Upside Down in a Ditch

I've been mulling over this blog post for several months . . . since November 11, actually.  When this happened...

In a split-second, after Anthony misjudged a turn in a pre-dawn, sleet-induced haze, we landed upside-down in a deep ditch alongside a state highway in (very) rural Missouri as we were headed from our hotel to pick up our four kids at his grandmother's house, where they had been staying during our brief visit, so we could get started on our 11-hour road trip home by 5 AM so our oldest daughter could make it to her night class and our youngest daughter could make it to a photo session at 5 PM for a community theater production in which she was performing.

Amazingly, Anthony and I crawled out  with minor scratches and bruises, mainly due to the seat belts, which caused us to hang, bat-like, inside the vehicle as the cold silence enveloped us and we looked over at each other, simultaneously desperately asking "Are you okay?"  Yes, we were okay. 

The car, not so much.  Our travel plans, not so much.  Neither daughter made it to her Tuesday night activity.  Because we needed a large vehicle and we were 3 hours away from the nearest metropolitan area, it took us 6 hours to get on the road. But meanwhile, there were some inconveniences.  And a good bit of frustration, regret, and second-guessing.  Some blame.  Some wistful thinking while vehicle shopping. All because of a moment in time and a decision that was made.

As the days and weeks progressed, God impressed upon my heart some lessons related to this mishap, lessons that I am still mulling over and not even pretending to have truly learned.  

On Thanksgiving, during a round-table family discussion all the adults were having after stuffing ourselves, I attempted to verbalize the beginnings of what God was showing me, declaring that:

"When you are upside down in a ditch, you become very thankful for being right-side-up on the road."

On that fateful day in November, after finally finding a rental minivan, we drove to get our belongings from the place where our SUV was towed; on the way, we saw this glorious golden tree atop a snow-dusted hill.  Our son Alec (who is 13 but an old soul), yelled "Stop dad!  We have to make a picture of that!"  Because in our neck of the woods, the autumnal glory of that tree would never be juxtaposed with the pristine whiteness of snow.  It was beautiful.  But the antithetical elements seemed a bit unnatural.  An unbalanced equation.  

Like life sometimes.  

While hanging upside down in our SUV, the world was topsy-turvy and just didn't make sense.  Down was up.  Up was down. Random junk that normally was crammed into crevices and compartments was now scattered on the ceiling-like windshield, through which smashed blades of grass - rather than the road and horizon ahead - were visible, along with a few inches of ice-cold water that the SUV had displaced and through which we had to wade after we unbuckled our harnesses and crawled out of the only door that we could open.  We were not prepared for freezing weather that morning.  I fortunately did have a coat and gloves, but my flimsy flats were woefully inadequate, as were my Northwest-raised husband's shorts and flip-flops (his usual clothing choices for all days except for a few weeks in the dead of winter)!

After we came to a stop in that ditch, after assessing that Anthony and I were both okay, I started sobbing.  I cried out "God, what else? What else?"

Life gets turned upside down.  

We aren't prepared.  

People - including ourselves - make choices that cause pain.

I began to dwell in the land of disillusionment.  And deferred dreams.  And disappointment. In the worst moments, I pushed aside the gratitude and gave in to the whining. I ignored the comfort of God and other people and gave in to the self-pity.  All of these mental destinations are very easy places for me to feel comfortable. And no, my arrival in those places and decision to "sit and stay awhile" were not only - or even mainly -  about the wreck.  The crash might have been the catalyst, but I'd been looking at travel brochures and standing on the train platform for quite a while.

Devastating decisions made - both by myself and by others - over the last couple of years had caused me to finally buy the ticket and head to this land - a land which seemed to promise that indignant proclamations would right the wrongs and balance the scale and get my life back on the right road, the road I deserved.  After all, aren't we as middle-class Americans taught that if you work hard and pull at those proverbial bootstraps, the world is your oyster, right?!?  Then why, after being a "good girl" (oh, and I was good, just ask my high school classmates who dealt with my self-righteousness for years...), a diligent student, a hard working employee, a loving (though far from perfect) wife, a decent mother, a committed church member, and a stumbling, yet faithful follower of Christ - why after a life well-lived did the pieces not fall into place?  Why?  Why does debt and distrust and disillusionment seem to be the winner more often than not?  

Sometimes life just isn't fair.  Our own bad decisions or the bad decisions of others cause us to be upside down in the metaphorical ditches of life.  Sometimes we know exactly how we got there - a misjudged turn, a patch of ice, a culvert lip a bit too close to the road.  But that knowledge doesn't really help when the world is upside down and we cannot clearly see what lies ahead.  And we're hurting.  Not enough to get in the ambulance, but still hurting.  And sometimes we can't even share the reason why.  There are things that just aren't talked about.  There is a stoicism that is expected, especially when we feel guilty about complaining.  So even if the hurt is socially acceptable, we are loathe to share it. Partially because of our own pride. And partially because, well, there is the friend who has a chronic health problem and the neighbor who lost her grandchild and the fellow church member whose husband lost his job and the couple who is dealing with infertility.  And we mustn't complain. Because that must mean we aren't grateful. 

We are admonished to get out our prayer journals or our thankful lists and watch those worries dissipate and the smiles miraculously conquer the fear.  We are commanded to "pray about everything" and "give thanks in all circumstances."  And in doing so, the world will be set right.

Um, no it won't.

Here's the thing.  I am convinced that you can feel both disillusionment and gratitude in a moment and in life.  You can be both cooperative with and critical of people and institutions and organizations.  Not pointless-whining critical, but critical-thinking critical.  You can see weaknesses and possibilities in the same entity.  You can understand the severity of the car crash, fully living in the instant of heart-pounding fear that accompanies a tumble into a ditch, yet also understand that a car can be replaced and be thankful for safety, even while knowing that the financial and practical impact is going to be huge.  

It's not an all-or-nothing prospect.  We can mourn the lost dream and struggling relationship and the fruitless job interview and the rebellious child, yet still be grateful and ultimately optimistic. Like Langston Hughes' "heavy load," dreams deferred can sag and drag and hurt.  We mess up the trip; others mess up the trip for us.  Do we prance, Pollyanna-like, through those moments?  Some do.  And sometimes I am envious of them.  But I am not one of them.  I've been betrayed and lied to and ignored.  We all have.  Yet I have also betrayed others. I've lied.  I've ignored.

What do we do with the feelings that come as a result of dream-deferring actions?  Those real, raw feelings that we try to move through and push down and minimize with "I'm good, how are you?" responses to people in the hallways and foyers of life. The Sunday School answer is "lay them at the feet of the cross."  "Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus and he will turn your sorrows into joy." His yoke is easy and His burden is light.  Right?  Right.  Yet the lies can continue and the abuse can stay hidden and the debt can still crush. Is it okay to grieve?  To sag a bit?  I think it is.  

The amazing thing that God has shown me over the last couple of years is my own weakness and my desperate need for grace. Even though I could crawl out of that SUV, I could not set it aright and make it drive down the road again.  A crashed car has to be fixed by a professional or sold for parts and scrap.  The driver of the car, even with the best intentions, has to recognize his or her own limitations and understand the powerlessness that accompanies them.  The same is true for a crashed or dented life, no matter who is "at fault." And even though I can plan, and study, and work hard, life sometimes still gives lemons.  And sometimes there is no sugar in the pantry for that proverbial lemonade one is admonished to make.  It has to wait for a trip to the store or the neighbor's house.  Or the desire for lemonade just fades away and a drink of water suffices.  

After weeks of scouring of internet sales sites, I got a replacement for my beloved Honda Pilot - almost the exact same make and model - just a couple of days before Christmas. Our insurance paid off our loan and wrote us a $500 check for the difference - enough to pay a little down payment on the "new" vehicle and put us in a loan that we could manage.  And an SUV with 40,000 fewer miles.  But no heated seats or XM radio.  A give and take.  A paltry complaint, comparatively speaking.

So, all in all, I truly am thankful.

The new year has brought some new perspective, but I still struggle in this area and possibly always will.  I'm an Eeyore, not a Tigger.  Does anyone else get this?  Does it mean we love Jesus less?  I know He's with me always.  In the ditch, on the road, walking through icy water, and sitting in the sun.  But sometimes I cry because of the dreams that are gone, the regret of both spoken and unspoken words, the paths taken and not taken. A rut with a myopic view of pain and unfairness (real or perceived) is such an easy place to land, but it's a dangerous place to stay.

My classroom is on the lower floor of the school in which I teach. Sometimes this is a pain - bad cell service, ants, a boring view of a retaining wall outside my window.  A few months ago, though, I was reminded that for the first 14 years (out of the 20) that I've been a teacher, I had no classroom window at all.  One day, I walked over to the window to get a cell signal so I could send a text during lunch and I looked up.  It had been raining for a few days, so what a joy it was to look up to see the sun peeking through the clouds next to the beautiful golden leaves - the second time in the same month that a lesson had come from a tree in its autumnal glory.  

I'm so glad God is the lifter of my head.

The lessons in these two golden trees have been gifts that have touched my soul in places that are awash in memories of the awkwardness and angst of adolescence and of solitary walks in the woods and afternoons of creek-wading and daydreaming and diary-writing in a Mississippi hollow.  Places that are simultaneously bulwarks of stubborn individualism yet also bastions of doubt-ridden self-consciousness.  Places where I am both proud and ashamed.  Places that still pull me in and tempt me to revel in my selfish desires and "goals."  Goals that I have worked toward with focused ambition and ones that I have thwarted with my own mistakes and hurtful words. And yes, some of those places are ones that I did not choose to go myself.  

Yet in all of those places - the ones of my own doing and the ones where others have sent me unwillingly, I am known by my Creator.  And he gently whispers - through golden leaves and laughter with friends and songs that come on the radio just in time - that he loves me, even in my most Eeyore-like moments.  

He knows about the dreams deferred.  And his Father's heart hurts with me and for me.  

And he lovingly picks me up out of the ditch and sets me back on the road.  And I take a step.