A girl and her husband walk into a bar...

There's no punchline...not even a joke.  It was kind of funny in a self-deprecating way, but for me, it was the most identifying moment of my life.  I graduated high school in 1983.  Admittedly as in most schools, there were cliques, groups to which you identified yourself (or to which you were identified).  I moved to this area before I turned twelve.  For sure, the 'tween years are a hot mess for most kids.  

Back story, I teach and my FAVORITE group to teach is middle school/junior high. They live life on the edge feeling every emotion.  Teachers get this cool window where you can speak into their life the way they won't receive from their parents and they live in this between-world of wanting advice to thinking they don't need any.

I was "out" from the get-go.  A midwestern girl, fashion eluded me.  A tomboy, fashion eluded me.  Just out.  So weird to step into that world from the one where I came.  I found a group where I did eventually belong at church.  I was in the band and in the choir so there were friends and acquaintances there as well.  But, like any 80's movie or any human need, I felt the need to belong and feel accepted.  I didn't feel alone, and as a teacher, mom, human, my heart breaks for ANY child that feels this to the point where it alters their self-worth.  

Life moves on and as you age clarity, grace, wisdom...many things...form your thoughts.  My faith became my stronghold.  I always grew up in church, but (great quote, "Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than standing in your garage makes you a car,") I became a Christ-follower in earnest in 2007 when I surrendered that last bit of supposed control and owned ALL of my junk (there's a lot of it).

I lived all my years, until recently, in the same community, but still on the fringe.  I didn't really care...but that darn human flesh still wants acceptance on some base level.  I chose to not go to the class reunions because many of the same people still lived here and the ones I cared about I kept in touch with on my own so I never felt the desire.  

Then the 30-year reunion came around.  Facebook was out by then and people were friends that were just acquaintances.  And one person wrote a beautiful note about acceptance and life.  I, for the first time, thought, "I'm gonna go."  So, I sign up, drop my youngest with my mom, and prepared for the unknown evening.

A girl and her husband walk into a bar...and not a single soul smiled, recognized, or said hello to me.  Some, I swear, that I knew, looked past me/through me/ beyond me.  So the girl and her husband walk to the side of the room where the reunion wasn't and sat down and ordered dinner.  

And here's the thing...not a single sad emotion in me.  Nothing but freedom for the first time in my life.  I could finally let go of this silly thing that I was holding on to.  I never hide or color my experience (probably should have a better filter, but alas).  I don't tell people who didn't know me then that I was anything other than who I was.  I wasn't ashamed.  I talked freely about it with my husband.  Told my mom when I went to pick up my daughter.  Then just let it go.  

It wasn't until recently when my daughter showed fear about going into someplace that I shared that story with her.  Then realized it's a story worth sharing and maybe one someone could relate to...looking for acceptance from others instead of where it should be found first.  I learned who I was and WHOSE I was.  Being accepted is wonderful, but not everyone is accepting or going to accept you.  But, the ones who God has for you to build you up and challenge and grow you, are the ones you look out for.  For my daughter, girl, walk in there unashamed.  "You BE you, boo!"

I wish it was a lesson I could have learned earlier, but God's timing has never been my own.  

A girl and her husband walked into a bar, ate a nice dinner, and walked out to freedom.  Nice price to pay for a little grub!

Time heals all wounds

Not sure who came up with this gem, but I can tell ya, in my experience, it is a crock of (insert poo emoji).  

It has been almost 23 years since my dad died.  And it hurts more today than it did then.  There are lots of reasons for this perhaps.  Maybe I never really let it be a wound in the first place.  He died on Sydney's birthday and was buried on Edward's birthday (a very weird gift in itself because the days would not be always remembered as sad days).  They were three and five.  Although I was married I was pretty much a single mom, so I was raising two young ones.  And our attention was now on our mom and taking care of her...for him...and in just doing life.  

There are days when the waves just come.  One thought process less to me to think of the advice he had given me one time about not brown-nosing the higher-ups.  In a hot second, the thought came to me, "I wish I would have listened to him more."  Boom...and just as quickly I am fighting back tears at work.  

My mom passed away not too long ago.  The task of going through her stuff mainly up to me as my brother handled other affairs of hers.  A bit (sarcasm) of a holder on to all things, one whole wall of built-in cabinets was papers, books, articles made dad had written...from rough drafts, rewrites, to publications.  I think she might have kept them because she was the one who would type all of his writings on the typewriter (clearly lost some of you on that one)  holding us in her arms as she typed.  They were a team and an example of dedication to each other.  I got lost in the thought of how much I did not understand how brilliant of a mind he had.  Legit, countries invited him to speak and teach them.  The network news came to our house, more than once, to get sound bites when some big economic event happened. He was just my dad.  He was humble beyond description.  And in all this, I had no idea of the awesomeness he was...even being a BRAT of a teenager.  Wave upon wave of guilt and sorrow.  

I think that this is not uncommon, however.  Daily, in life, how much I am taking for granted the greatness of what is around me buried in the grind of busyness?   How much will I regret that I didn't recognize an even greater Father for every ounce of His perfect character because I running around chasing the tyranny of the urgent that the world is telling me is important?  How much will I realize what a BRAT I was as I cried out because of some perceived unfairness?

While I walk in the woundedness, I know I don't walk alone.  Maybe God waited for me to get to the place where I can sit in the wound and let Him do the healing so I can't say that I did it in my own strength.  I don't think I am waiting for time to heal this wound, but something greater.  Maybe even not trying to hide the scar because it shows something beautiful that was done in me when I walk through the hurt instead of hiding from it.  Time heals all wounds...no way.  But maybe, just maybe, time allows us to address our wounds to heal something else in us.  Maybe the wound heals me and not the other way around.