Foul-weather friend of the class nerd

Breaking news: I went to church this morning.

Once upon a time, that wouldn't have been newsworthy, but for the past, oh, 15 years, I've been what I've heard called "a C & E christian." C & E = Christmas and Easter. As in, those are the only days I darken the doorway of our chapel.

What's really sad is that I was bribed to go to church by the offer of lunch. In a restaurant. (And a very good lunch it was.)

But go I did. And I'm glad.

While listening to the excellent sermon, it occurred to me that our pastor was describing me: when it comes to my faith, I am the opposite of a "fair-weather friend" who only shows up when things are hunky-dory. Because when the fit hits the shan, I am right there on my knees praying and expecting that God (Jesus/Spirit) will drop everything, do a little happy dance ("Oh, yeah! She remembered me!") and make everything all better.

When Emily had her crisis 20 months ago, and the world as I knew it crumbled to smithereens around me, I was on my knees, head pressed to the floor, tears streaming, praying with every atom of my soul that God would hear me and rescue our desperate family. With shameless gall I asked everyone for prayers. I wrote of miracles, angels and God's mercy. I said, "Thank God," and I meant it more earnestly than ever. I mean every word of it today.

There were miracles. Small ones, big ones. Emily received treatment that could have set us back more than $100,000, but was covered by our insurance. It was treatment that might not have been available in Canada, but was available because we were living out of the country. There are more, but I can't go into them, out of respect for Emily's privacy.

I clung to God.

And, in this case, God saw fit to lift us up, to heal each one of us. I don't believe that God always answers our prayers by "granting wishes" as if he (or she) were some kind of leprechaun or genie in a lamp. He's not Santa Claus! I think, in that respect, the epithet "Father" best applies: He always answers prayer, but He looks at a greater good, a different good, and sometimes that good involves a great deal of pain and loss on our part. His answers aren't always what we want to hear, any more than my answers to my kids are what they want to hear.

But I am so, so grateful He answered as He did.

So what was my response? Like any spoiled brat who gets what she wants, I wandered off and enjoyed my blessings. And, like a kid who befriends the class nerd, I kept my relationship with God a secret. More or less. I only shared it with people who I knew were like-minded.

I wasn't always like that, and perhaps that's why it is difficult for me now.

I grew up in a very evangelical church, was extremely involved in all things christian through high school and university. I was outspoken about my faith, unabashed. As I "grew up" I became more circumspect about my beliefs and a little ashamed of how evangelical I'd been (I still would never dream of evangelizing the way I did as a teenager).

And then I was deeply, unforgiveably hurt by someone I loved and who I thought loved me. My trust was betrayed, and I felt abandoned. And every. Frigging. Time I went to church, there was a minister at the front preaching forgiveness. There was the Lord's prayer: Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Man. If that isn't the toughest challenge.

So I stopped going.

And here I am, painfully aware that God didn't wait for me to forgive before He scooped my family up. Aware that God is willing to be my "secret" friend. Because, for some incomprehensible reason, he is just desperate for me to want him. [Hmm. Maybe He really IS the class nerd. Naw. I already married the class nerd. ;-)]

I have a strong feeling that it's time for me to step up. To be a little more genuine in my faith. I don't have a clue what that will look like, but I think it's time to start investigating, and listening. I have a sinking feeling that it may involve some forgiveness, and I'm not sure what that will look like either.

[I promise not to turn this into a religious blog any more than it is entirely a mommy blog, but this is part of who I am.]

More paperwork!

The packers were only here for half a day yesterday, which was expected. It was only a "pre-pack" - just the stuff we could live without for the weekend. When they come on Monday, they'll pack everything else.

Those of you who are Facebook friends know that the packers actually packed our passports (and all our other important documents (like birth certificates), which we keep in a locked cashbox) into one of the boxes! If we were just moving across town or across the country, it wouldn't be a problem, but we NEED those passports to enter Canada, and especially to retrieve our vehicles. No passport = no stuff crossing the border.

Fortunately, the (very keyed-in) packer came across our stack of (expired) passports. He knew we were moving to Canada and thought we might need them - he didn't notice they were expired. So he brought them to me. I gasped! It took us half an hour to dig through eight boxes (multiple times each) before we found the treasure box. Phew! I don't know what we would have done ...

While the packers were noisily and busily wrapping, stuffing, taping and stacking, a technician came to "certify" all of our high-value electrical items: anything that plugs in and is worth more than $100. With the help of Brian - who is small and can squeeze into awkward spaces - the technician annotated every item, with serial number. He didn't actually turn said items on, or test them in any way, so I'm not sure how this differs from the agonizingly detailed inventory I created, but he gets paid to do it and we aren't covered for damages if we don't, so...

Just before he left for the day, the head packer brought me a sheaf of papers. I thought he wanted me to sign something, but no. They were triplicate forms for us to list every high-value item, with serial number and declared value. I told him I had already done this, but he said, "If it's not on these forms, we don't acknowledge it." Great.

So we now have three inventories: the exhaustive one I laboured over, the one the electrical certifier created, and the triplicate high-value inventory for the moving company.

***

Other move tidbits

Today Steve emptied the crawlspace. I didn't realize how much stuff we had in there, too. Groannnnn. But Brian was excited to see his long-lost Fisher-Price Flip-Track. It hasn't been out of the crawlspace in five years, so I would donate it, but seeing Brian's excitement vetoed that.

Steve and Emily are now on their drive up Pikes Peak. Emily has never been to the top, despite three previous attempts, so it was something she needed to do before we left.

Our fridge and freezer have nothing but bizarre remnants: unsalted butter, meatballs (but we have no tomato or spaghetti sauce), hamburger buns (but no basic bread or meat patties). On the bright side: it'll be easy to clean everything for transport.

We have five huge "china barrels" of crystal and "good" dishes that have nowhere to go at our new house. The dining room is just too small for any kind of china cabinet or hutch, and the kitchen will barely have enough room for our kitchen stuff (and that'll be AFTER we add more cabinets). This downsizing kinda sucks lemons.

Brian is carefully putting each of his treasured Bionicle creations into a ziploc bag so none of the pieces will get lost during the move.

The cat was sedated yesterday because the veterinarian recommended we test the sedative before we give it to her for her long travel day to Canada (and we thought it might be stressful for her to hear all the packing noises). She was very funny to watch - staggering drunk, but still trying to escape the room to which we had confined her. It lasted a good twelve hours.

When we took the cat for her travel certification check-up, the vet noticed that another one of her teeth has gone rotten (she has feline stomatitis). Rather than waiting till we move to Canada, we've scheduled surgery to remove the tooth on Tuesday, while the movers are loading our stuff on the van.

Emily needs bloodwork to check the level of one of her meds (it's one that the body metabolizes differently the longer you are on it). We'll be doing that on Monday morning.

Let the wild rumpus begin!

Here was the plan:
0630 Steve, Wynn Anne and Emily wake up, shower, make beds (Peter and Brian remain in blissful stupor)
0700 Steve takes Emily to have fasting bloodwork done; Landlord arrives with painter to give estimate on painting interior
0800 Packers arrive; Technician arrives to certify all electronics and appliances

Here's what happened:
0630 Steve, Wynn Anne and Emily wake up, shower, make beds (Peter and Brian remain in blissful stupor)
0645 Emily, running on auto-pilot, takes her morning meds - Oops! Now she can't do her bloodwork. Emily goes back to bed.
0740 Landlord and painter arrive

0845 Technician and packers arrive

Have I mentioned that I do not DO mornings? I am the night-owliest of the night owls. I would sooner stay up until three in the morning than GET up at three in the morning. Any time that I have to be up before the first digit on the clock is at least a 7 is painful. So that difference between 0700 promised arrival and 0740 actual arrival represents 40 minutes that I could have been sleeping. Sleeping, I tell you!

On the bright side, stuff is getting wrapped, taped, and boxed. Walls are looking barren. The cat has been sedated and trapped in Emily's room for the duration. The move is HAPPENING.

A loss

Our Lady of the Wayside, Ireland [Photo copyright Wynn Anne Sibbald]

Have you ever noticed that, the more profound your feelings are, the more trite your sentiments sound when you try to put them into words?

Moving kind of sucks.

As a military family, we've moved a lot. We've had nine homes in the 26 years we've been married. When we were newlyweds and when the kids were youngsters, it was every two years. Consequently, we have a whole collection of children's books that deal with moving, from Mr. Rogers' Moving to Heather McKend's Moving Gives Me a Stomach Ache. One of our favourites was Cindy Szekeres' Moving Day - we still have it, and still read it.

For me, moving is usually a time of great excitement: a new place to decorate, new friends to meet, a new job opportunity. When the kids were little, they mostly took it in stride. Katie, especially, would have a new best friend within hours of our arrival at the new home.

But I have to say that these moves have been hardest on Emily. Emily's friends are vitally important to her. But unlike her sister, who leaps into new friendships like a Golden Lab puppy, Emily's more like a cat: she takes a while to really warm up and trust her friends. She makes new friends quickly, but it takes a while before she really lets them in.

At one point when Emily was about 10, we thought we were going to be moving to Germany - a really exciting opportunity for our family. When we told the kids about it, Emily was so distraught that she ran to the bathroom and was sick to her stomach. That move fell through, but a year or so later when we told the kids about our move to Colorado, she took it hard.

She actually toilet-papered our bedroom and used some of my expensive lotions to smear the bathroom mirrors. She was huffy and angry. She sulked, but she didn't talk to us about it. And we didn't pursue it.

What I didn't realize was that the emotional trauma of the move sowed the seeds of a major depression for Emily. Two years later (I'm so sorry it took us that long!) we finally got her into therapy after she ran away from home one evening. The police found her at two in the morning.

And here we are again, facing another move - the last one, we hope. Emily's 17, going into her final year of high school, and she has a really great boyfriend here whom she loves. Could there possibly be a worse time for her to move? I don't think so. It just totally sucks.

Yesterday, Emily took down all the pictures and posters she'd plastered on her bedroom walls. I think, for her, that made the move just too real. Today, she's grieving. She doesn't want hugs, doesn't want to talk about it (with me, at least). She's made a little blanket-walled fort under her craft table and is snuggled there "chatting" with her friends. She just wants to be alone and work through it, I guess.

All I want to do is hold her and make it "all better." But I can't because, really, moving totally sucks. Especially when you're 17, going into your last year of high school, and have to say goodbye to your boyfriend.