By Rebecca Fisher
Christmas time is that magical time of the year when everything seems possible, and it’s no different for the twenty-seven percent of America’s children living in single-parent homes. But it is a little less magical for the precarious budgets of those single parents.
Every day I wondered if I would have enough money for gas or groceries. Every month I worried I might not be able to pay the utilities, car payment or the credit card that helped us get by when there just wasn’t enough money to go around. And every year, around the middle of November, the slow churn of anxiety began over the obligatory Christmas gifts. I knew I wouldn’t be able to give my daughter everything she hoped for, which wasn’t much when she was younger, but our holiday culture demands every last penny be spent on gifts, and when our pennies run out, there’s the plastic card that makes it all possible.
Like most parents, I cherished Christmas mornings, when my daughter would spring from her bed, waking me with the sky still dark, and behold the wonder of Santa Claus. I wanted it to be perfect, which seemed impossible on my bare budget.
To combat the anxiety and guilt over the impossible, I focused on what I could control. The following are ideas and suggestions made to me by other single-parents that helped make Christmas our favorite holiday of the year without the anxiety, guilt and insurmountable debt.
1. Keep Christmas. The best antidote to the consumerism Christmas we’re all bombarded with is Christmas itself. Every year my family celebrates the greatest gift of all, Jesus - a gift of selfless sacrifice full of love and hope. We read, sing and watch His story together. The only literal gifts involved come from the magi, who offer all they have in thanksgiving and praise. When filled by that story, an iPod seems pretty petty.
But, alas, we are human, and part of our Christmas culture is the gifts. So unless I was going to cut that out entirely, I had to get creative. And I did, by sharing.
2. Share the list. I am blessed to have a large family and wonderful friends who love my daughter and help me raise her up. They are my village and they often ask what my daughter wants for Christmas. This is when I pull out the list and tell them exactly what she wants. Her grandparents often ask to buy the more expensive items. Of course, I agree. I have no interest in taking all of the credit. Most of it goes to Santa anyway.
3. Communicate with the other parent. While some ex-spouses are still busy trying to throw a wrench into every wheel of your life, some are more cooperative. With the latter, discuss what gifts your child wants, who will buy them and how they will be presented to your child. Why buy two of the same thing? Your child doesn’t need it and no one can really afford it. Work together. It will make for a much merrier Christmas.
4. Be honest. The older my daughter gets the more honest and realistic I can be with her when it comes to money. While we don’t need to burden them with all of our financial woes, it’s important to teach them the limits of money. We came up with a budget and she would prioritize. Did she want one large gift or multiple small ones? She gets to decide what she really, really wants and I get to give it to her, though she still thanks Santa…out loud, sitting right next to me with a big smile.
The older my daughter gets, the more she focuses on giving gifts rather than receiving them. I watch her experience the joy of giving and making someone’s day a little brighter. It’s a beautiful thing. Christmas became an opportunity to show her what’s really important about the day and to focus more on it myself.
Rebecca Fisher graduated with a B.A. in English and an M.S. in Education, and teaches high school English. Her own experiences living in a mortuary in Northern California and raising her daughter on her own serve as the inspiration for the many macabre and eccentric encounters in her novel. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.
All the Wrong Places is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble online, and the Rebecca’s website (www.RebeccaFisherBooks.com) in both paperback and e-book format.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Keeping Christmas
By Rebecca Fisher
Full from the evening’s feast - a non-traditional potluck of spaghetti, garlic bread and salad - we gather around and grow quiet as he opens his bible and thumbs carefully through the pages, searching for the passage we hear every Christmas Eve. We fill in every inch of space on the sofa, love seat and wooden chairs carried in from each of our hotel rooms, gathered here from every corner of California.
There are twenty-five of us on average, each one with our eyes now on the patriarch. At ninety-one, his hearing is nearly gone, but his intent and determination unwavering. He reads, voice straining, of the highly favored Mary and obedient Joseph. My heart aches as the story unfolds…no room for our king, born in a stable…come in the most vulnerable of forms and into the humblest of circumstances…sought after by a merciless and cowardly ruler…soon to be mocked, scourged and crucified…sent to save us all by carrying the weight and curse of our sins. Through tears I rejoice with the heavenly host… “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good will toward men.” He closes with a word of prayer and a reminder of the love of story-telling handed down to us all by my grandmother, who passed in 1999. He fights back a tear or two, thanking God for His son and our salvation. We wipe the tears from our eyes and prepare for the main event of the evening.
A stage is set, taking up the remaining part of the living room and the very humble kitchen. The scripts are passed to each of us according to our part in the play. It’s A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, adapted into its current form nearly fifty years ago by my grandmother. This play, born in a small California living room to seven children and their parents, is a tradition that has persevered through four generations and many different locales. We each take our role with anticipation and speak the words of Dickens who beautifully emphasizes family, thanksgiving, compassion and charity as the true spirit of Christmas, our true purpose here on Earth. Newcomers, whether new spouses or otherwise, are initiated with the role of the dead body of Ebenezer Scrooge. They resist the idea briefly, but eventually serve out their sentence, mercifully hidden beneath a make-shift shroud. We sing Christmas Carols as the scenes transition and the narrator unfolds the changing heart of Ebenezer…Silent Night, Joy to the World and finally, We Wish You a Merry Christmas with great emphasis on the figgy pudding.
Despite our lack of props, costumes and stage space, the story told year after year brings joy to everyone involved, mostly my grandfather, a retired Naval Captain, who has heard the story countless times, enjoying it no less tonight. He sits back and smiles, likely reminiscing of years gone by, years with his wife and children in that living room many moons ago.
The evening concludes with my grandfather dressed as Santa Claus (never breaking character, I might add), and passing out gifts to the family, helped of course by the youngest in the room who serve as his elves. Gifts range from homemade fudge and cookies to handcrafted book marks, scarves and jewelry. They mean so much more coming from the heart, much like the Magi who offered their praise with all they had. The day is a frenzy of preparation for this evening with food cooking, gift wrapping and multiple trips to the store across the street.
When Christmas morning arrives and after presents are opened and the customary waffles consumed in the third floor hotel room, we pack our bags, load the car and head back home, grateful for family, traditions and the gift of Jesus. Back home, while the world continues to water down the true meaning of Christmas with big red bows and holiday trees, we remember. We remember because every year we gather together and hear the true story of the holy infant and because we count on the promises He brings. And every day following, we count down to the next Christmas Eve celebration and wait with anticipation for our role in the play.
Rebecca Fisher graduated with a B.A. in English and an M.S. in Education, and teaches high school English. Her own experiences living in a mortuary in Northern California and raising her daughter on her own serve as the inspiration for the many macabre and eccentric encounters in her novel. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.
All the Wrong Places is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble online, and the Rebecca’s website (www.RebeccaFisherBooks.com) in both paperback and e-book format.
Full from the evening’s feast - a non-traditional potluck of spaghetti, garlic bread and salad - we gather around and grow quiet as he opens his bible and thumbs carefully through the pages, searching for the passage we hear every Christmas Eve. We fill in every inch of space on the sofa, love seat and wooden chairs carried in from each of our hotel rooms, gathered here from every corner of California.
There are twenty-five of us on average, each one with our eyes now on the patriarch. At ninety-one, his hearing is nearly gone, but his intent and determination unwavering. He reads, voice straining, of the highly favored Mary and obedient Joseph. My heart aches as the story unfolds…no room for our king, born in a stable…come in the most vulnerable of forms and into the humblest of circumstances…sought after by a merciless and cowardly ruler…soon to be mocked, scourged and crucified…sent to save us all by carrying the weight and curse of our sins. Through tears I rejoice with the heavenly host… “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good will toward men.” He closes with a word of prayer and a reminder of the love of story-telling handed down to us all by my grandmother, who passed in 1999. He fights back a tear or two, thanking God for His son and our salvation. We wipe the tears from our eyes and prepare for the main event of the evening.
A stage is set, taking up the remaining part of the living room and the very humble kitchen. The scripts are passed to each of us according to our part in the play. It’s A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, adapted into its current form nearly fifty years ago by my grandmother. This play, born in a small California living room to seven children and their parents, is a tradition that has persevered through four generations and many different locales. We each take our role with anticipation and speak the words of Dickens who beautifully emphasizes family, thanksgiving, compassion and charity as the true spirit of Christmas, our true purpose here on Earth. Newcomers, whether new spouses or otherwise, are initiated with the role of the dead body of Ebenezer Scrooge. They resist the idea briefly, but eventually serve out their sentence, mercifully hidden beneath a make-shift shroud. We sing Christmas Carols as the scenes transition and the narrator unfolds the changing heart of Ebenezer…Silent Night, Joy to the World and finally, We Wish You a Merry Christmas with great emphasis on the figgy pudding.
Despite our lack of props, costumes and stage space, the story told year after year brings joy to everyone involved, mostly my grandfather, a retired Naval Captain, who has heard the story countless times, enjoying it no less tonight. He sits back and smiles, likely reminiscing of years gone by, years with his wife and children in that living room many moons ago.
The evening concludes with my grandfather dressed as Santa Claus (never breaking character, I might add), and passing out gifts to the family, helped of course by the youngest in the room who serve as his elves. Gifts range from homemade fudge and cookies to handcrafted book marks, scarves and jewelry. They mean so much more coming from the heart, much like the Magi who offered their praise with all they had. The day is a frenzy of preparation for this evening with food cooking, gift wrapping and multiple trips to the store across the street.
When Christmas morning arrives and after presents are opened and the customary waffles consumed in the third floor hotel room, we pack our bags, load the car and head back home, grateful for family, traditions and the gift of Jesus. Back home, while the world continues to water down the true meaning of Christmas with big red bows and holiday trees, we remember. We remember because every year we gather together and hear the true story of the holy infant and because we count on the promises He brings. And every day following, we count down to the next Christmas Eve celebration and wait with anticipation for our role in the play.
Rebecca Fisher graduated with a B.A. in English and an M.S. in Education, and teaches high school English. Her own experiences living in a mortuary in Northern California and raising her daughter on her own serve as the inspiration for the many macabre and eccentric encounters in her novel. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.
All the Wrong Places is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble online, and the Rebecca’s website (www.RebeccaFisherBooks.com) in both paperback and e-book format.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Lessons Learned While Living with the Dead by Rebecca Fisher
The bodies that lay just beyond my front door were rigid and still, lifeless and festooned for their final farewell. For the most part the mortuary was dead quiet, especially after hours, but every now and then it would teem with inexplicable activity.
I had just put the baby to bed for the night and was indulging in the weekly magazine I saved for that quiet time when everyone had gone home or was out picking up our newest client. Just as I had settled into my corner on the couch, the floorboard outside my door creaked with the heaviness of a footstep. With a suddenly accelerated heart rate, I awaited the next step…but it didn’t come. Either someone was standing just outside my door, or I had imagined it. A loud crashing noise shook me from my frightened anticipation. Someone must have returned and was making a raucous while transferring a new body. I slowly opened the door an inch or two, keeping the chain securely fastened. Nobody was in the hallway. Upon thorough investigation of every room, I found that the mortuary was empty, save me and the baby. Walking quickly, as if followed by death, I made my way back to the apartment, heart racing, hair raised. I watched as an orb of light followed close behind my reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway. I raced into the apartment, quickly locked the door – chain, deadbolt and knob – and returned to my corner on the couch, knees pulled up. While I rationalized the events, trying to laugh it off, it came again…the creaking floorboard.
The first thing people ask me when they read my book or hear a bit of my unlikely life story is, “You really lived in a mortuary…with dead people?” Yes, I did. And their next question is always the same…“why?”
I was newly married at twenty years old, six months pregnant and without many options for work and a home. This particular mortuary offered both and it was an offer impossible to pass up despite its obvious flaws. Needing a home and a way to provide for my new baby trumped the trepidation I had about whom, exactly, we would be living with.
The only mortuary experience I could remember before moving into that Northern California, family-owned funeral home was the service for my 92-year-old great grandma. I was barely into the double-digits of life and trembling while my grandpa firmly held my hand and walked me to the casket to pay my respects to one of my favorite people. When I got close, I was stunned by the lack of resemblance between the pasty, soulless body in front of me and the grandma who so often leaned over to peek at my cards while smiling as if she had a secret before asking, “Do you have any 4’s?” He made me kiss her cheek and I remember the smell, of what I now know to be formaldehyde, making me sick to my stomach and the cold, stiff feel of her cheek giving me the chills.
With this my only home-of-the-dead experience and the memories still haunting, I was a tad more than terrified to walk through my new front door. But as is the case with much of the unpleasant in life, I adapted. I began venturing out into the red-carpeted hallway, long and narrow, which led into the business office, casket show-room, chapels and, of course, the embalming room.
I helped after hours since I wasn’t technically an employee, only to find that it’s after hours that the place really comes to life. I ran the vacuum over every inch of carpet, at one point hugely pregnant and later with a baby dangling from a papoose slung over my shoulders. I cleaned the bathrooms, replaced the tissue boxes, collected and documented flower cards and gradually worked my way closer and closer to that room. Once inside, I came face to face with the morbid, matter-of-fact realities of death, and eventually, I painted those faces.
The first lesson I learned is one that has helped me through many uncomfortable situations. Human beings are surprisingly superb at adapting to our environments. At first mention, the idea of living with the dead was unfathomable, and I did spend many terrified moments curled up on the couch anticipating the next haunting footstep, shadow or looming light. But with time, I actually found myself unaffected by their presence, applying their make-up with the same matter-of-fact mindset I had while filing paperwork at a law firm months before, only with more cooperative clientele. I found a way to survive circumstances that had once seemed untenable, and I reminded myself of this when later faced with some of my darkest hours. I would repeat over and over the mantra, “no matter what, I’ll survive.” This mindset helped get me through a violent and at times life-threatening marriage, divorce and custody battle. It helped get me through single-motherhood. It still helps me with the uncomfortable uncertainty of life.
Life is fleeting. This is another lesson I learned from my time with death. The ironic contrast between the death that continually passed through the mortuary doors and the new life I held in my arms was unmistakable. It was terrifying, too, as I was quickly made aware that no one is immune to this certainty. Shortly after I brought my beautiful baby home from the hospital, another mother was bringing her still-born baby to our home for a service. With empathetic grief, I clung tightly to the life I would die to protect and grappled with the inevitability we must all face. I saw many ages, races and faces come through those doors. I saw natural causes and violent tragedies. Many who work in the business find themselves so consumed by death they can’t live life. Many turn to drugs and alcohol. I can’t really blame them. If death is the end of the road, life can seem futile and cruel. Luckily, before I was overwhelmed by the unforgiving and unrelenting reality of death, I caught a glimpse of what would become the most valuable lesson of all.
Any of us can play dead. It is, in fact, recommended as a useful tool while being mauled by bears. Hollywood goes to great lengths to recreate its likeness. But, the truth is, we can’t recreate it. It is undeniable that something is missing when you look at and touch a body that once was a living, breathing person. No matter how much make-up, glue or formaldehyde you use, you will often hear the family say that the body before them is not their loved one. They are most certainly gone…but where to? What is missing that made them who they were? These questions were ever present, and as haunting as the whispers in the hallway. It had been a long time since I had considered the Christian faith I was raised with. But the questions were demanding my attention. I began seeking answers and ironically, that place of death would become the beginning of a new faith and as a result, a radically new life.
Despite the many hair-raising events I suffered while living in that mortuary, I gained a lot from my time there. It was life-changing.
So if you are planning on taking up residence in your local funeral home, I have some advice: brace yourself for what might pass you in the hallways. And be respectful of the dead and their loved ones – for it will, most definitely, be you one day.
I had just put the baby to bed for the night and was indulging in the weekly magazine I saved for that quiet time when everyone had gone home or was out picking up our newest client. Just as I had settled into my corner on the couch, the floorboard outside my door creaked with the heaviness of a footstep. With a suddenly accelerated heart rate, I awaited the next step…but it didn’t come. Either someone was standing just outside my door, or I had imagined it. A loud crashing noise shook me from my frightened anticipation. Someone must have returned and was making a raucous while transferring a new body. I slowly opened the door an inch or two, keeping the chain securely fastened. Nobody was in the hallway. Upon thorough investigation of every room, I found that the mortuary was empty, save me and the baby. Walking quickly, as if followed by death, I made my way back to the apartment, heart racing, hair raised. I watched as an orb of light followed close behind my reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway. I raced into the apartment, quickly locked the door – chain, deadbolt and knob – and returned to my corner on the couch, knees pulled up. While I rationalized the events, trying to laugh it off, it came again…the creaking floorboard.
The first thing people ask me when they read my book or hear a bit of my unlikely life story is, “You really lived in a mortuary…with dead people?” Yes, I did. And their next question is always the same…“why?”
I was newly married at twenty years old, six months pregnant and without many options for work and a home. This particular mortuary offered both and it was an offer impossible to pass up despite its obvious flaws. Needing a home and a way to provide for my new baby trumped the trepidation I had about whom, exactly, we would be living with.
The only mortuary experience I could remember before moving into that Northern California, family-owned funeral home was the service for my 92-year-old great grandma. I was barely into the double-digits of life and trembling while my grandpa firmly held my hand and walked me to the casket to pay my respects to one of my favorite people. When I got close, I was stunned by the lack of resemblance between the pasty, soulless body in front of me and the grandma who so often leaned over to peek at my cards while smiling as if she had a secret before asking, “Do you have any 4’s?” He made me kiss her cheek and I remember the smell, of what I now know to be formaldehyde, making me sick to my stomach and the cold, stiff feel of her cheek giving me the chills.
With this my only home-of-the-dead experience and the memories still haunting, I was a tad more than terrified to walk through my new front door. But as is the case with much of the unpleasant in life, I adapted. I began venturing out into the red-carpeted hallway, long and narrow, which led into the business office, casket show-room, chapels and, of course, the embalming room.
I helped after hours since I wasn’t technically an employee, only to find that it’s after hours that the place really comes to life. I ran the vacuum over every inch of carpet, at one point hugely pregnant and later with a baby dangling from a papoose slung over my shoulders. I cleaned the bathrooms, replaced the tissue boxes, collected and documented flower cards and gradually worked my way closer and closer to that room. Once inside, I came face to face with the morbid, matter-of-fact realities of death, and eventually, I painted those faces.
The first lesson I learned is one that has helped me through many uncomfortable situations. Human beings are surprisingly superb at adapting to our environments. At first mention, the idea of living with the dead was unfathomable, and I did spend many terrified moments curled up on the couch anticipating the next haunting footstep, shadow or looming light. But with time, I actually found myself unaffected by their presence, applying their make-up with the same matter-of-fact mindset I had while filing paperwork at a law firm months before, only with more cooperative clientele. I found a way to survive circumstances that had once seemed untenable, and I reminded myself of this when later faced with some of my darkest hours. I would repeat over and over the mantra, “no matter what, I’ll survive.” This mindset helped get me through a violent and at times life-threatening marriage, divorce and custody battle. It helped get me through single-motherhood. It still helps me with the uncomfortable uncertainty of life.
Life is fleeting. This is another lesson I learned from my time with death. The ironic contrast between the death that continually passed through the mortuary doors and the new life I held in my arms was unmistakable. It was terrifying, too, as I was quickly made aware that no one is immune to this certainty. Shortly after I brought my beautiful baby home from the hospital, another mother was bringing her still-born baby to our home for a service. With empathetic grief, I clung tightly to the life I would die to protect and grappled with the inevitability we must all face. I saw many ages, races and faces come through those doors. I saw natural causes and violent tragedies. Many who work in the business find themselves so consumed by death they can’t live life. Many turn to drugs and alcohol. I can’t really blame them. If death is the end of the road, life can seem futile and cruel. Luckily, before I was overwhelmed by the unforgiving and unrelenting reality of death, I caught a glimpse of what would become the most valuable lesson of all.
Any of us can play dead. It is, in fact, recommended as a useful tool while being mauled by bears. Hollywood goes to great lengths to recreate its likeness. But, the truth is, we can’t recreate it. It is undeniable that something is missing when you look at and touch a body that once was a living, breathing person. No matter how much make-up, glue or formaldehyde you use, you will often hear the family say that the body before them is not their loved one. They are most certainly gone…but where to? What is missing that made them who they were? These questions were ever present, and as haunting as the whispers in the hallway. It had been a long time since I had considered the Christian faith I was raised with. But the questions were demanding my attention. I began seeking answers and ironically, that place of death would become the beginning of a new faith and as a result, a radically new life.
Despite the many hair-raising events I suffered while living in that mortuary, I gained a lot from my time there. It was life-changing.
So if you are planning on taking up residence in your local funeral home, I have some advice: brace yourself for what might pass you in the hallways. And be respectful of the dead and their loved ones – for it will, most definitely, be you one day.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Stepping Stones and Stumbling Blocks
"The only difference between stumbling blocks and stepping stones is in how you use them." Anonymous
The problem with stumbling blocks is how they tend to come out of nowhere. And then, you stumble...unprepared. I wish I could say that I walk through life gracefully. The truth is that I bump into almost everything. I have numerous bruises I can't even account for. If there is a corner, be assured, my thigh/arm/hip/foot will supernaturally find its point. But I'm able to laugh about it later, look at the mass of blue and greenish flesh in amazement, and try to love my clumsy self rather than push it and ask, "Does that hurt?"
So, about turning them into stepping stones. I try to look at each block as an opportunity. If God uses all for the good of those who love Him, and we know He does, then surely He'll use this, right? It works...sometimes...when I can keep that in the forefront of my mind. Other times, I forget, and I trip, landing hard. Sometimes I knowingly stumble, out of habit. I've even stayed on the ground, kicking and screaming, rolling around dramatically in the leaves like Bella. It's not pretty, folks. I have a tendency to take the hard route.
But when He tells me, "Don't be afraid. Take courage. I am here," everything else seems so insignificant. Why stumble when I can step toward something bigger? Tennyson wrote, "...men may rise on stepping stones Of their dead selves to higher things." I have to continually die in order to grow. And I've grown so much. So why, in the dark of the night, does death terrify me...cause me to stumble?
The doctors didn't like what they saw on the x-ray. Based on their level of concern (4 on a 1-5 scale) they'd like to jam a needle into me to find out a little more. Because I can, I opted out of the needle-jabbing and asked for a re-check in four months. "Come back if you start to feel pain," they said. Okay. Sure. I've been trying other things. Supplements, fewer brownies and chocolate croissants, less stress (yeah right), etc. But I started to feel pain...then came the concerned look of my homeopath as she told me that virus and heavy metals are coming up again (markers for cancer). She gave me her juicer. I love her. She said everything I eat is either life or suicide (or something to that effect). Yikes! I went home and stumbled into In-N-Out.
Last night I dreamt that death came for me. We had our windows open because the beautiful breeze promised a lower electric bill. But I saw him outside of my window, and felt him pulling on me. I woke up, terrified. I stumbled, I tripped, I landed hard. I cried out, God, I need you! Please! Where are you?
The truth is, the more I come to know Christ, the more I look forward to going home. I can't wait for His embrace. I think about it often, in fact. But I don't want to go, too. I don't want to miss out on a single moment with my husband, my daughters....my little red snapper and fat cat, my students, my friends, my family, my adorable three-year-old nephew. I suddenly realize how blessed I am. The beautiful contrast of life and death, blessing and suffering, it all becomes clear when the terror of the night has passed. I open His word and He reminds me..."Don't be afraid. Take courage. I am here!" While I'm here - on this broken planet with broken people, with suffering and constant conflict - He has blessed me with so much. He has given me a purpose. He has given me a hope. Why let something like death get in the way? Death has lost its power! Death has lost its sting! Instead, I'll use it to help me get where I want to be...where I need to be. Closer to Him.
So I juiced a carrot and some asparagus. I guess they're really good at combating silly old things like cancer cells. I juiced an apple too and had a spoonful of Nutella. What can I say? I love stumbling over Nutella.
The problem with stumbling blocks is how they tend to come out of nowhere. And then, you stumble...unprepared. I wish I could say that I walk through life gracefully. The truth is that I bump into almost everything. I have numerous bruises I can't even account for. If there is a corner, be assured, my thigh/arm/hip/foot will supernaturally find its point. But I'm able to laugh about it later, look at the mass of blue and greenish flesh in amazement, and try to love my clumsy self rather than push it and ask, "Does that hurt?"
So, about turning them into stepping stones. I try to look at each block as an opportunity. If God uses all for the good of those who love Him, and we know He does, then surely He'll use this, right? It works...sometimes...when I can keep that in the forefront of my mind. Other times, I forget, and I trip, landing hard. Sometimes I knowingly stumble, out of habit. I've even stayed on the ground, kicking and screaming, rolling around dramatically in the leaves like Bella. It's not pretty, folks. I have a tendency to take the hard route.
But when He tells me, "Don't be afraid. Take courage. I am here," everything else seems so insignificant. Why stumble when I can step toward something bigger? Tennyson wrote, "...men may rise on stepping stones Of their dead selves to higher things." I have to continually die in order to grow. And I've grown so much. So why, in the dark of the night, does death terrify me...cause me to stumble?
The doctors didn't like what they saw on the x-ray. Based on their level of concern (4 on a 1-5 scale) they'd like to jam a needle into me to find out a little more. Because I can, I opted out of the needle-jabbing and asked for a re-check in four months. "Come back if you start to feel pain," they said. Okay. Sure. I've been trying other things. Supplements, fewer brownies and chocolate croissants, less stress (yeah right), etc. But I started to feel pain...then came the concerned look of my homeopath as she told me that virus and heavy metals are coming up again (markers for cancer). She gave me her juicer. I love her. She said everything I eat is either life or suicide (or something to that effect). Yikes! I went home and stumbled into In-N-Out.
Last night I dreamt that death came for me. We had our windows open because the beautiful breeze promised a lower electric bill. But I saw him outside of my window, and felt him pulling on me. I woke up, terrified. I stumbled, I tripped, I landed hard. I cried out, God, I need you! Please! Where are you?
The truth is, the more I come to know Christ, the more I look forward to going home. I can't wait for His embrace. I think about it often, in fact. But I don't want to go, too. I don't want to miss out on a single moment with my husband, my daughters....my little red snapper and fat cat, my students, my friends, my family, my adorable three-year-old nephew. I suddenly realize how blessed I am. The beautiful contrast of life and death, blessing and suffering, it all becomes clear when the terror of the night has passed. I open His word and He reminds me..."Don't be afraid. Take courage. I am here!" While I'm here - on this broken planet with broken people, with suffering and constant conflict - He has blessed me with so much. He has given me a purpose. He has given me a hope. Why let something like death get in the way? Death has lost its power! Death has lost its sting! Instead, I'll use it to help me get where I want to be...where I need to be. Closer to Him.
So I juiced a carrot and some asparagus. I guess they're really good at combating silly old things like cancer cells. I juiced an apple too and had a spoonful of Nutella. What can I say? I love stumbling over Nutella.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
It's Not Me, It's You
I’ve had my share of abusive relationships to recognize one when I see it. They stem from a dangerously warped sense of self that tells you you’re lucky to be where you are because no one else could possibly want you. So you put up with a lot and make excuses for staying. You settle for less, or nothing at all. You’re afraid of leaving, imagining all sorts of evils, remembering that old saying “better the devil you know”, and it goes on for years, say five. The stronger you grow the more you’re demeaned. Any sign of confidence or esteem is labeled as unworthy arrogance. When you come to your senses and insist you’re worth more, you’re reminded that there are plenty who can take your place. At some point, when the excuses are gone and you see what God sees, you decide to walk away, imagining all sorts of miracles, remembering the old saying “if God is for me, who can stand against me”, and you step out blindly in faith, declaring your value as a daughter of the King. Sure, there are plenty who can take your place. Pray hard for them, for you know well the road they will tread.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Single-Mom Survival Guide: 5 Ways to Make Motherhood Manageable and Meaningful
The Single-Mom Survival Guide: 5 Ways to Make Motherhood Manageable and Meaningful
By Rebecca Fisher
I remember driving in circles at 2 am one hellish night many years ago after a long night of inconsolable tears and on and off fevers. I was beyond exhausted, having just worked an eight hour day beginning at 6 a.m., taken my daughter to preschool, somehow made it to work on time…only to have to leave early to pick up a suddenly sick child, sit in a pediatrician’s waiting room with other germ-carrying children and diseased toys, pick up the prescribed medications and recommended foods and finally, play nurse all night long.
So there I was at 2 a.m., knowing that the madness would begin again in four short hours, dreading the thought of having to call in sick again as preschools don’t like feverish toddlers as much as bosses don’t like single-mothers…well, at least not when their children are sick. I had no one to nudge in bed next to me and say, “hey, it’s your turn” - no backup plan for day care, as everyone else I knew had a job or zero interest in babysitting a sick child. Somewhere in the middle of my one hundredth circle around the block, I broke, crying aloud “I can’t do this!” between deep, sleep-deprived sobs.
You can imagine the scene. Between paying the bills and making a home; nurturing like a good mommy and disciplining like a good daddy, juggling the ever-changing schedules, recitals, swim-lessons and play-dates and bobbing and weaving around every other obstacle life throws at you without mercy, there comes a moment for all of us single-moms when we realize, this is impossible!
On paper, the demands of single-motherhood are impossible, and yet somehow many of us have found a way to make it work and raise amazing (and surprisingly functional) children. To be more specific, 11.5 million single-mothers in the U.S. have found a way to survive.
What made the impossible possible, sometimes even enjoyable for me? I’ll tell you. I found these five tips, given me by those blessed matriarchs of single-motherhood who had gone before me, the answer to my desperate plea that night.
1. Build a village. The African proverb, “it takes a village to raise a child” is wisdom that is lost on our society, carrying a 50% divorce rate average and the tolerated epidemic of absent-dad syndrome. Millions of mothers are left to fend for themselves with inadequate-to-no support from society, let alone the father of their children. The best thing I ever did was reach out to the community and find people who had experience, strength and hope to offer me. As much as I loved my young friends, they couldn’t relate to me and couldn’t support me. They were always calling to go out drinking and dancing. Partying was their priority. It was understandable. We were only twenty-one. But I needed the support of people who had lived in my shoes and done it successfully. Since my story also involved abuse and alcoholism, I reached out to a program where support for that was offered, and in that group I found many women who had lived through an abusive marriage, the tornadoes of alcoholism and had somehow come out happy, joyous and free; I wanted what they had, and was willing to do whatever they suggested. “Build a village”, they said. Find three good babysitters, always have a plan B, join a mommy and me group, exchange babysitting with other single-mothers, and learn to lean on other people. When a miserable 2 a.m. would roll around again, I had people to lean on, people who would remind me that I just have to survive one day at a time and it would be okay. It was miraculous what those words did for me. Hope got me through those nights. I had dependable babysitters or other moms who could help in emergencies. I had other young moms who could share and laugh about the everyday joys and war-stories that come with motherhood. I learned that we cannot do this alone. We were not meant to do this alone. Do you have a village?
2. Ask for help. Reaching out to that group was difficult, but well worth the humbling walk. There I was, surrounded by support. But here’s the problem: I, like many women, have a difficult time asking for help. Every cell in me fights against it. I feel like society expects me to handle my stuff. My family certainly expected it. The fact that I accepted government health care was frowned upon. I wouldn’t dare take food stamps! Even though I had built a village, I still hesitated to reach out to them. Sometimes that phone felt like it weighed two hundred pounds. Today, I still sometimes trip over my ego and struggle when it comes to asking for what I need, but I also have thousands of examples to remind me of the peace and freedom that follows. Do you ask for help?
3. Cut the fat. I had a therapist ask me once to write down EVERYTHING I did in a given week. When I handed him the list, he looked at me and said something I think all therapists take an oath never to say…out loud, anyway. “This is insane! You are insane!”, he balked at me, and I think somewhere deep inside I agreed. I’m an overachiever and I have a hard time saying no. I got really good at reaching out and getting involved, but that list had grown exponentially. I was juggling not just one full plate, but at least three. I was sternly given the task of cutting out EVERYTHING that wasn’t essential. The thought was terrifying to me, but life as a single-mother is unmanageable all by itself without the added stress of being the brownie troop leader, the secretary of the youth group at church, the treasurer of the Friday night group, and so on. How important is it? I learned to ask myself that question every time some new opportunity or request came my way. Is it worth my sanity? Simplicity became my goal. As much as my nature fights it, simplicity makes motherhood manageable. What can you cut?
4. Me time. As mothers, we find our worlds revolving around our children and can easily find ourselves lost in the mix. Someone asked me once what I did as a hobby, and I think I laughed out loud. But she was dead serious. This was one of those warrior moms who had been in the trenches and survived to tell the tale. She looked at me, brows furrowed, and said, “get a hobby!” She was porcupine bristly, but I knew she cared about me and, more so, about my daughter. When I don’t get enough me time I get cranky and I start to feel resentful. I snap at my daughter for the smallest of things. I had to learn how to have fun. I was far too serious. I can’t count how many times people told me to “lighten up!” or “relax!” So I started taking classes, which led to a degree, which led to a career that I love today. I remember walking around my college campus, so excited to go to my music class. I loved that class. I love music. I stood there in the middle of the grassy quad area and I cried. I was so grateful for that time just for me. And having the courage to take that time for me led to miraculous things. I took a writing class that led to a short story, which has turned into my first novel, All the Wrong Places. Do you have a hobby?
5. The man rule. This one is hard to write about. I cringe when I think about it. But it is so important. My daughter is one of the greatest blessings God has given me. I would protect her with my life. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for her. But there were mistakes I made that left her very vulnerable. Being a single-mom can be lonely. I wanted love again. I wanted a father for my daughter. I made the mistake of bringing that need into our home. I introduced my daughter to men who, at the time, I thought were “the one”. But they weren’t, and time and again I exposed her to that loss of a male figure suddenly disappearing from our lives. Luckily, she wasn’t very old before I learned my lesson. Once again, one of those ladies, those angel mamas looking out for me, suggested I keep men out of our home, at least until I had a ring on my finger and a wedding date set. Our babies depend on us to give them security, to make everything okay. We owe it to them to keep their home secure and consistent. I had to learn to keep my dating life separate from my family life. Our kids deserve that. What’s your man rule?
We all need a little grace. We’re all figuring this out as we go along. Mistakes will be made, and lessons are to be learned. But the biggest mistake is going it alone. It wasn’t meant to be that way - there’s a proverb about it, for goodness’ sake! May we all find our village, humility and serenity on this journey of single-motherhood!
Rebecca Fisher graduated with a B.A. in English and an M.S. in Education, and teaches high school English. Her own experiences living in a mortuary in Northern California and raising her daughter on her own serve as the inspiration for the many macabre and eccentric encounters in her novel. She lives in California with her husband and two daughters.
All the Wrong Places is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble online, and the Rebecca’s website (www.RebeccaFisherBooks.com) in both paperback and e-book format.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The "D" Word: Reading Recommendations
Here are a couple of books I've read on the topic of Divorce and The Step-Family. They've helped me immensely, though I'm a huge advocate of taking what you like and leaving the rest. I don't necessarily agree with all of it, but all of it helped change my perspective on many things. I will add links to Amazon so that you can read a bit of each with more thorough descriptions and reviews.
The first is titled The Smart Step-Family, by Ron L. Deal.
Deal, a family life minister and licensed MFT, looks at every aspect of step-families in the context of a relationship with a forgiving God. It's practical in that he covers many issues faced by step-families everywhere, including the "sea of opposition" facing them, roles in the family, ex-spouses, co-parenting and letters from step-families who "are making it". It was encouraging and convicting.
The other book, Divorce Poison, by Dr. Richard A. Warshak, gives advice on how to recognize and respond to alienation in its many forms, from bad-mouthing to brain-washing, in order to salvage the parent-child relationship. This book offers tools on how to stop reacting and start making a positive change in the relentless cycle of poisoning. Again, this book was very encouraging as well as convicting.
The first is titled The Smart Step-Family, by Ron L. Deal.
Deal, a family life minister and licensed MFT, looks at every aspect of step-families in the context of a relationship with a forgiving God. It's practical in that he covers many issues faced by step-families everywhere, including the "sea of opposition" facing them, roles in the family, ex-spouses, co-parenting and letters from step-families who "are making it". It was encouraging and convicting.
The other book, Divorce Poison, by Dr. Richard A. Warshak, gives advice on how to recognize and respond to alienation in its many forms, from bad-mouthing to brain-washing, in order to salvage the parent-child relationship. This book offers tools on how to stop reacting and start making a positive change in the relentless cycle of poisoning. Again, this book was very encouraging as well as convicting.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The "D" word...
Divorce
I know why God hates it.
It hurts just to write it.
It's so much more than custody and property and minor's counsel. Though I have to admit, it was quite cathartic to write those courtroom scenes and that miniature minor's counsel into my novel, All the Wrong Places. The truth is that at the end of the day, none of it matters. The war wages on no matter who is made to pay attorney's fees, no matter who gets the better schedule, because horribly torn and broken people are grasping at anything that might promise an ease to the pain. Children are used as leverage, reality becomes relative and insanity ensues. Casey is fleeing from her dark and destructive marriage, but she can't escape it entirely. I know too well. Sin has its price.
Have you ever seen that paper and glue demonstration? You glue two pieces of paper together and give them an hour or so to set. Did you cringe when they were pulled apart, piece by piece, never to be whole or recognizable again? I did. But I had already been torn to pieces by divorce by the time I saw that demonstration in a marriage conference. Yes, a marriage conference. I had already taken a vow once before, repeating blah, blah, blah, blah, you may now kiss the...figuring I'd give it a go. I mean, it seemed like the logical choice. I must have blacked out during every mention of God or worse or poorer or sickness, and definitely the "till death do us" part. I had bigger worries on my mind. Like the baby I would be bringing into the world in short order and the life I might assemble in desperation to offer it. It seemed like the right thing to do. "And the two will become one..."
For a while anyway. Two years tops. That life I had assembled was falling apart. The lies I had glued it together with were too glaring to ignore anymore. Things got lonely, ugly, scary...things got downright life-threatening. The foundation of sand upon which I had built that marriage was sinking. Lies, infidelity, drugs, alcohol, violence. It seemed every evil found its way into the cracks of the empty promises I had made that day at the altar. It was over before it began. Doomed. My paper was torn into shreds. That baby would be torn too, again and again.
There I sat, years later, in a marriage conference, engaged to the most amazing man I know, feeling like the biggest liar and the biggest failure. When they said God hates divorce, I heard, God hates you.
But I told that lie to shut up, yes out loud, because I knew from experience that wasn't true. When I had finally handed that failed marriage over to God, desperate and dying, He had taken my pieces and had begun putting me together again. As I grew more comfortable on my knees and began giving him more and more of my devastated life, He would fill void after void with peace and love. Sounds happy, happy, joy, joyish doesn't it? Well, that process took years and it wasn't a pleasant thing to behold. I grieved over every sinful and selfish choice I had made. I grieved over the carelessness with which I had approached marriage. I grieved over the damage it continued to wreak on my daughter. I would have to make amends for that damage with patience and love even when I wanted to point the finger and attack with wild rage. In time, a long time, I began to feel His healing, and to my amazement He blessed me with another chance.
I was terrified.
With patience and skill you can glue together those pieces of shredded paper. It's exhausting. But if you hold that reassembled paper up to the light you can still see its scars. The light shines through because in the places it was torn, the paper is thin and weak. Those scars still glow and ache today. The fear of failure throbs when life happens and I lose my faith.
God gave me another chance and quite a challenge. But he gave me a partner who knows my pain, who shows compassion and picks me up every time I stumble. We have what is called a "blended family". Sounds p.c. doesn't it? Pretty Cool? Well imagine a bunch of scared and broken people having to trust each other after the hell they've lived through, blaming each other for the life they can't have anymore and the life they do. Imagine all of the years of hard work they put into building that trust with a solid foundation of God, walls of tolerance and love, a roof of reliability and security. It's fragile. Now imagine all of that being undermined by people who don't want it to stand. People whose wounds are torn open again and again every time they see it grow stronger. People who don't know any better than to start fires and throw bombs. People who don't know God. That's the reality of many blended families. That's the reality of ours.
It sucks! Sometimes.
But I remember the rock on which I stand and it helps me to hold on tighter instead of letting go and running as far away as possible.
I didn't give God a chance to heal my first marriage, but He's promised to bless this one because I've given it to Him. Give Him yours.
God hates divorce, not the divorced.
I know why God hates it.
It hurts just to write it.
It's so much more than custody and property and minor's counsel. Though I have to admit, it was quite cathartic to write those courtroom scenes and that miniature minor's counsel into my novel, All the Wrong Places. The truth is that at the end of the day, none of it matters. The war wages on no matter who is made to pay attorney's fees, no matter who gets the better schedule, because horribly torn and broken people are grasping at anything that might promise an ease to the pain. Children are used as leverage, reality becomes relative and insanity ensues. Casey is fleeing from her dark and destructive marriage, but she can't escape it entirely. I know too well. Sin has its price.
Have you ever seen that paper and glue demonstration? You glue two pieces of paper together and give them an hour or so to set. Did you cringe when they were pulled apart, piece by piece, never to be whole or recognizable again? I did. But I had already been torn to pieces by divorce by the time I saw that demonstration in a marriage conference. Yes, a marriage conference. I had already taken a vow once before, repeating blah, blah, blah, blah, you may now kiss the...figuring I'd give it a go. I mean, it seemed like the logical choice. I must have blacked out during every mention of God or worse or poorer or sickness, and definitely the "till death do us" part. I had bigger worries on my mind. Like the baby I would be bringing into the world in short order and the life I might assemble in desperation to offer it. It seemed like the right thing to do. "And the two will become one..."
For a while anyway. Two years tops. That life I had assembled was falling apart. The lies I had glued it together with were too glaring to ignore anymore. Things got lonely, ugly, scary...things got downright life-threatening. The foundation of sand upon which I had built that marriage was sinking. Lies, infidelity, drugs, alcohol, violence. It seemed every evil found its way into the cracks of the empty promises I had made that day at the altar. It was over before it began. Doomed. My paper was torn into shreds. That baby would be torn too, again and again.
There I sat, years later, in a marriage conference, engaged to the most amazing man I know, feeling like the biggest liar and the biggest failure. When they said God hates divorce, I heard, God hates you.
But I told that lie to shut up, yes out loud, because I knew from experience that wasn't true. When I had finally handed that failed marriage over to God, desperate and dying, He had taken my pieces and had begun putting me together again. As I grew more comfortable on my knees and began giving him more and more of my devastated life, He would fill void after void with peace and love. Sounds happy, happy, joy, joyish doesn't it? Well, that process took years and it wasn't a pleasant thing to behold. I grieved over every sinful and selfish choice I had made. I grieved over the carelessness with which I had approached marriage. I grieved over the damage it continued to wreak on my daughter. I would have to make amends for that damage with patience and love even when I wanted to point the finger and attack with wild rage. In time, a long time, I began to feel His healing, and to my amazement He blessed me with another chance.
I was terrified.
With patience and skill you can glue together those pieces of shredded paper. It's exhausting. But if you hold that reassembled paper up to the light you can still see its scars. The light shines through because in the places it was torn, the paper is thin and weak. Those scars still glow and ache today. The fear of failure throbs when life happens and I lose my faith.
God gave me another chance and quite a challenge. But he gave me a partner who knows my pain, who shows compassion and picks me up every time I stumble. We have what is called a "blended family". Sounds p.c. doesn't it? Pretty Cool? Well imagine a bunch of scared and broken people having to trust each other after the hell they've lived through, blaming each other for the life they can't have anymore and the life they do. Imagine all of the years of hard work they put into building that trust with a solid foundation of God, walls of tolerance and love, a roof of reliability and security. It's fragile. Now imagine all of that being undermined by people who don't want it to stand. People whose wounds are torn open again and again every time they see it grow stronger. People who don't know any better than to start fires and throw bombs. People who don't know God. That's the reality of many blended families. That's the reality of ours.
It sucks! Sometimes.
But I remember the rock on which I stand and it helps me to hold on tighter instead of letting go and running as far away as possible.
I didn't give God a chance to heal my first marriage, but He's promised to bless this one because I've given it to Him. Give Him yours.
God hates divorce, not the divorced.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
I've missed you...
It's been a while. And by a while I mean five months. Literally, my blog tells me that my last post was in August. But much has happened since we last spoke.
If you haven't heard lately, I wrote a book. And if you haven't heard lately, then you don't log on to Facebook much or you nixed me as a friend because I've been haunting you all with announcements of its debut on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Google Books. Don't worry, I'll send more :)
It all started about six years ago in an English class at CSUN. Oh the days of English class...in an actual classroom. These days I'm relegated to the online "classroom" where you miss out on all of the face to face debate and pounding of chests, oh and the nodding off of your classmates. I just loved watching others struggle to stay awake, head dropping an inch or two before they awakened quite startled, looked around and slowly but surely closed their eyes again. But don't feel too badly for me. One of my students was actually snoring in class this morning. But I digress...
So the assignment was to write a short story in which you develop a character and some other fancy and insightful direction, but I don't remember the rest of the details. I just know that a scene had been replaying again and again in my mind. A woman is driving in the night and it's raining, the kind of rain you only experience outside of L.A. She has a young daughter of course, but her daughter is asleep in the backseat. This woman is crying because her marriage is over. She's crying because she has nowhere to go. Crying because she doesn't know who she is anymore. She's reached that moment of crisis when you realize just how small and powerless you really are. I wasn't sure how her story would unfold, but I knew one thing. I knew where it would begin. I too had met with that moment of crisis. I too was once lost. I too had felt the significance of my insignificance. I knew that my character would have to fall to her knees and look in the only direction we can in that moment. She would experience the freedom of powerlessness, the unfathomable peace of spiritual awakening, the fulfillment of agape and the hope of new life. She would trudge that promising road, filled with fear and uncertainty, but I would give her what I was given, a new kind of family to carry me through it all.
It's still fun to watch the reaction of people when they come to terms with the fact that really, I'm not kidding, yes, I really did live in a mortuary. And if you know me at all, you know that I love irony. I speak its language. I tease that it's God's way of reminding me I'm not in control. So to have my character find new life while surrounded by death just seemed natural. And I get to share a few of the fascinating and gruesome details of my experiences along the way.
Visit my website for a peek at the first chapter. rebeccafisherbooks.com
If you haven't heard lately, I wrote a book. And if you haven't heard lately, then you don't log on to Facebook much or you nixed me as a friend because I've been haunting you all with announcements of its debut on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Google Books. Don't worry, I'll send more :)
It all started about six years ago in an English class at CSUN. Oh the days of English class...in an actual classroom. These days I'm relegated to the online "classroom" where you miss out on all of the face to face debate and pounding of chests, oh and the nodding off of your classmates. I just loved watching others struggle to stay awake, head dropping an inch or two before they awakened quite startled, looked around and slowly but surely closed their eyes again. But don't feel too badly for me. One of my students was actually snoring in class this morning. But I digress...
So the assignment was to write a short story in which you develop a character and some other fancy and insightful direction, but I don't remember the rest of the details. I just know that a scene had been replaying again and again in my mind. A woman is driving in the night and it's raining, the kind of rain you only experience outside of L.A. She has a young daughter of course, but her daughter is asleep in the backseat. This woman is crying because her marriage is over. She's crying because she has nowhere to go. Crying because she doesn't know who she is anymore. She's reached that moment of crisis when you realize just how small and powerless you really are. I wasn't sure how her story would unfold, but I knew one thing. I knew where it would begin. I too had met with that moment of crisis. I too was once lost. I too had felt the significance of my insignificance. I knew that my character would have to fall to her knees and look in the only direction we can in that moment. She would experience the freedom of powerlessness, the unfathomable peace of spiritual awakening, the fulfillment of agape and the hope of new life. She would trudge that promising road, filled with fear and uncertainty, but I would give her what I was given, a new kind of family to carry me through it all.
It's still fun to watch the reaction of people when they come to terms with the fact that really, I'm not kidding, yes, I really did live in a mortuary. And if you know me at all, you know that I love irony. I speak its language. I tease that it's God's way of reminding me I'm not in control. So to have my character find new life while surrounded by death just seemed natural. And I get to share a few of the fascinating and gruesome details of my experiences along the way.
Visit my website for a peek at the first chapter. rebeccafisherbooks.com
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