE to trust that you’re not one of a long line of people on booty-call speed dial, right? But how do you trust that when you can’t see what the other person’s up to except when you visit once a year? Well, I have to ask why anyone would be in a relationship where this is even a question. If you can’t trust the person you want to be with, look at yourself. Are you trustworthy? Are you asking that question because you know you’re out cattin’ around? Of course, there’s insecurity. I’m human, and I’m pudgy. I worried that he saw a tall, beautiful, slender blonde woman in town who would suit him far better than I did. There were times when I was convinced that I wasn’t beautiful enough, and I realized after a long time that this was my issue, and only mine, but I arrived at there because of …next point:
- Grace. A crap-ton of it. And for a while, much of it was one-sided. Not me! Tom. I am awed by how much I have learned about what love is from this man. I can be a horrid, grudge-holding woman over dumb things. Heck, we had an 8-month break-up because of my stubbornness. He wrote me a letter during the break-up that I did not answer, and when I finally, miraculously, relented and wrote him, he answered immediately. (All of which makes you wonder, uh, why does he love her? Answer: When I’m not being horrid, I’m awesome.) But grace: it is undeserved. Forgiving. Sometimes baffling. And it usually ends in…next point:
- Humor. Not a day passes that we don’t laugh. There’ve probably been days of arguing over the years that we couldn’t laugh, but they’re outnumbered by the laughing days. And the secret here is that we’re able to laugh at ourselves. We both know we can be childish and unreasonable, and we’re safe with each other so we can say, “Oh, wow. I suck, and I’m sorry.” Tom says part of my awesomeness is that I own it when I’m wrong, even if it’s not right away.
- We believe the best of each other. If Tom says something that hurts my feelings, I’ve learned to step back and consider his words in the light of his love for me. I had to wear bracelets for a while to remind myself of this, but the lesson did take.
I get it now. - Refusal to give up. Tom says I’m relentless. I say I’m determined. Whatever. We’re both thankful. And really, he’s one to talk. It’s he who showed me how to love when it was hard. It’s he who taught me that I was loveable by doing everything he could to make me laugh so I would get over my self-consciousness about my loud laugh. It’s he who called me every day, even when I was mad at him.
- Communication. We talked almost every night. I think we probably talked more than most couples did who lived together. In fact, I’d bet we know each other far better than most people who’ve been married longer. We learned to listen to tones in each other’s voices. And we have a rule: no hang-ups. Hanging up in the middle of a fight is the worst kind of storming off. So we’d have these long pauses when we could not speak because we were so mad and had nothing friendly to say, but we couldn’t hang up so we were forced to work it through till we reached some kind of resolution.
- Commitment to the relationship. We both wanted it to work. This means you have to dump pride to the side, and you have to be able to give and receive grace.
- And now: God. We recognize that God was there all along, but we weren’t paying attention to that at first.
3,000 miles can exist within the same house between two people. Physical distance doesn’t break a relationship; emotional chasms do. Tom and I learned to bridge them while we lived so far apart, and now we are discovering how much we enjoy being together in the same house with no chasms to cross. It’s pretty amazing.
Exploring grace
My assignment this week with my writing partners is to articulate my definition of grace because I’m finally narrowing my focus on the theme for my WIP, Out of the Woods. I thought I knew this definition, but when my partner asked me, I fumbled for what I meant.
After our meeting, I stumbled across this:
The hardest spiritual work in the world is to love the neighbor as the self–to encounter another human being not as someone you can use, change, fix, help, save, enroll, convince or control, but simply as someone who can spring you from the prison of yourself, if you will allow it. (Barbara Brown Taylor/An Altar in the World) –reference found here.
Her quote reminds me of people who point fingers at others in condemnation, not realizing that what they condemn is what is inside them. You are my mirror. If I hate what I see in you, chances are I loathe it in myself. I recognize my shadow in someone else far more easily than I do in myself.
Grace forbids condemnation because there isn’t room for both.
And by accepting the other, we are sprung from our prisons.
By other, I mean that which is different from us.
I’m riveted by the notion of .grace because it was absent in my family. Actually, it pretty much still is. We are awkward in giving it, and we don’t recognize it when it is extended to us. I am convinced that my mother’s grief and sorrow over her choices made her sick. She never knew how much I loved her perhaps because she couldn’t accept it. If you don’t believe in something, can you recognize it? Ever?
Another assignment I have is to identify points of grace in my life, and in my mother’s life. I’m surprised by how difficult it’s been to identify such moments of grace for her. In my own life, yes, but not Mama’s. Not sure what that means.
What is grace to you?
D5 Creation