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Light Shining out of Darkness

BY WILLIAM COWPER

God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,

And works his sov'reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace;

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding ev'ry hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flow'r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

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Sometimes, I want to say, “I love you, all.” But I find it difficult. So, I say something like, “I’m glad we’re all here.”

We’re so glad we’re here too.

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“The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot for ever fence it out.”

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Forced Retirement

So when a beautiful animated short makes me cry my eyeballs out, I need to pay attention.  I am hit once again that I have experienced a forced-retirement from a job that I held for 20 years with people who were family and dear friends. I get to interact with them substantially less and realized how “work” was certainly my identity, even though I never understood this so much with the millions that this affects. The circumstances around my retirement dictated that I make a career shift into a very unfamiliar world for which I feel so little prepared, so obsolete in my knowledge. Understand, I needed to make the shift. To continue in the same field would have been an unhealthy path; I was showing the signs of burnout and a need for different stimulation. But this came like a crack to the ribs for which I am still struggling to catch my breath and bewildered that something so commonplace could be so painful to live with.

So, I am paying attention to the grief over the loss of identity, the fear of the unknown, the sadness over a differnt friend dynamic and loneliness, the ‘lostness” that I feel in proceeding into a near career.

“Tears fall for a reason, and they are your strength not weakness”  said the horse.

My tears are telling me that, despite the incredibly exhausting distraction I have had for the four months after retirement making trips to care for ailing parents (and my father’s passing), I have merely postponed the grief and bewilderment. I have temporarily traded these uncomfortable emotions for the more familiar anxiety and weariness over caring for family. Christmas provided somewhat of a further distraction but mostly served to remind me how much I am fighting for joy and battling the “weary in doing good” for the last four months.  By the way, even caregivers can have secondary trauma. It’s not just emergency response people who suffer from this. I have been so adverse to hearing my phone ring, to watching shows having anything to do with sad families or death (and why do so many Christmas movies have these themes!?). 

Now, I am facing the new year with a bad, week-long cold, hours in bed, too much time for reflection, and way too many tears that keep reminding that I haven’t dealt with my initial problem:  the forced retirement.

Did I mention what my job was? I was a homeschooling mom.  I just launched my last kid to college (out-of-state). And while many moms with my same career rejoice over the release of this love-hate career and celebrate success in proving that their kid wasn’t severely damaged intellectually for schooling at home, I am surprising myself in how much I am grieving over this huge change in our family dynamic and relationship with my launched kids. I miss them. We actually were very, very close and they provided some of the richest talks about God, the human struggle, culture, and relationships. I feel like such a weirdo over this grief. I have not met any other moms who seem to not be dancing for joy that their kids have moved away. And we were that family that others disapproved of for not helicoptering more, for encouraging independence (learn to use public transportation, survive in the woods, keep duct tape handy). We let them go places earlier than the current trend. We took them on experiences that stretched them (no Disney cruises for us).   Yet, when they launched successfully and found themselves more prepared than many of their peers, I sit at my overly quiet (and very clean) house and cry.  Infuriation!

“Go do a salsa class” “Volunteer more” “Take career classes” “Travel” are all the usual advice I see for this kind of thing. Basically, “Go distract yourself with experiences to help you forget that you have lived through a massive life-altering event.”  This is the kind of event that is up there with getting married and having your first kid. And dying.  This feels more like dying. Not to sound overly morose, but my emotions are handling this as a great loss of a former way of life and mission and identity. This is why some career men can’t handle retirement and succomb to major depression and health decline. I don’t think my peri-menopausal emotions are overexaggerating this time the impact of this change. 

Cue the Extreme Makeover Montage

In a futile attempt to prepare myself for my upcoming retirement, I imagined myself in all sorts of wonderful personal-growth clips:  finally losing 10 pounds, training for and climbing a 14’er, taking interesting professional classes, meeting other women over stimulating lunches and personal retreats, landing a new job as a professioinal writer and everyone amazed that I could be so relevant after taking a 25-year hiatus. Oh, and finally learning to play the piano the way I hear in my head.  This “new me” would have told my daughter, “Oh sorry, sweetheart, I can’t take your call just now. I am getting ready to summit Mr. Bierstadt. Let me call you back in about four hours, okay bye!” Instead of dropping everything and running the phone over to my husband so we can both listen on speakerphone how her mid-term exam went. 

The truth is, I’m tired.  So. very. tired. I was tired before the retirement. I didn’t get any less tired. Driving 14 hours to another state to settle the last one into her dorm in triple digits just about did me in. And then all the health issues came up with three parents. And church became more stressful and less edifying. And my husband and I found out how we were both just really life-weary. 

So I don’t really feel inspired to play piano or have the attention span to take a class. Finding available friends for stimulating lunches is challenging. I am scared to death to look for a writing job. (no thanks, education jobs hold no appeal). 

The only thing I know to do right now is to cry. And to write. I need to stop the castigation over the tears and take a hard look at what I have faced and to appreciate the difficulty. A crack to the rib can put a 250 pound linebacker out of a few games of football (and maybe even make him cry). I need to make room for myself to rest, grieve and heal and to be freshly envisioned for this new stage of life. Maybe imagine a more-realistic personal grow..oh wait…I think I hear my daughter calling…

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Tiny miracles

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Hoarfrost is such an unfortunate name for such a lovely form of precipitation. It sounds so harsh to the ear, an injustice to a visually delicate beauty. I vote to change the name to "fuzzyfrost" or at least "furry freeze" and then one can imagine a dessert or something fluffy.

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“It is the sense of unfamiliar envelopment that is impressive, whether in the living grays of hoarfrost, the crimson of the heavens at sunset, or the golden suffusions of autumn”. ~ Walter J. Phillips