Does God Still Love a Drama Queen?

I never knew my grandmother until she died.

I saw her. I spent time with her. I knew her name and saw her a few times a year. I like to tell myself that in those last six years, I got to know her better. My grandfather had preceded her in death and I wonder if maybe she reached out more to us after that because she wanted a chance before she followed after him. I like to tell myself that.

Her name was Helen and my grandfather would have launched a thousand ships just to be with her. Before she died, she told me their love story. She told me how she gave up everything to be his. She paid some dear, dear prices to carry his name. And she told me she would have done it again and again. He adored her for it. I never knew that. I never knew who they were and what they risked for each other.

There was a lot about her I didn’t know.

Many stories about her have since come to light. Some not-so-good. Some charming. Some that comfort me in moments I feel so alone. My father and I have talked many times about her. He loves her in that devoted way sons love their mothers. But he understood her more than I think she ever realized. I ache to hear him talk about her—ache and never want him to stop telling me her stories.

There are stories of her diving into the sea, fully clothed, and reveling in the power of the waves. She encouraged a good dozen kids to join her and walked proudly into the hotel afterward, dripping wet and grinning. There are stories of her, fierce on the tennis court. Skiing off the edge of a pier with her thumbs up, asking to go faster. Reading racy stories with her friends and tossing the pages into the fire, one by one.

And there are other stories. I’ve heard it said she talked too much—rambled and carried on, unaware that the other person was ready to disengage. I’ve heard it said that she was sometimes thoughtless, exclusive, opinionated, and downright hurtful. I’ve read journal entries of broken-hearted people who yearned for her approval and felt they would never have it.

I learned that she fought a long hard war against herself. She spent decades in therapy, desperate to understand herself and change what couldn’t be changed. Her life was blessed with a love that doesn’t seem to exist these days. Love people would kill for. Love that would be enough for other people. My grandfather worshipped her and devoted his life to being her knight in shining armor. But she still fought against sunrise every morning.

She was unlike anyone I have ever known. A person I never knew. And I am just like her.

There is a label for people like my grandmother—people like me. Drama Queen. It’s an ugly label. A person so easily and callously summed up in two words. It’s said with rolled eyes, sighs, and pity or condemnation. Most of the world, it seems, can’t abide people like that.

But when I think of her I don’t use those words. I don’t see a person to roll my eyes or scoff at. I see a woman who tried so hard to love with everything in her. Who tried to battle her inner demons for the sake of a husband and children that she more than worshipped—she stayed for. Against a hard, cold world that hated her for what she was, she stayed. Her life wasn’t easy. She lost a family for loving my grandfather and having faith in something none of us really knows. Her youngest child died of a horrifying disease. Cancer stole years of her life and ending up stealing her husband, too. But she stayed.

There is still so much I don’t know about her. So much I desperately wish I did. Late at night, when it’s dark and still, I lay wrapped up in the quilt she gave me for my wedding and think about her. I think about the legacy in her DNA that’s been passed on to me. The DNA I have already passed on to my children. I think about the years she put on a happy face and never gave up. And I wonder how.

People who knew her and my grandfather have told me my husband and our love is so similar to theirs. He worships me. He devotes his life to being my knight in shining armor. I would give up everything for him again and again. But I still fight against sunrise every morning. My inner demons wage war. I’ve spent years trying to understand myself and change what cannot be changed. I try so hard to love with everything in me.

Against a hard, cold world that hates me for what I am, I stay. For the sake of a husband and children I more than worship, I stay. Even when I don’t want to. I don’t know how she did it, I just know that she did. She was me. Before I even knew what I was. Before I even knew who she was.

I ache to hear her stories—ache and never want to stop hearing them. Even the bad ones. Sometimes especially the bad ones. Maybe someday, I will have a granddaughter that hears my stories—beautiful and ugly—and takes comfort in the threadbare, clumsy re-stitched quilt I made for her. Maybe she will know that I stayed and so she will too.

I carry in my heart the question of what I am and why I am. I have carried this post in my heart for more than a year. I have asked myself if God still loves a Drama Queen. And I wonder if my grandmother wondered that, too.

If I could answer her, I would tell her I don’t care if God loves a Drama Queen or not. Because I love her. All of her.

Pulling Back the Curtain

"Live Deliberately.
"Decide: are you the kind of person things happen to, or the kind of person who makes things happen?"
--James A. Owen


This last weekend saw me at the LTUE conference and symposium. It has long been one of my favorite conferences for a variety of reasons--not the least of which being that I always hear something there that becomes rooted in my soul.

This year was no exception.

There was a veritable feast of information this year but today, I'm going to focus on just one hour. One moment.

I had the great fortune to hear a life-changing Keynote speech by author and illustrator James A. Owen. (To learn more about him, you can visit his website, his Imaginarium Geographica books site, or his site at Simon & Schuster.) He is a talented man: as an artist, an author, a speaker, a human being.

As I mentioned earlier, there was really only one hour for James' speech so I couldn't possibly condense it into a single blog post. I don't know that I'd even want to try. I gave myself carpel tunnel taking notes. My mind was fully engaged. My heart was deeply, profoundly touched. In that one hour, I learned more about myself and what I wanted for my life than I've learned in probably the last five years.

Lucky for you, you can read all about it in this short book James compiled called, Drawing out the Dragons. And if you want, you can get your own copy HERE.

James says it's "basically the keynote with a few added extras." Which is true and not true. There were things said during his keynote that aren't in the book--things that had powerful significance for me. Maybe someday I'll talk about them. Not today.

But what I want to say is that anyone aspiring to any kind of art--be it music, painting, drawing, writing, dancing, ANYTHING--should read this book. Truly, I think anyone wanting to live a life of choice, of deliberate decisions, a life well lived should read it. Yes. It is that powerful to me.

I've read it. I'll re-read it. I'll encourage my children to read it. I encourage you to read it.

So what's it all about? It's the true-life story of a man who made choices: hard choices, lonely choices, monumental and small choices. And it's the best kept secret about helping other people to make worth-while choices of their own. It is changing the way I live my day-to-day. It is changing the way I view my past and my future. It is something I hope I will always, always remember.

There are a few moments in my life I feel like God pulled back the curtain and gave me a glimpse into what is in store for me, what He envisions for me, what I can make of myself. And during that hour, I had another sneak-peek.

Read it. The worst that will happen is that you'll read a really great story. The best that can happen? Well, that is entirely up to you.

Until next time,

L.T.

Standing Outside the Fire

"Don't pray for lighter burdens, but for stronger backs."
--Unknown


The last month or so has seen a lot of bricks in my backpack. Sadly, I'm one of those people who usually whines first and yanks on the bootstraps later. (Working on that.) But somewhere in the beginning of all of this, I found myself on my knees. I found myself asking for a stronger back, for just enough to see things through, for enough hope to keep at it. And today I feel a little stronger.

Oh, I've thrown a few fits, shed more tears than I like to admit, and seriously doubted if I could handle one more day of lugging. I don't know what tomorrow, next week, or even next year will bring, but I feel like I might be able to shoulder more than I thought. Strange that.

Some of life's bricks aren't really bricks. They're little things, daily responsibilities to handle (like getting one of my kids to do his homework). Some other bricks are more like boulders and not as easily shed. And some weights I think I might have to carry for a long time.

But a new thought struck me. Sometimes my backpack is heavier because I try to carry it alone. I don't ask for help--not much. That isn't to say I don't ever lean on others. (I'm pretty sure my husband has developed a limp from all of the times I lean against him.) I just usually don't ask anyone to help me carry my cares. Many times, I pretend like I don't even own a backpack.

"Things are great! Thanks for asking." 

"Nope, we're good. Not much going on with us." 

"Thanks, I appreciate that. Is there anything I can do for you?"

I don't claim to always act this way. If you've read my blog for very long, you know I tend to talk often about my concerns. But generally I try to spin a positive attitude, express gratitude, or reflect the positive outcomes of those moments. I try to, at least. But if I'm going to be honest, sometimes I outright lie about my "invisible" backpack. (Wow. The irony in that sentence makes my head swim.)

There are, and have been, people in my life I've shared my cares with. Some of them have been remarkably patient, understanding, and supportive. I'm not an easy person to know, and I admit that I have a cargo-train's worth of baggage. That's something I consider, in large part, to be the reason the list of people "in the know" is so short.

Another reason is that I've been burned pretty badly. I think everyone has at one point or another. Sometimes we misplace our trust. Sometimes we jump the gun. Sometimes people aren't what we thought they were. Sometimes, something is just too much. And like anyone who's put their fingers too close to the fire, I've learned to keep my hand to myself.

But today, I'm wondering if keeping away from the fire is also keeping me away from warmth. What if shunning the flame is just leaving me out in the dark? One of my favorite country songs is by Garth Brooks and is also the title of this post.*

We call them cool
Those hearts that have no scars to show
The ones that never do let go
And risk the tables being turned 

We call them fools
Who have to dance within the flame
Who chance the sorrow and the shame
That always comes with getting burned

I never thought I was one of those people, calling people fools for risking it all. I always thought I championed people like that. In my heart, I do root for them. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being one of those people willing to risk the flame. I stopped, I flinched, I stepped away. I began to see only the destruction wrought instead of how life-giving fire can be.

Why is it so hard to just say it? I need help. I need a friend. I'm having a hard time doing this alone. Have I been so afraid of the heat that I'm missing out on the ring of people circling the pit? Some of the world's best stories have been told around campfires. As a storyteller myself, isn't it just so wrong that I'm purposely staying away from that? Is it really living if I'm standing out on the fringes?

Life is not tried, it is merely survived if you're standing outside the fire

I wonder if maybe I ought to be willing to admit I have a backpack. A good friend doesn't just help carry your burdens--they also help you set them down and keep you walking onward. And, I think, a really good friend lets you return the favor. But a friend can't do any of these things if you don't let them in.

These are the thoughts rolling around in my head today. I'm not anticipating a full-on bonfire anytime soon. But I do wonder if there isn't something inside of me, telling me that I'm not content to live life this way. That I'm not made for hiding. That sometimes the risk is worth the fear.

There's this love that is burning
Deep in my soul
Constantly yearning to get out of control
Wanting to fly, higher and higher
I can't abide
Standing outside the fire

Maybe it's time I took a risk.

Until next time,

L.T.

*Italicized stanzas and post title from Garth Brook's Standing Outside the Fire