The Sapling

The first time the strength of my roots was seriously tested was when I was sixteen. Two weeks before my Junior year in high school, my best friend and two other close friends were killed by a drunk driver. I was working away from home for the first time that summer, and in retrospect I believe it was by divine design that I was absent. Had I not been hours away at work, I most definitely would have been the fourth victim of that accident, for there was no one in my life that I was closer to at that time than my dear friend.

When I heard the news I went into shock. My brain couldn't process the sudden anguish, and I sort of shut down. Everything was a blur. Voices came at a distance, as though my head was under water. Nothing mattered. All I wanted was peaceful oblivion from the complete onslaught and overload that came upon me. I remember falling asleep for a time, just to escape. When I woke I had to hear the grisly details of the accident. As I heard a description of the three girls' injuries, I didn't even weep. Not yet, anyway.

I isolated myself in the bathroom. I sat motionless in the bathtub until long after the water turned cold. My sister came, knocked on the door, and asked if I was okay. It took me a few minutes to respond as I thought about what a completely ridiculous and inane question that was. Was I okay? Of course I wasn't. My world had just been shattered. As I pondered the question "was I okay?" it eventually dawned on me that my sister was just making sure I wasn't catatonic or lying there with slit wrists, or something. Somehow, I responded. I dimly registered through my pain that I didn't want my family worrying about me, though I knew they would regardless.

I'm not sure when the crying started. I just remember how long it lasted. Though my external crying and audible screaming was frequent enough, it did abate. I was able to breathe in and out, shower, eat, go to school, do my homework, and pretend to care about all my friends who hadn't been killed. But truthfully, the the internal sobbing never really ceased. At least not for a year or two. I allowed myself to be completely consumed by my grief. It probably wasn't the healthiest way to handle the pain, but I couldn't help it. I wanted to drown in it. I wanted to be so overcome that my heart would stop beating, just to still the pain.

I began to ostracize myself from my friends and most social activities that high school presents. Somehow, it was easier to cope when I was alone. The more people I was surrounded by just made her absence seem more acute. I began to avoid any place that held memories of her. I cut off my friendship with almost everyone who had known her. I formed new friendships with people who hadn't known her, so I wouldn't be reminded at every turn. She was so much of my world that when she was gone I lost half myself. I had to redefine myself and recreate my life. Time passed. Life eventually went on.

How did I survive the storm? To be honest, I don't think I had a very deeply developed root system by that time. I was just a sapling, not a mighty oak. I had just enough faith in my Heavenly Father that He carried me through the torrential winds and crashing rain. It was as though the sapling was tied to a strong iron stake in the ground. And as the storm beat upon me, my roots deepened, my trunk thickened, and my branches strengthened. In the midst of the storm the only thing that grounded me was my Father in Heaven. I cried out to Him in many a mighty prayer. I devoured the scriptures nightly. Though I had abandoned church and seminary attendance, my personal relationship with my Heavenly Father and my Savior was never so complete, so dependent, so thorough.

That time of faith amidst suffering is was gave me the root system I have today. It gave me empathy. It gave me perspective. It gave me gratitude. It made me who I am. Intense like the refiners fire, this experience prepared me for the challenges that yet lay ahead. It helped me become the type of person that others could rely on during their own personal hurricanes.

Since that time I have dealt with chronic health problems. I have helped my mother cope with the effects of chemotherapy and the attendant fear. I have struggled with the usual challenges that face young people as they pursue education, marriage, work, and happiness. Through every trial, big or small, I have stood strong. How? By understanding that complete dependence on God is the only way to survive this life. Those who get by without a faith in God are merely unaware and ignorant of how He sustains us and blesses us with the ability go on.

"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me."
Philippians 4:13

My Life as an Oak

I’d never read The Oak Tree a week ago. Honestly, though I consider myself reasonable well-read, I’d never even heard of it. Little did I know the part this poem was about to play in my life. I was in my carefully constructed world of chaos, blissfully unaware of the plans that my friend, and soul-sister, Mamma Mia was making for me.

Then the email came. “Would you contribute to a blog that my friend and I have created?” Of course, at first I think she’s joking. Just a few months before this, she had been chastising me about my infrequent writing on my own blog. She had added the comment, “You are the worst blogger in blogging history.” Sounds mean, I know, except if you knew Mamma Mia you would also know how she can make you feel like Queen of the Universe while laughing at you. It’s a fabulous talent of hers. Also, that I didn’t even know she had added the comment until a good two months after the fact didn’t help my defense.

So I logged on to this site, read the poem several times, and have spent the last week agonizing over what to write. The truth is, some days I do feel like an oak. Some days I don’t. It turns out this wasn’t a good week for being an oak. Two huge problems at work collided on the same day. The first was my boss, a new principal of ours, who increased tension at our school by tenfold when he accused a coworker (and friend of mine) of being “toxic.” This roughly translated means “a woman who isn’t afraid to speak her mind.” Secondly, I lost my favorite novel to teach. How does one lose a book? The district took it. They had decided that To Kill a Mockingbird would be best taught in 10th grade.

Of course, several of us junior high teachers (9th grade is taught in junior high in our district) objected and the decision was made that we would each be able to present a case for keeping it. However, in the end, it came down to mixed messages, secret meetings, and a decision that was already made long before our opinions were asked. Of course, to add to it, my husband has been working out of town for months, leaving me all alone with three young children nine days out of fourteen. Am I whining? I’m sorry. Mamma Mia was clear that this was to be a blog about hopeful things, uplifting things. Keep reading. I promise it’s coming.

Please don’t get me wrong. Most of my adult life I have felt like an oak. It’s that strength that comes from somewhere deep underneath the surface. Many times you forget that it is even there. You see the wind coming and brace yourself for the hard smack against the ground. But then the wind subsides and drifts away and you unclench your eyes to see that you’re still standing. By the grace of God, everything is okay.

I was 14 when I first became aware of how deep my roots stretched. When I was 12, my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She battled it for 2 years. I wouldn’t say that I dealt with the situation well. I dealt with it like a confused, self-centered teenager. Throughout her willful war against cancer, I was most concerned with how MY life was affected. In my 9th grade year, she passed away. Suddenly I couldn’t be mad at her anymore for being “sick.” I was still angry. Even though I knew it was wrong, I couldn’t stop thinking that she had given up, had left her 4 daughters behind. But the effectiveness of being angry was lost in mourning.

There was the funeral, lots of family, and little time to think. Eventually it was time to go back to school. What a surreal feeling to look around and wonder how many of my classmates were going to leave school, go home, and find a mother waiting with open arms. It didn’t seem fair at all. Then less than a month later, my beloved grandmother passed away. Another kick, and I hadn’t even had the chance to stand up yet.

The death of my mother and grandmother wasn’t just a wind blowing leaves and branches; it was an earthquake. The entire landscape changed that year. Everything looked upside down: mountains perched precariously on their snow-covered peaks, rivers pouring from gaping holes in the sky. I was entering a new world where death played an important part. For the first time, I had to make a choice about who I was. Would I blame God, hate the world? Would I give up home, withdraw myself into a world of darkness? Would I ever truly be happy again?

This week, as I thought about that pivotal point in my life, I had my first epiphany about oaks:

If you are an oak, you can’t pretend to be something else.

Believe me, I tried. I tried to lie down and wilt like a spent blossom in the fall. I tried to give up myself like the grass and just blow wherever the wind wanted me to go, no feeling, just movement. In the end, when the wind stopped blowing and the earth congealed and hardened, I was still standing tall and strong.

Upon hearing my story, people often remark to me, “I don’t know how you dealt with losing your mother at such a young age.” It’s a funny comment to me. It’s not like I had any choice. No one asked me if I wanted to lose her. How did I “deal” with it? That’s part of what is means to be an oak, I guess. In times where I felt like giving up, something larger than myself kept me going. Even now, as I tell you my victory story of making it through, deep inside I know it wasn’t me. It was my Father in Heaven. Somehow, through all of the heartbreak and anger and confusion, I still knew that He loved me, that He knew my sorrow. Those are the roots that held me up during that time. They have names: Faith, God’s Love, and Peace. They’ve only grown stronger since.

So back to this week; I’m having trouble at work. I survived losing my mother at age fourteen; this should be no big deal, but it is. This has been the most disheartening experience of my teaching career. On Wednesday, I was talking to my fellow English teachers who are also dear friends about losing our favorite book. My conversation starter went something like this, “I am not asking any of you to go farther with this, but personally I have to. I have to go to the district office with this. I have to feel like my voice is heard. If I don’t, it will eat me up.”

“If you’re in, I’m in,” Bethany responded. “If you fight, I fight. That’s the way it is.” It was that statement, that unconditional support, which gave me the second epiphany about oak trees, even if it doesn’t quite fit the poem:

Where you find an oak, you will find a forest.

I didn’t become an oak all on my own. I have always been and continue to be surrounded by strong people who try to do what is right. Each one has been an inspiration to me, a root that delves deep below the surface. They all have names: My mother, Ella, who taught me to make hard decisions. My father, Daniel, who taught me to weather life’s storms with patience. My step-mother, Deborah, who taught me to have confidence in myself and what I can do. My grandmother, Evelyn, who taught me the power of laughter. Mamma Mia taught me the power of a good friend and most recently, “Quiet women don’t make history.” My children have taught me that love IS sacrifice. My darling sweetheart has taught me that I have unique gifts to offer the world. My Savior has taught me that I am of great worth and that life is a gift. Each one, a core, winding between rocks, maintaining a firm hold to the ground. Each one a crucial part of my stability.

I am still standing.

Each Life That Touches Ours for Good

"...I know that you
can break each branch of mine in two,
carry every leaf away,

shake my limbs, and make me sway.

But I have roots stretched in the earth,
growing stronger since my birth.
You'll never touch them, for you see,
they are the deepest part of me..."

I have very few memories of my father. Every day those memories lose a bit of life so I'm left with still pictures of moments I know I had. Being only six at the time I don't remember a lot of what happened. It was sudden and it caused quite a wave in my family, as I'm sure you can imagine. This event, as tragic as it was, is a defining trial in my life. The pain I felt, and will always feel, reinforces a strength in my roots that nothing can touch.

Despite the impact the death of my father has on my life, it is not the trial I'd like to describe in this post. It was the death of my step-father, Irwin, that "...[carried] every leaf away, [shook] my limbs and made me sway."

My mom married Irwin shortly after my dad died. Being a widow with 8 children (2 under the age of six) I can't say that I blame her. Despite her haste, we really lucked out with Irwin. He was a great father to my little brother and I. I can't speak for the older siblings, but over the course of 11 years he eventually made a space for himself in all of our hearts.

Irwin was 11 years older than my mom, a professor at a nearby college, and actually knew my father. From my point of view he brought stability, love, and laughter to a family who, at the time, was in shambles.

It took time. At first I was completely embarrassed by him. He exuded so much energy and quirkiness that when I wasn't laughing at him I was hiding in humiliation. He was the loudest cheerleader on the soccer-field, the worst dancer at the 4th grade hoe-down, and everyone thought he was my grandpa! Looking back, I'd give anything to be embarrassed by him again.

Six years into my parents marriage, Irwin was diagnosed with cancer. I don't recall many of the details, all I know is that my life and attitude toward my step-father changed. He became someone I could lose. A feeling that was all too familiar.

Irwin would struggle off and on with cancer for the next 5 years. Those five years were the years I spent strengthening my roots with Irwin by my side. He would greet me every morning with "Good morning, Tallulah, isn't it a beautiful morning!?" There were days when I'd answer with a forced smile because I didn't want to add to his burdens. I just wanted to spend as much time around him as possible. I didn't take any moment for granted. As a result I have so many rich and warm memories to look back on. Something I yearned for with my father.

I was at girl's camp when I heard he had slipped into a coma. I was in a daze until I started packing and then realized the dreadful day had come. Luckily I had an amazing friends with me when I no longer kept my composure. I'll never forget the two sets of arms that held me as I cried my first of many heartfelt cries.

When I got home he was in and out of consciousness, lying on an unfamiliar bed that came with the hospice nurse. He beckoned for me, and as I came to him he said jokingly, "Do you like my bed?" His words were so weak and strained, as if he'd been holding on to tell me one last joke. The last thing I said to him before he was lost to unconsciousness was "I love you." The Sunday before I left to camp I knew I needed to open up and tell Irwin thank you for being such a great father to me. He told me he considered me his daughter. With that conversation in mind, I left his bedside without regret.

It was a long night. We were ushering in family that lived out of town. It was busy but peaceful. Tired and weary, I retired to bed, knowing that he would be gone when I awoke. I had said my goodbyes. I was ready for a new day.

I've never felt anger toward God for the death of my fathers. I've always trusted that this was what I was suppose to go through. That these events would define the person I was to become. It was through the lives and deaths of these great men that I truly found my character.

When the "winds of unpredictability" blow I know where to turn. It doesn't always make it easier, but I know in the end I'll be okay. I just try to remember Irwin's struggle and realize that every morning can be beautiful.