Thank you all for your prayers, love and support while I waited for these results! I am praising God for this report.
Videoblog: Health Update
Many of you have been reaching out for an update on the health concerns that I have been experiencing. Here is a videoblog where I get everyone up to speed. I’d really appreciate your prayers for quick results and peace during the wait. Thanks everyone for your continued love and support!
Sorry, Not Sorry.
I have spent most of my life vacillating between “I’m sorry for who I am as a person” and “c’mon, just admit that I’m your favorite.” Admittedly, the latter is my playful way of overcompensating for wholeheartedly believing the former. In the past couple of months, I have been peeling back a lot of layers in my heart, and have made some surprising discoveries about what lies at the root of my need to self-deprecate and apologize for myself in perpetuity.
I have always felt “too” something. I once dated someone who told me I was too tall, and tried “requiring” that I exclusively wear flats. Those who know me well will likely find it hilarious that someone thought they could force me to do anything really, and that I would comply just to appease their delicate and inflated ego. Yeah, not gonna happen. In reality, my stubborn behind promptly switched to the tallest stilettos I could find because #yourenotthebossofme and also buh-bye, enjoy being single. While I proudly push back on these types of arbitrary expectations and “requirements” that people and society put on women in particular, there is still something in me that readily internalizes that sense of being too something. It has been suggested by various people along the way that I am too: smart for my own good, rough around the edges, stubborn, opinionated, feminist, open, feisty, passionate, talkative, disobedient, outspoken, difficult, complicated, independent, liberal, conservative, skinny, tall, strong, intense, loud, persistent, insecure, and too empathetic for my own good… among other things. This doesn’t even begin to include all the times I was told that I wasn’t something enough.
We all have lists like that, right? We all have those accusatory voices from our past that tell us we are used up, broken, empty, worthless. Some of us are haunted by those voices and experiences from our past. Some of us are haunted by voices that are currently in our life - people who claim to love us that take opportunities even now to remind us that we are defective in some way. That we are too this, and not enough that. And then people wonder why some of us are constantly apologizing for ourselves.
I want to tell you that I became aware of this issue, and that I am diligent in changing this pattern and am having great success. What is more accurate, sadly, is that I am becoming increasingly more aware of this issue, and I am trying to slowly uproot that which is lurking beneath the surface of my insecurity and constant apologies, but it’s not going great. It is going to be a long, arduous process. I figured that if I am going to do the hard work of making changes, I might as well track my progress here in the hopes that it helps someone else out there besides me. So, in the spirit of learning and growing together, here is what I have discovered so far.
I’m not actually sorry every time I apologize. A lot of the time, I am apologizing for THEM, not necessarily for me. If I feel like I have frustrated them, annoyed them, burdened them in some way… I will apologize. In actuality, I think that is sometimes more their shortcoming than mine, and in my insecurity I apologize to alleviate whatever feeling they might be having. It’s the emotional equivalent of only wearing flats to make them feel taller. I was disheartened to realize this because it essentially means that many of my apologies are actually disingenuous. A better thing to say than “I’m sorry,” might be something like “Have I upset you?” I want to reserve my apologies for when I am sincerely sorry for doing something wrong.
I often apologize when I should express gratitude. I say that I am sorry because I feel guilty for needing anything, when I could just as easily be thankful that a need has been met. Instead of saying “Thank you for helping me out,” I apologize because I feel guilty for needing help. When I should say “Thank you for waiting for me,” I apologize because I feel guilty for making someone wait. When I could just as easily say “Thank you for listening,” I say “I’m sorry I dumped that on you,” because I am convinced that sharing my life with others is too much of a burden - chaotic and stressful. Instead of people in my life feeling appreciated, they feel frustrated and maybe even resentful. When I sense their frustration, I feel worse and apologize more. It’s a super fun pattern!
My apologies can be offensive because they are often filled with assumptions. I am assuming that the other person is bothered or burdened by me in some way. This may or may not be true, but I am definitely making an assumption about their feelings and then responding accordingly. I might be totally wrong, and I can easily project messages I have received from others onto someone who may, in fact, think I am the best. Which I am, so that would make a lot of sense. (See how this works, I can swing alllll the way to either extreme. It’s like a choose-your-own adventure book filled with all my baggage!)
I apologize to give people an out. I only recently learned this about myself, but I learned it the hard way and at great personal cost. I am always expecting people I love to leave. Sometimes, when I really care, I even push them to leave. It’s very healthy of me. (Jk but I’m working on it or whatever.) So, the more I care, the more I apologize for myself, and I present all of my shortcomings on a platter and what my apologies really say is “See, look how awful and difficult I am. Leave, you know you wanna.” If you offer enough outs, people will take them. Like any dysfunctional self-fulfilling prophecy, their retreat proves me right, and deepens my insecurity and that pattern is further embedded into the way I operate.
Literally everyone loses when I do this. Perhaps nobody more so than I. So, I am committing to tracking my apologies, evaluating them, reframing and rephrasing whenever I catch myself erring on the side of being excessively apologetic. I am still in the observation stage. I am simply observing when I feel the instinct to apologize for who I am. It’s often and it’s not pretty.
Here’s the thing though. I am doing my best to lean into this knowledge that there is a perfect God out there and he is El Roi, which is my favorite name for God in the Bible. It means, the God who sees. He is the creator of the universe, and he not only sees me and KNOWS who I am, he actually made me this way. When I spend time apologizing for who I am, I am subtly accusing God of getting it wrong. I am apologizing for his handiwork. Even at the observation stage of this process I know enough to say that accusing God of failing is probably not the best plan I’ve ever had.
So that’s all. I am inviting you all into this with me. I am in process. I am still learning. I am doing my best. I am observing, tracking progress and I am trying really hard. I want to change, but I also know that I am helpless to do better apart from God. The only one who truly knows me, sees me, and created me, will be faithful to tweak things here and there as he sees fit. I will choose to wait on him, to believe even when I don’t feel it and I will not apologize for who I am, because if everything I claim to believe is actually true…
I am his beloved creation.
17 years, 9 months & 6 Days
It is a formidable task to summarize my October. It was my strangest experience with #AdamsActs thus far, due to a number of personal factors, not to mention that my grief journey has never been easily wrapped up with a tidy little bow. This explains why this attempt at a videoblog yesterday went so horribly wrong:
Wrapping things up with a tidy little bow is simply not how I operate. It’s not really how grief operates either.
I think I am starting to realize that my grief will do her own thing. She can be bossy and invasive, provoked at the smallest remark. It’s silly, but when people are discussing height, my grief awakens - on the wrong side of the bed to be sure. I am 5’ 9” making my amazon-woman-self stand taller than both my parents and a solid four inches taller than either of my sisters. Grief noses in to remind me that I am not supposed to be the tallest one in my family. Adam was taller than me. He was supposed to be in sibling pictures with Kristin, BethAnn and I, and he was supposed to balance it all out. My grief can interrupt normal conversations about something as arbitrary as height, and sting me with her reminders.
Sometimes, the word “sting” is the understatement of the century. My grief, at times, can be oppressive and consuming. Sometimes, it feels like she is threatening to swallow me whole. The totality of my grief in these moments doesn’t even require a trigger. Without warning, without provocation, this form of grief settles over me like a nebulous fog… blurring and shading even the most joyful moments in my life.
Personifying my grief is helping me understand her a bit better. She is a constant companion, and a fearsome thing to behold and no matter what I do, she will always exist. Rather than trying to shut her away in the attic of my memories, I am learning how to get along with her. I am learning to appreciate her. Because the reality is, that she is actually me. My grief is so much a part of who I am, it is so deeply embedded in my childhood experiences, it has shaped so much of my faith and my character, that this wild and unpredictable thing in me… is me.
So, I am trying to make peace with her. I am trying to see the beauty in her. And I am becoming so fond of the gift that she has brought into my soul. Because, grief is not all thorns and splinters. Grief does not dim light or joy. It is powerful, but it is not more powerful than redemption. And the redemption story here is that God has allowed my grief to be the thing that does not dim light, but it softens and it disperses light. It makes light gentler, and perhaps more soothing, I think. It is the thing that stops me from ever pushing an agenda, it is the thing that makes me long to connect with others before ever presuming I should correct others. It is the thing that humanizes us all, it connects us all, it equalizes us all. It is the reason I don’t want to judge, it’s why I don’t want to be cold, or distant or harsh. It is what draws me into the stories of other people, it ignites care and concern for every person on the planet. Without the defining and elemental presence of grief, this light and fire in me would go unchecked. When a light is so bright and unbridled, it can be painfully blinding to those in its presence. I like that my grief softens things just a bit. I think it draws people in to it’s warmth, it invites anyone and everyone to sit beside it and just be. A softened light does not require anything of others, it just gives off enough light to help them find their way a little easier.
This is kindness. To soften ourselves and our expectations of others just enough to be a light to them. Not a light that overwhelms or pushes an agenda or causes people to recoil, but a softer, gentler, more tender light with enough restful shade that people aren’t afraid to sit a while and talk.
In only 17 years, 9 months and 6 days on this planet, Adam was able to be that sort of light to any and all people around him. The gentle and inviting light of Christ, his redeemer, shone in my brother in a way that was powerful enough to leave this legacy for thousands of people. Not perfectly, but consistently, he set for me a human example of how to love others the way a perfect God asks us to. With a light that is softened with warmth, compassion and kindness… but is still bright enough to ignite a movement around the world.
I loving memory of Adam H. Provencal,
Love, your baby sister.
Let Go & Love Your Neighbor
The month is quickly coming to a close, and I have to say… it’s been real weird guys. I have uncharacteristically had to rely on others this month. I have said no to things I would generally say yes to, and I have said yes to things I would typically deprive myself of. It’s been a little disorienting, but also really freeing, growing and challenging.
The other strange thing about #AdamsActs this year is that I feel like I have shared a lot less about my brother. The reality of tragic and unexpected death is that there are no new memories. The stories and experiences that I had with Adam are finite. I do not get to make new memories with my big brother. I will never see him wrestle with my kids when they’re supposed to be getting ready for bed. I will never see him fall in love, have a wedding and maybe children. I won’t get to celebrate his big promotion at work, or make him do one of those really muddy 5k things with me. There is simply no more time with him.
For a lot of years, I held my memories so close to me, unwilling to share what little I had of him with anyone else. Eventually, I allowed myself to put these memories out into the world, and something unimaginable happened. As I began to open my hand and release these pieces of Adam that I had held so tightly, I started getting new pieces of him back. As I wrote about my memories of Adam, others started sharing their memories of him with me. It was as if God whispered right to my heart, “There is more than you know. If you just let go, I will show you.”
Every year since then, I have gotten to know new sides of my brother - attributes and actions that I would never have known about had I not been willing to let go. I learned that a shy girl once had a crush on my brother and she really wanted to dance with him at the school dance. He was dancing with some friends but when she left, disappointed, he went after her into the hallway and there he asked that shy girl to dance. Just the two of them, alone in the hallways slow dancing without any music.
I learned that he intervened when some big, punk kid was picking on a little nerd, my scrawny brother put the bully in a complicated wrestling hold and held him there until an adult arrived. I learned that he spoke up about racial inequity. We lived in white suburbia. IN THE 90’s. And Adam was speaking out about racism? Long before being woke was a thing, my big brother was WOKE. My brother was an advocate for marginalized people. I would not have known this if I hadn’t let go.
This year, I was given the gift of discovering yet another impressive layer to my brother. I will not share all of the details, as they are not mine to tell. Suffice it to say that as a young girl was in a precarious situation where she was unable to protect herself and was vulnerable to an assault, Adam served as her protector. The phrase that stood out to me was this:
“As the vultures were circling, Adam didn’t leave her side.”
I learned this about my brother in the middle of the Ford-Kavanaugh hearing, at the height of the #MeToo movement, when thousands of women were finally choosing to break the silence about their own experiences with rape, abuse and sexual assault.
To me, Adam was just my big brother and my own personal super hero. I knew he would protect me if he could. I knew that he was the second best wrestler in his weight class in the state of Michigan, he was a brilliant mind, an excellent athlete, a bit of a comedian and a leader. I didn’t want to let go of that image of him.
I didn’t want to share those pieces with anyone because part of me felt that it might weaken or cheapen the power of those memories. Releasing that singular perspective of Adam has, on the contrary, allowed me to know who he was in a much fuller way. Now I know him to be all of those things, and also a warrior for social justice, an advocate for women, a protector of the vulnerable.
During a week in which we are being inundated with news stories of hate and violence in our country, I am choosing to, once again, let go. I will not hold so tightly to these memories. I choose to release them and share them with you in hopes that it serves as a reminder that there are good boys out there. Boys who are being raised to love their neighbor - REGARDLESS of who that neighbor is. There are boys and girls in this country who are fearlessly standing in the gap for the sake of defending vulnerable and marginalized people groups. There are people who will see racial and socioeconomic disparity and will refuse to look the other way. There are Christians in our country who take God’s command to love others seriously. They care for the poor, the sick, the oppressed. Some of us even care regardless of your race, religion, sexual orientation or political affiliation. Some of us just plain love our neighbors no matter what, because God told us to.
Letting go of my childish image of Adam has allowed me to gain a picture of the man he was becoming. I believe that he was going to be the kind of man who understood that Jesus gave two primary commands - to love him, and to love others. The more I become acquainted with how my brother operated in the world, the more convinced I am that he understood the true essence of the gospel and the command to love.
For the next two days of October, I want to challenge all of us to be intentional about overtly loving one another. I don’t really care who your neighbors are, just love them. For ten years I lived across the street from an old man who often told me to get an abortion when I was pregnant and more disturbingly, also Disney-frenched me on the mouth once. It was real old and gross guys, but I loved him anyways! I don’t care who your colleagues are, who your in-laws are, who your neighbor plans to vote for in a few days… just love the junk out of them. Love them regardless of their lifestyle choices.
If God didn’t add any qualifying statements to loving others, then why should we?
Days 25 & 26 - Resilience
Perhaps softened by the forced reflection that comes with loss and trauma, I have a particular fondness for people who have come from hard places, or gone through hard things. All my favorite people have heaps of baggage. Today, I got to spend a bit of time with a group of kids who fit that description. I was invited to return to speak with students at The Avalon School which is part of Villa of Hope. The Avalon School is a specialized day school for kids who have a variety of psycho-social, emotional and/or behavioral needs.
Y’all, these are my people.
Strength and resilience don’t come from never having been broken. Strength and resilience come from the slow, healing process after brokenness or trauma. After I spoke, there was a brief question and answer time, which is always my favorite portion of any speaking event. No question is off-limits, and being open to discuss anything gives others an opportunity to share some of their own story. I am always amazed at how transparent people are willing to be with me. It is such a sacred privilege to carry someone else’s story, and I do not take that for granted.
Some kids opened up about their traumas for the first time since being at this school. My heart was overflowing and my mind was blown. What was supposed to be my act of kindness quickly became a gift to me, primarily due to their brave willingness to let me in, and then on top of that, they went and surprised me with a gift and these beautiful flowers.
This is my dream job. I get to connect with hurting people for a living. To offer hope, to share faith, to ask questions, to listen and encourage… what an unbelievable gift.
For yesterday’s #AdamsActs, I treated Jay to a donut after his audiology appointment even though he literally did a terrible job there. Don’t get me wrong, I think he legitimately tried his best. But, man… his best is hovering juuuuust above the worst in history. Hahaha… the child cannot sit still. He cannot be quiet. He cannot stop himself from verbalizing a running commentary of every single thought that pops into his brain. It’s like living with a James Joyce novel playing in fast motion in the background at all times. Except all the words are adorably mispronounced.
At one point, he gives the audiologist a huge grin like this:
Then as soon as she walks out, immediately looks over his shoulder at me, gives me these skeptical “get a load of this lady” side-eyes and says “I don’t think this is very useful. Is she really talking about beef?”
Clearly he couldn’t hear anything she was saying without his hearing aids. He will be getting an FM system at school - which basically means his teacher will wear a microphone that will beam her voice directly into his hearing aids. It will probably help him learn and pay attention, but he is not thrilled. The idea of kids having to pass around a microphone so that he can hear what they are saying, isn’t exactly ideal for a kid who just wants to fit in. JK he doesn’t care about fitting in. All he wants to do is lie under a cardboard box and pretend to rebuild an engine. Without anyone talking directly into his ear canal. This will be something that will require his own form of strength and resilience, and he has to deal with hearing loss for the rest of his life because he was essentially overdosed with antibiotics at birth… sooooo, he gets a donut alright?
After that, some of us on the church staff brought lunch to all the teachers at a local public school. It was a lot of Panera. The teachers were really excited and I think they felt supported, appreciated and recognized for the work they do - which was our goal. While this was technically a part of my job, I added a little personal flare of kindness by loudly and spontaneously complimenting people like someone who has no filter - or basically, like myself.
Thanks to all who have reached out since my last post. (Catch up HERE if you missed it.) From the messages I have been receiving, it appears that some of the feelings I expressed hit a sensitive nerve with a lot of you. Thank you for trusting me with your stories and your feelings. If I could, I would buy each and every single one of you a fancy spider donut.
Even if you did a really bad job today and all you were able to accomplish was lying under a cardboard box.
Days 23 & 24 - Two Innocence Projects
Since many of you lovelies have been reaching out to ask for updates on my health shenanigans, I figured I would post a quick update along with my acts of kindness for the past couple of days. The short update is: I still don’t know. The longer story is that it takes quite a while to get into specialists, and even longer to schedule tests, etc. I have discovered that even if your case is marked as “urgent” many openings are last minute cancellations that you find out about right as you are, let’s say, about to drive into Canada. You know how that goes.
I was finally able to get into my appointment on Monday. I like the doctor quite a lot and she ordered several more tests, the most important being in December. So… that should be a nice, long wait until then. In the meantime I have lost a little over 15 pounds in the past three weeks. No bueno, friends, no bueno. The weight loss, general weakness and malabsorption has me feeling all kinds of exhausted, dizzy and lightheaded. I am eating, but still not absorbing nutrients for some reason that I won’t find out until December. It’ll be like a little Christmas present.
Merry Christmas! You’re malnourished!
Okay, so let all that serve to lower any bar you may have set for my kindness. Low bar, people… mama needs a real low bar. For Day 23 I made a donation to The Innocence Project in honor of my friend Andrew’s birthday. The Innocence Project is a non-profit organization that works to exonerate wrongly convicted people through the use of DNA. They are also committed to reforming the criminal justice system to prevent wrongful conviction in the first place.
As a mom of two black boys, I am aware of the statistics. The reality is that my black children are statistically more likely to be wrongly convicted of a crime than my white children. Minorities are more likely in general to be arrested as juveniles and tend to be handed down harsher and longer penalties for crimes committed as compared to white kids for the same offense. Research has found that white Americans are more likely to misidentify a black suspect in a murder investigation. Maybe there is a part of me that still resents the injustice of my brother’s privileged, white murderer remaining in jail for about a year and a half, while some innocent black children are wrongfully convicted and sentenced to life in prison for crimes they did not commit, and this is due to racial bias.
For Day 24, I said “no” a bunch of times. I know this doesn’t sound very kind. But, guys, I’m not going to lie, I am pretty sick at this point. I have, historically, said yes to virtually everything that is asked of me. When someone calls to talk, I listen. When somebody needs advice, I am the go-to person. If you are hurting, if you and your spouse are fighting, if your kid keeps peeing in the wrong places in the house, if you had another miscarriage, or another negative pregnancy test, whatever it is... I go in. I love going in. It’s one of the few things that I actually really love about myself. I don’t shy away from a mess. I prance right into it with the confidence of someone who believes they can actually make a difference.
Still. I need to not. I needed to say no to a few requests. A couple speaking things, hosting community group every week at my house (which is a bigger undertaking than it sounds when you are too weak and pathetic to push a whole entire vacuum at the moment), and a few other small things. It was a sort of kindness to myself. I have needed to learn to say “no” for a while now, but it is challenging when I so dearly love to say “yes” to my people. But, this year I have been working on loving and accepting myself, and I have striven to possess self-compassion, self-concern, and self-awareness. This process started here, in my tiny closet.
And this is a picture of me.
I was five years old in this picture. At this point in my life, I was not broken. I was not in any sort of bondage - to fear or shame or hurt. I was just small and innocent, still untouched and not yet wounded.
This summer, I decided to hang this little girl in my closet as a reminder of who I once was, and as a reminder that somewhere deep inside of me that little, innocent girl still exists. And someone needs to love her and to protect her. Someone needs to think she is beautiful. Someone needs to exonerate her from the offenses I have accused her of for so many years. I suppose this was my own version of an innocence project.
So, when I go to my closet each morning to get dressed… I don’t get dressed for other people. I’m not trying to make people think I am attractive. I am not choosing clothes for attention. I get dressed for her. I make choices that make her feel beautiful. I have discovered that she loves dresses and bold patterns, big hair and bright lipstick. My inner-child is totally an 80’s girl, an “absolute queen” as I’ve been told. And I love that about her.
Doing this felt silly at first, but it is also, quite possibly, the first step I have actively taken to love myself. This led to other self-care steps - like finally getting my teeth fixed after horrendous pregnancies with the world’s most selfish fetuses, just sucking the life right out of me and my teeth. I have been less critical of myself, and therefore less critical of others. I have been gentler with myself, and therefore gentler with others. I have been more understanding of myself, and therefore more understanding of others. And today, giving myself permission to say “no” to multiple requests and stepping back from extra responsibilities for a while was one more thing I did to be kind, caring and protective toward myself. I have to believe that, ultimately, this will allow me to continue walking into the mess of other people’s lives, but when I do, I will be stronger, I will be healthier, my hair will be big and fabulous, and I will be able push a vacuum all by myself.
Day 22: Haggard Moms Unite
Recently, I showed up to my friend’s house with two pints of good gelato and a tiny little house plant. It was adorable, with sweet, little, yellow flowers. She had texted me earlier that day in a special kind of panic that is reserved for women who are actively parenting kids with trauma issues. When the door opened, I said, “I brought you something to eat. And also something to kill.” Now, technically this was right before October, so it doesn’t really count as one of my #AdamsActs but I can’t think of a more RANDOM act of kindness than bringing somebody something to kill.
If you are closely acquainted with any foster parents, then this gesture needs no further explanation. If, however, you do not have the good fortune of knowing anyone who is resolutely withstanding the US foster care system in order to love, care for, protect and advocate for children who are separated from their birthfamily… then I shall explain.
Parenting kids with trauma is not for the faint of heart. Whether that trauma happened in utero via drug or alcohol exposure, or was the result of abuse, negligence or neglect, a traumatized child requires a level of care that is simply beyond typical human capacity. The traumatized child will fight against any semblance of love. The traumatized child will use whatever they can to push you away, out of a misguided but understandable attempt at self-protection, they will fight, sabotage and control whatever they can, however they can. They will force themselves to throw up, they will rage, they will destroy your belongings - and sadly, they will destroy their own belongings. They may physically attack, they may put all the bodily fluids in all the places, and then also on your one nice dress. And also probably on your toothbrush. The traumatized child is not a bad child, he is a terrified child.
Kids like this will likely be placed in one foster family after another. People will give up on these kids. The message that these kids are unlovable will be sent and resent over and over until the child turns 18 and ages out of the system. Then these kids are, statistically speaking, very likely to become incarcerated, homeless and/or pregnant before being equipped to parent. They are more likely to abuse drugs and have children who also end up in the system.
These kids deserve better. They deserve parents that will stuff their feelings with gelato and kill a houseplant instead of harming the child. These kids need parents who will not give up, communities who invest in them and offer opportunities and compassion. And these foster parents deserve our support.
It sounds like a no-brainer, right? Who would give up on a child just because they are having a hard time? Well, the answer is a lot of people. When my son was at his lowest point in his battle with attachment disorder and our family in complete crisis, countless people told me that we should put him in a group home or consider “undoing” his adoption. This is when I realized how few people really understand adoption. No matter how long he was in my family, there were still people that failed to understand that he is my SON. Forever. He’s just mine, always. And I was going to fight to the death for him.
For Day 22, I checked in with multiple friends who are fighting for their kids. Sadly, most of these mamas feel like they are fighting WITH their kids, FOR their kids. I spent a couple hours on the phone throughout the day talking with different friends about parenting and attachment strategies, therapeutic approaches that actually work, and practical tips to repair their relationships for when they lose their ever loving minds - like that one time that I threw all the bananas or publicly wrote through this mental breakdown. More than anything, we talked about hope, and faith and about having self-compassion. In a moment when some really vulnerable moms are doing jobs that no one person is capable of doing, it is a kindness to listen, to encourage, to commiserate, and to remind them that there is a God standing beside them that shares burdens and carries our load… a God that happens to be quite fond of the lost, the least and the littlest among us.
Day 20 & 21 - Scared, Imperfect, Vulnerable = Connected.
During the month of October, this strange and beautiful phenomenon occurs. For 31 vulnerable and exhausting days, I open up my heart to all of you. My imperfect, ragged heart is splayed vulnerably before you, and when it is, something quite magical happens.
You open up your hearts right back.
Every time I muster the courage to be speak frankly about deep and personal wounds from my past, my inbox is flooded with stories of your deep and personal wounds. When I release the fear of judgement (however temporarily that may be) and force myself to speak candidly about my insecurities, you speak candidly with me about your insecurities.
When I confess, some of you confess. When I express shame, many of you express shame. When I push past the criticism and the nay-sayers and I choose to behave bravely even when I feel small and weak and exposed… so many of you are there, also being brave, and maybe also feeling small, weak, and a bit exposed.
This is the power of vulnerability, that when I share my tattered and timeworn stories of loss, you respond with your own. Vulnerability creates room for other people to be themselves, to express themselves, to breathe, to be real, to be universal, to exist next to someone else who understands. Vulnerability tells us that none of us, not even one, is really ever alone. We cannot possibly be alone when at the end of the day, we are all the flippin’ same.
For Day 20, Jay and I made a small donation to a hospice home near us called Sunset House. Our neighborhood block party was on Saturday and as a group we continue to raise money for this worthwhile cause. I also made a donation (and by donation I mean I bought myself a candy bar) for my little neighbor’s fundraiser to go to Washington, D.C. It was a huge sacrifice, but I live to serve, so.
Day 21, I made a donation to Foodlink while checking out at the grocery store, and more importantly, I tried to express appreciation and admiration today whenever I felt it. I sincerely thanked my volunteers for all they did at church today, I brought cake (and lots of jokes and banter) to the staff at the movie theater where we rent space to have our church services and I went all the way out to my car because a little girl wanted a something I had already packed up. These were all simple, small things that I would do any day of any month all year long. Still, I think that we underestimate the cumulative impact of simple acts decency.
Extending grace and decency to others in a world that can easily feel hyper-combative and cruel, is another way to remind people that we are all the same. We are all small. We are all weak, frightened and exposed in one way or another. But, we are also all these glorious creatures who are profoundly loved by the one who created us. We are capable, tenacious and brave. I know this because you are all my precious darlings, and when I tell you my deep dark secrets, you tell me yours. You hold me with your words, you comfort me with your encouragement, you honor and humble me with your mirrored vulnerability. And when you share your own scary truths, whispered back to me, however hesitantly, but still so so beautifully... it is a revolutionary act of love.
Days 17 - 19: Catching Up on Kindness!
Well, I am maaaaaad behind on posting and I have been driving all day, so I will keep this brief! I have been toying with the idea of shifting away from blogging and moving toward podcasting and/or video blogging. The jury is out, but I am too haggard to even consider putting my face on camera at the moment. So, let’s consider this a micro-blog for tonight.
I went home to celebrate the life of a family friend, Earl Dean. He was the wonderful father of my friend Heather. As many of you already saw on Facebook Live, I stayed with my mom and interview her about #AdamsActs. She is out of control, so enjoy that little video if you haven’t already checked it out, and here’s a taste of how extra she can be.
I shared that my act of kindness on the trip there was handing out $5 gift cards to Tim Horton’s to the Canadian border patrol. Canadians cannot get enough of Tim Horton’s and their garbage coffee. The American side would not accept my gifts because apparently they cannot get enough of following arbitrary rules that forbid them from enjoying life and kindness.
For Day 18, I wrote out a bunch of cards for Heather and on the envelope I noted specific days that she may open them. When someone passes away - especially someone as involved in
Heather’s life as her dad was - there will be many moments where she will feel his absence so keenly it can feel unbearable. I tried to anticipate what some of those moments might be, like Father’s Day, or her birthday, or when her dad’s flower garden starts to break through the thawing spring ground. Those will be moments that she needs a reminder that she is loved and thought of, and certainly not alone.
For Day 19, I filled up my mom’s car with gas and I spoke at Fellowship of Christian Athletes for my bro Joe. I was spazzy and unprepared, and I busted in on all my fave coaches/teachers right in the middle of their classes, announcements and observations. Sorry, not sorry! They’ve met me, so they weren’t terribly surprised especially considering I have the exact same maturity level as I did when I was playing volleyball (poorly) in high school.
Me and Tracey Wilson - principal, former coach, friend and #AdamsActs extraordinaire! I was lucky enough to be there when a couple of kids were receiving gift cards for getting caught being kind to others at school! It was such an honor to meet these kind kids and peer pressure them into reading my blog.
After spazzing myself around the high school like a total crazy, my niece treated me to breakfast, which was very sweet seeing that she is a broke college kid. I tried to encourage and affirm her life choices - which are wise and brave - so it was easily done.
After that, I went to the cemetery and left a penny on Adam’s headstone, because it’s a thing some of us do. There is always a penny there. I spent some time sitting in the grass, thinking of Adam and wishing I could talk to him. When I tried, all that came out was “hey buddy.” and then so many projectile tears. I wanted him there, in real life, to talk to me and to be on my team. I need his advice right now, and I need to feel like he understands me and hears me. I want him to be here, standing beside me and holding my hand when I feel scared to make big changes in my life.
I sat by his headstone and thought about the three words that my parents chose to be engraved there forever.
I was particularly focused on peacemaker. I love that it doesn’t say peacekeeper, but peaceMAKER. It is a lot easier to be a keeper of peace - especially false peace - than it is to be brave enough to be honest and work toward creating TRUE peace. To be a peacemaker, you have to identify problems, you have to speak hard truths, and you have to be willing to create something new. This is who I am striving to be. Not a keeper of an illusion of peace, but a maker of true, authentic peace.
I suppose that even though my big brother is not here to hold my hand and give me advice, he is still teaching me and today it felt like he was on my team.
Day 14 & 15: Walk of Shame
We are halfway through October and I have yet to do anything noteworthy or epic. Rather, I am continually extending small, intentional acts of kindness. Sometimes I beat myself up about doing only little things, but I won’t do that this time. I’ve had enough beating myself up for a while. I have often written about grief triggers, and how the smallest thing can bring a tidal wave of grief and memories flooding back. And so it is with kindness. When I started doing #AdamsActs several years ago, it was just me and a handful of friends. Now, over 10,000 readers later, there is a tidal wave of kindness flooding communities all over the world. Perhaps there is no such thing as a small act of kindness, if it reflects a big, generous heart.
For Day 14, I treated some of my faves to go see a movie. They more than deserved for it to be my treat, since I moped around like Eeyore the whole night without explanation. We saw A Star is Born - which absolutely wrecked me… speaking of triggers. Addiction, shame, suicide, Lady Gaga gettin’ nakey buns. It was a lot. But, also, really well done and left me with lots of feelings to grapple with. Mostly, shame. Which I have wrestled with to varying degrees for as long as I can remember.
Which brings me to Day 15. I always try to keep items in my car for when I see homeless people. My go-to are boxes of Nutri-grain bars because they are soft. (Harder foods like apples or carrots are difficult to chew if you don’t have access to dental care/all your teeth.) Today, when I saw a homeless woman I planned to hand the cereal bars out the window like I normally do, but today felt different.
Today, I recognized my own lifelong battle with shame reflected back at me through this woman’s face. So, instead of driving by and handing her supplies, I threw my car into park right on 104 and I got out and went to her. I gave her some snacks, but more importantly I looked her directly in her face and told her that she was loved and that she was okay. And then I hugged her like a mama. I held on tight and for a long time. Too long some might say. But, we both had tears in our eyes when we let go. She did not thank me for the food. She did however yell after me just as I was getting in the car,
“Lady! Thank you for the hug.”
The Language of Grief
As a mom, I have this really terrible habit of not correcting my kids when they adorably mispronounce words. If they think that sloppy joe’s are called sloppy jokes, why on earth would I correct that? If they happen to reason that multiple items of clothing are called clothes, so a single item of clothing is called “clo” then who am I to question their logic? I absolutely love when they get it wrong. Jay just learned at school about how dangerous and unhealthy it is to “smoke ciggaracists.” He is combining cigarettes and racism… two of the heavy hitters on the forbidden list in our home.
I could not correct him. Because I love it. I love when they take a guess, and stick to it, even when they are way off. So, I happily absorb their mispronounced words into my everyday vocabulary. Underwear will forever be bundies in my eyes, grown ups will always be grownies, and lasagna will be allabazoonya until the day I die. It’s just how it goes.
I think grief is similar. As a kid, grieving the loss of my brother and my parents divorce within the same year, I developed my own sort of language in a way. I told myself certain things to make sense of my family falling apart. I created ideas, however misconceived, to explain what was happening around me. These ideas, like mispronounced words, became absorbed into my language so to speak, and I find myself, even now, discovering how these words and notions have shaped me.
Some of this language is really unhealthy. For instance, I spent the majority of my life thinking that it should have been me who died that night. I was convinced of this because I admired Adam so much that I believed he would have lived a far more remarkable life than I ever could. Every B on my report card was a reminder of Adam’s straight A’s, every day after my 18th birthday felt like an affront to his memory, another day I didn’t deserve because I outlived someone who would have excelled in ways that I never would. I blamed myself for his death for a very long time. I realize how ludicrous this is now, as an adult, but as a young girl I believed that if I had only been better behaved maybe God wouldn’t have taken my family apart. I grappled with regret - the one time I told Adam that I hated him, the time I went skiing with friends instead of staying home and celebrating Adam’s very last birthday ever, and simply not telling him that he was my hero. The weight of shame for not being better, the weight of regret for not doing more, became the language of grief that I spoke to myself day after day for so many years.
But, there is another, more beautiful, side to this grief language. The side that isn’t filled with mispronounced words or complex regrets… the other dialect to this grief language is compassion. A true empath, I feel everything around me. Speaking the language of grief from such a young age has allowed me to stand in as a translator when other people couldn’t find the words to express their loss. Speaking the language of grief has allowed me to hear and understand others’ pain, sometimes before they understand it themselves. Speaking this language of mangled hearts and torn up dreams has allowed me to sit with others and simply understand.
I have had the privilege of walking beside many people in their most heart-wrenching times. For Day 12, I gave a donation to a foundation that is near to my heart because I was allowed into someone else’s grief journey. Our friend’s Pat and Megan had two beautiful twin girls who had TTTS (Twin to Twin Transfusion Syndrome) which is a rare condition that can occur when identical twins share a placenta. Their little girls, Zoey and Morgan were born very prematurely and fought so hard for their precious little lives. After only three months on earth, sweet Zoey passed away, leaving behind her precious twin sister and two incredible parents who would continue to remember and celebrate and honor her short life in so many beautiful ways. I also promised Pat (on Day 13) that I would not book any speaking events on the first weekend of December (which is generally a very busy time of year for me with speaking.) I solemnly swore that I would instead be at their Christmas Tree fundraiser they do each year in memory of Zoey.
If you live in the Rochester area, you should really consider getting your Christmas tree from them. The trees are beautiful, and the proceeds go to help other kids who are fighting for their lives. Plus, they make it super fun and festive for kids. Plus, there’s hot chocolate. And snacks. And other food. Just come, okay?
In addition to making promises, for Day 13 I spent time just thinking of, praying for and reaching out to a few people who are going through their own times of grief. Today was a day of loss and heartache for three different families I love. We are supporting them in whatever ways we are able, but even after speaking this grief language for most of my life, I still find that I have no adequate words when someone I love is in pain. So, instead, I will just sit in the hurt with them, and let them know that they are not alone. Sometimes grief is a complex language that screams mispronunciations in your head, and sometimes it’s compassion that simply demands silence.
Days 10 & 11: Sprinkles.Tom
Fam, can I just give it to ya straight today? I am maaaaaad tired. I have officially lost more than 10% of my body weight in less than two weeks. I feel so ridiculously exhausted, so I am going to keep tonight super brief. For Day 10 I brought a bowl of apples to work. I recently started a new job working for my church and I love all my colleagues with an everlasting love. So, I brought a bowl of produce. Then someone else brought in apples and oranges and brownies. #overachiever
For day 11, I wanted to win the snack show-down, so I bought cupcakes for my daughter Marlie and her teammates to enjoy after their tennis match. I played a lot of sports growing up. I was okay at sports, but I was almost never in the spotlight during a game. But, you know when I shined? Afterwards, when we all got a snack. Alright, I don’t know if I shined necessarily, but... I did get a snack. And that was a win. In terms of snacks, I was an undefeated athlete.
Today, everyone was a winner. Except Tom, because I gave his cupcake away to some random kid I didn’t know. Happy #AdamsActs everyone!
*My 15 year old daughter, Annalee titled this post for me as her act of kindness. “Sprinkles dot Tom” was her best idea. Pray for her.
Day 9: No I Won't Shut Up About Kindness
When my brother’s life was taken away from him on that crisp fall night, I was in the 6th grade. I still remember my mom, my oldest sister, Kristin, and her fiance, Joe, coming home from the hospital to tell us that Adam was gone. “We lost him.” That is how my mother told us.
“We lost him.”
I remember my mom motioning for Joe to hide Adam’s wrestling gear that was piled on the floor…. As if that would be the thing to put us over the edge. His wrestling uniform was there on the floor because that year, I decided to dress up as my brother for Halloween. Afterall, he was my real, live superhero. I wore his wrestling singlet, his warm-ups, shoes and had his headgear hanging from the waist of the warm-ups… just like the real wrestlers. I remember that moment so vividly. My mom, in the deepest grief of her life, still trying to protect us. Trying to eliminate any factor that might make our pain more acute. That was probably the first act of kindness that was done in response to Adam’s death.
After Adam died, my friendships changed a lot. I had a really hard time opening up and talking to my friends about everything I was feeling. I find this amusing and ironic now, considering the fact that this week alone I have opened up to about 10,000 people about my feelings. But, it was harder then. My friends were children. They did not know how to comfort me. They didn’t understand grief. Only last year did I learn from one friend how Adam’s death impacted the rest of her childhood. She was traumatized. Her family was very close with ours, and they were all traumatized. Adam’s death changed how people parented their kids, it changed how late their kids could stay out, and whether or not they could go places. His death shaped our community, in ways I did not realize at the time.
Even though so many peripheral people were impacted, I still felt alone in my grief. I felt small and lost and alone. We lost him, my mother had said, but I think what really happened was that we all got lost. But there were moments of connection. When my friend Sarah Doane sat and played Mall Madness with me for hours while my mom wept with my aunts and uncles. She let me shut it all out and pretend to still be a kid. That was an act of kindness. Sarah’s mom, Michal, let us sleep over at each other’s houses on school nights sometimes when I was really sad. That wasn’t something she would normally allow, but making an exception was an act of kindness.
At the funeral home, one of Adam’s classmates, Tom Streng, sat next to me for so long watching old videos of Adam. The video just kept looping and looping. He sat with me the whole time, as an act of kindness.
That same night, I remember someone coming over to me and saying that a bouquet of flowers had been delivered for me. ME. I was in 6th grade. I had never been given a flower before, let alone had a bouquet delivered especially for me. Sure enough, there was a simple vase filled with yellow roses. They were from a boy in my class, Bobby Packer, who had confessed his undying love to me on the regular for about 3 years straight leading up to this. I still remember my mom telling me that red roses mean love, but yellow roses mean friendship. On one of the hardest days of my life, Bobby extended what I needed most - a sign of friendship, and act of kindness.
This is why we do acts of kindness in October. Because small, generous, thoughtful acts of care and concern are healing, buoying and uplifting. They are meaningful, they are memorable. They help tether lost people to the hope of being found again. From the moment that Adam died, the people around me have been performing small, but meaningful acts of kindness and that has made some very tragic times just a bit more survivable. God has placed people in my life to love me and support me and to walk through this process with me long before they were adults, long before they knew how to support someone in their grief.
In his kindness, God has sweetly and gently brought me through the darkest times in my life, and he has done so by bringing me friends and strangers who weren’t afraid to be there, even when it was uncomfortable. Friends like Chrisann Hanson, who called me La and wrote AP17 on her shoes with me. Friends, coaches, teachers, neighbors… people who stepped outside of themselves and extended kindness to our family when we were just re-learning how to put one foot in front of the other.
So. That’s why. For every person who has asked why we are all out there blabbing about what kindnesses we do. This is why. Because kindness can make a real, lasting impact on people’s lives. And I think that is worth sharing and celebrating.
My beautiful friend, Sue Delgatti, has continually showered my family with kindness over the past few years. She has been one of the most active participants in October and Sue is no stranger to loss and heartache. She has overcome a world of challenges… and here’s what she sent me today, completely unsolicited:
I love participating in this movement because I believe in kindness! I believe it can make a difference. I believe it helps me be a better person. I believe that God wants us to use great sadness and brokenness for good and I believe it helps us heal. Participating brings me this odd sense of joy and takes my eyes off me. I’m encouraging you all to try it because I’m pretty sure you’ll like the way it makes you feel. Kindness IS contagious and I think you will be surprised at how it becomes part of your life and the joy that it brings. So.... jump on into #AdamsActs and #catchthekindness! Make someone smile, be an encourager!!! As is often said- “be the change you want to see in world”
Sue basically sent me a commercial for #AdamsActs. Just a little plug out of the blue in case someone needed it. This is kindness people. When you are so in tune with the needs of the people around you that you meet those needs before they even realize they had the need. Because what Sue doesn’t know, is that today I was fielding a little bit of criticism about publicizing kindness. This happens every year, but more and more as the blog gets bigger. Tomorrow I will address some of this - and probably the state of the nation as a whole - but mama needed to cool off first. What I needed was a reminder that what we are doing matters, that it pleases God because we are loving his children. In the same way that so many of you loved on that lost little child after her brother was taken away so suddenly. Kindness gives birth to more kindness. That is as noble a goal to pursue as any, and definitely one worth sharing.