TobyMac Joins The Adult Table

These days, it seems like I’m surrounded by loss everywhere I go, Visitors. Most of you know that I’m a businesswoman.  I’ve started several small enterprises over the years, the most successful of which have to do with education, childcare, and entry-level housing. These endeavors have yielded a lot of satisfaction and joy, none of them ever employing more than about 20 people or so. I’m in very good company, according the the Small Business and Entrepreneurship Council, firms like the ones I’ve created account for over 80% of existing jobs.

In this day of Covid-19, the political influencers of the spineless variety have elected to pick the winners and losers of the age. Millions and millions of firms like mine say that they have fewer than five months of reserves, and one quarter of us have shuttered permanently already. The capricious, science-free dictates of governors the likes of which Colorado and Michigan have had to endure indicate that five months of closure is within the realm of acceptable, so most of these businesses are not long for this world.

I’ve always had a rabid fear of business debt, so my businesses are likely safe for the time being. My childcare facility is housed at a local Lutheran church, and the congregation has gone overboard in their generosity. My preschool population of families is also overwhelmingly generous, many have paid their tuition in the face of their own job loss, and some have even provided extra for the benefit of furloughed teaching staff.

So I’m relatively safe, as is my staff, for the time being. Yet I survey the outrageous landscape of Colorado governor Jared Polis allowing large businesses like WalMart, Home Depot and Lowes to operate under relatively few restrictions, and Polis ‘making examples’ of small coffeeshops who dare to defy his capricious and unconstitutional emergency orders. I watch Polis give blanket passes to violent and crowded demonstrations. Then, I watch with dismay as my friends who, like me, have poured their lives into their little endeavors, only to see decades of job creation and positive community influence melt away under these shutdown orders.  Doubtless Polis has received much larger contributions from the previously cited corporations, while the little bakery down the street struggles to just make payroll. The unfairness and injustice of this political machination is just heartbreaking, and very, very personal to me.

So I am surrounded by loss on the macro level. The negative energy of this is just draining, and I fear it his only just begun, Visitors.

A few of you know I just completed a graduate degree at Regis University here in Denver. It’s an MS in Criminology, with a heavy emphasis in addiction and psychopathology. Because of this, I’m alert to personal stories of loss like TobyMac’s last October.

I love Toby Mac. Toby is the Justin Timberlake of the squeaky-clean Christian set, producing upbeat, lightweight bubblegum pop for everyone, but most often the teenage youth group bundles of insecurity that grace most Baptist youth group meeting rooms. My kids liked Toby until they were about fourteen. Toby had four kids, and Truett Mckeehan, Toby’s oldest, died last October of an accidental drug overdose. Truett ingested what’s called a ‘speedball’, or a mixture of cocaine and heroin, or in this case a synthetic heroin relative called fentanyl.

The idea with the ingestion of a speedball  is that co-administration of the drugs is meant to provide an intense rush of euphoria while hoping to reduce the negative side effects such as anxiety and heart palpitations that often accompany stimulant use. Opioids are depressants, and fentanyl is dozens of times stronger than heroin. Usually the effects of the cocaine wear off long before the effects of the opioids, and the respiratory depression effect is profound. If Truett’s dealer sold him some of the ‘fent’ that’s making it’s way around Denver, the boy was unreachable the instant the drug hit his brain. The part of his brain that tells his lungs to breathe simply turned off. Truett was dead within minutes.

I was dumbstruck when I heard the news. Toby’s music represented a different era in my life, one that was marked by the heady enthusiasm of our young, growing family, a prosperous community, and defined purpose in life. Profound loss was unimaginable.

I look back on that now, and realize what an irritating Christian that I must have been. Listen to this song of Toby’s from that time. Pay close attention to the lyrics.

Big picture? It’s a great song. It’s catchy, aesthetically pleasing, even danceable. The sentiment is awesome. God’s love is calling you. If you’ve lost your way, it’s never too late, sure, you might have scars, but get up! You’ll shine again! You’ll be fine! (sigh. How grating that must have been to the truly grief-stricken.)

I’m not sure there is much more shattering than the loss of a child. Chris’s death was the hardest thing I have ever had to endure. In his last clear-headed days, he would often tell me how glad he was that none of our children had to experience terminal cancer, and how thankful he was that he didn’t have to watch them die. Convoluted sentiment, but I got it. Perhaps you do too- as adults we have a few more tools to wrestle with the unfairness of horrible illness, and reconcile it to the terrifying unpredictability of a broken world.

I think there are fewer tools, perhaps none, to handle the the abrupt, unfair, world-rocking, faith-destroying,  startling death of a child. Truett’s death rocked Toby to his spirit. Gone are the catchy lyrics, the predictable, pleasing drumlines. Listen to this dissonant piece, and turn the lyrics on.

 

Since Chris’s death, I’ve had the honor of befriending lots of people who have experienced soul-crushing loss. Toby’s sentiments are raw, real, and universal.

Did you notice the incessant rain in Toby’s video? Even his glasses are covered, it’s like his tears simply don’t stop. Did you hear his doubt?

“Is it just across the Jordan? Or a city in the Stars? Are you singing with the angels? Are you happy where you are? ”

Toby’s ‘highkey’ and  ‘extra’ looks are gone. He’s just a middle aged man grieving his son. Wailing at the heavens, under the cloudy skies, questioning his God. Is God really good? Can He really be trusted?

You’re allowed to wonder, Toby, and so are you, Visitors.

I’ve been tracking with Toby since Truett’s death, and have seen some wonderful community come around him. Like Marines who ‘leave no man behind’

or 9/11 rescue workings pulling one of their own from the rubble

Toby’s community pulled around him. Toby’s music has changed. There is an authenticity about it, a generousness. Almost as if Toby’s view has lengthened, and expanded enough to include the truly broken, the doubting, and the ‘bruised reed’ that the Bible talks about, referring to the wounded among us. What we all should be, in whatever capacity we can, when we come across God’s broken and hurting people. He loves them more than we can comprehend, and it’s what He asks us to do.

I’m sure Truett is proud.

Much love,

Victoria

 

Comfort Care in the Age of Opioid Abuse (Or “What Happened in the ER the Day I Broke My Face”)

Sometimes, enduring a bad time is about pain reduction, not elimination.

So, Visitors, I have these two little dogs that we rescued about a year after Chris died. My children were bereft at the loss of their father to cancer, and at the beginning of Year Two, I decided that they needed something else to love. Enter Mia and Gigi, a bonded pair we rescued from the local shelter. For dog lovers, Mia is an Italian Greyhound, and Gigi is a dachsund/IG mix. She’s an odd-looking little thing, sort of like a dachshund on stilts.

      I have this routine where I clip their little retractable leads to the support columns on the outside deck for short periods of time before I start my day. Being nervous little things, they often get entangled around the posts and each others’ leads.  That morning I squatted to untangle the mess, and had a lead in each hand. Unbeknownst to me, I had left about a four-foot portion of the tiny, threadlike, nearly invisible lead strung up between two of the support posts, about three inches off the deck.

This makes for a very effective tripwire. Boom! Down I went like a felled tree, catching myself with my face. I lay there stunned, face down,  as a pool of blood collected beneath my head on the deck.

As awareness returned, I realized I was very badly injured as I hadn’t braced myself with my hands. I staggered upright, hazily trying to locate my phone, blood gushing everywhere. I found my phone, and called the nearest daughter for help. She dropped everything, and headed over. I then called the paramedics and bled a trail out to the front of the driveway where I waited for them to arrive.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting, Visitors. For those of you who don’t have a lot of experience with trauma or illness, I want to tell you there is a great deal of MENTAL activity that is influenced by the PHYSICAL past and present, and vice versa. What happened next is also pretty bloody and descriptive, so be warned.

Before I called for help, I blearily tried to assess the extent of the damage in the bathroom mirror. To my dismay, I could see the outline of my teeth through the split in my lip. Instantly, I was catapulted back to the day in October where I helped a young boy through an automobile trauma that involved a massive hand-sized piece of flesh that had been stripped from his exposed skull. (See “On the Short, Sweet Life of Liesl Wiebe” in the search bar above”. ) The tear in my lip was that deep, and the triggering flashback was completely paralyzing for several minutes. Classic PTSD response.

After that waned, the wash of pain that flooded over me was simply dizzying. I grabbed a hand towel to press to my face as I went outside to wait for the paramedics, weeping uncontrollably. I tried to control my breathing, knowing that if I tensed up and made the pain worse, I would likely lose consciousness and fall again.

One first responder  arrived in his own car, and through tears I got out what happened.

“I am so sorry this happened to you!” he said, as he proceeded with the exam.

“Me too!” I wailed.

The next set of paramedics arrived in an ambulance truck. I repeated the story through the bloody towel.

“Good grief,” said a burly one, who seemed in charge. “Well, your nose is likely broken, which is painful as hell, and that lip needs quite a few stitches.  I’m so sorry!”

“Thank you.” I said. I could feel a bit of mental clarity returning.

“What’s your pain number now, dear?” said another as he pressed my neck and spine.

“An eight.” I said, muffled through the  blood-soaked towel. “Unaided childbirth was a nine.”

“Ohhhhh, shit! ” he muttered.

I laughed just a little, wincing through streaming blood. I could feel my body unclench a  bit with that tiny bit of empathy, and a voice in my head assured me that this will end, I will feel better in the not-too-distant future. I was certain I was headed for a cascade of ‘the good drugs’ if I could just hold it together a little longer. Opioid Heaven, here I come.

The men gave my daughter detailed instructions for the ER, and informed her that since I didn’t lose consciousness, an ambulance ride wasn’t merited. I was happy enough to ride in with her, and was loaded into a wheelchair when we got to the ER.

When I got assigned to a room, a friendly nurse bustled in and performed his assessment.

“Well, that looks like shit and must hurt like the devil. I’m so sorry! Let me tell you about my aunt who got tangled up in HER dog’s lead and broke her hip!”

He compassionately related a similar story of injury, concluding with his aunt’s bouncing return to good health. I could feel myself relaxing a tiny bit more. This will end.

“So you think I’ll live? They can stitch me up soon, right?”

“We see stuff like this all the time, hon. These doctors are good.” I could breathe a little easier.

So I waited, and shortly a red-haired, competent PA came in and did his assessment.

“OK, here’s the plan. We get you stitched up and we will take several scans to look at your head and neck to make sure that’s OK”.

OK. So, what followed was pretty gruesome. He injected several doses of lidocaine into the wound, and I crushed my compassionate daughter’s fingers into a powder during that.  She chattered away and held my hand until the medicine took effect.  Then, he gave me two internal stitches for the inside of the lip, and six to stitch up the outside.

After that horrible procedure, I started to feel a little more like a human being again, instead of a walking mass of pain.

I then saw two sets of imaging technicians, one for CAT scans and one for X-Ray. Each had a compassionate story to tell that involved freakish accidents with pets. I smiled at each one, grateful for the diversion. I felt a little more at ease with each one.

Finally, six hours after the stitches were in place, I realized that the lidocaine was wearing off, and a big bass drum was beginning to play in my head.

“Nurse, may I please have some pain relief?  This is getting bad.”

“Of course.” He promptly scanned my bracelet and dispensed 500 mgs of naproxen, and over the counter anti inflammatory drug, and a single Norco, one of the slightly weaker opioids.

Oh my, I thought. This will be an experiment in trust. I didn’t think that was anywhere close to enough to mitigate the chaos starting in my head.

I downed the drugs, and in less than an hour the pain began to ebb. The capable nurse came in again, and gave me the wonderful news that incredibly, my nose wasn’t broken!

Visitors, what can I say. I like to cook, I like to eat. The prospect of not tasting my food for months until my broken nose was healed was depressing. This whole freakish episode threatened to plummet me into incredible depression. The news that my nose wasn’t broken was welcome indeed. Then my boyfriend arrived – code name, Stockholm- hugged me and held my hand some more. I relaxed a little more.

Eight hours after those whole interlude began, the PA came back to my room. My nose wasn’t broken, my neck and spine looked normal, and I had one upper lip again instead of two.

Oddly, I discovered that all of the compassion and kindness had helped. The single Norco and naproxen had reduced the pain from a shriek to a dull roar, and with so many people around determined to help me, I discovered that I could handle this mess with a minimal amount of chemical intervention. It’s almost as if people are good medicine.

Go figure.

American Visitors, I’m sure all of you know someone, or of someone, who has been touched by this opioid epidemic.

MY particular set of problems that day produced an amazing amount of excruciating pain. The gentle touch, the encouraging word, the capable presence of professionals and friends, all of these things helped to de-escalate the pain to a point where a minimal amount of pain-relieving medicine was necessary. Isn’t that interesting?

I can handle this, as a group of pop philosophers once said,”with a little help from my friends”, and much less help from the opioid bottle than I thought.

The takeaway from this terrible day? Get messy. Call your friends. Offer to help. Go to the hospital. Hold a hand. Use swear words, feel for your friends, be sorry for them, you just might influence a positive  outcome much more than you think.

Much love,

Victoria

 

 

Intimacy and the Stumbling Christian Male (Adult Content)

Not too long ago, I was chatting with my gentleman caller – code name “Stockholm”- about some of our various online dating experiences. Stockholm and I are of type. Middle aged, educated, we take our faith seriously, and are interested in making a difference in the world around us. Stockholm and I have zero interest in the ‘hookup culture’ that seems to permeate the dating world today.

Throwbacks that we are, Stockholm and I share an  interest in romance, in finding another relationship that’s marked by kindness, cherishing one’s partner, and putting the needs of a future partner first.

In the several months that I have been exploring online relationship development, I’ve found that there continues to be a profound disassociation between what people will do or say online, and what will actually occur in the physical world.

Consider intimacy, Visitors.

I’ve long operated on the assumption that humans of all ages crave intimacy. We desire to be known, we want someone close to hear us, to listen to our innermost desires or fears,  to actually view our hopes and dreams in as much vivid color as we see our own.

It is incredible to me how quickly the desire for intimacy  gets transmogrified into a desire for sex.

trans·mog·ri·fy

transˈmäɡrəˌfī,tranz-/

verb

humorous

past tense: transmogrified; past participle: transmogrified

1. transform, especially in a surprising or magical manner.

   “the cucumbers that were ultimately transmogrified into pickles”

   

Anyone who has wandered into the world of online dating knows the drill. Share some basic information, upload some pictures, answer questions that make a stab at intimacy. I get where these dating app developers are going, they are addressing the very desire we are talking about here.

On OKCupid, I have long felt the belle of the ball. I get DOZENS of overtures weekly, sometimes daily. I skim through them, apply some screening criteria, and pick and choose the ones who appear promising. Ones who appear to be solid Christian men, educated and interested in the same things as I. I would respond to overtures, engage in some online back-and-forth chit chat, and generally see where things went.

To date, gentle Visitors, I have been the recipient of FOUR pictures of these gentlemen’s genitalia.

Sit with that for a minute, Visitors, and then you can crack up.

FOUR DICK PICS! FOUR!

These are the SCREENED MEN, Visitors!

The first one, frankly, I was tempted to share with you here. I mean, the opportunities for hilarious mockery were endless. The man in question was not fit, and had taken pains to find a horizontal full length mirror. Wearing nothing but a scowl, he, his limp member  and substantial gut were captured for the world to view, and he sent this treasure to me.

GAG!

The others were more anonymous, which led to some puzzled head-scratching on my part. Ok, so this one was large. This one, a disconcerting shade of purple, this one was most definitely photoshopped to an unappealing length.

WHAT on earth is going on? I ranted about this to Stockholm, and he assured me he found my profile to be articulate, erudite and even funny. Thus, I can’t say I was attracting the trash factor. WHAT on earth made these men think it was OK to do something so demeaning?

( I got this hilarious groaner from the political Stockholm shortly after this discussion-

The friendly Dick Nixon. 

“This is the only Dick Pic you’ll get from me!”  Facepalm!)

As I wandered further in the dating wilds, I screened and met many other interesting men. One, a fit, accomplished leader in the business world, who simply could not stop talking about his accomplishments. They were considerable! He was affluent, well-liked in his world, and had a heart for Philippine orphans. Looking for wife number three, “Ed” was so caught up in his own desire for intimacy, he had no room for mine. I simply could not get a word in edgewise with Ed regarding my own aspirations.

“Dave” was another. Recently divorced, Dave was a COO of a large manufacturing firm. A solid Christian, Dave and I had many discussions about very intimate things. Love, loss, politics, church life, the state of the world, all sorts of closely-held topics. Dave was a world class athlete, well-travelled and a genuine desire to follow Jesus anywhere. Imagine my surprise when I discovered Dave was simultaneously cultivating similar intimacy with other women across the country. (Women, I can feel your eye-rolls from here. Selfish to the extreme. )

The tales of middle-aged, self-absorbed, needy Christ-professing men went on, and on, and on.

It’s enough to wear me out. What to conclude from all of this, Visitors? Well, first off, the desire for human connection is only natural. Really, it is. I get it! I am convinced God made us this way. Very, very few of us are made to be the ‘lone wolves’ of society, we simply need each other.

But at what cost? Honestly, all laughter aside, it disgusted me that these men who seemed appealing thought so little of me that I’d be interested in such pictures. It is dismaying to see that the “Daves” and “Eds” of the world could be so completely self-absorbed that the needs of a partner would simply not be part of the equation. No space for my dreams, no space for my interests or desires.

I can only conclude that the divorced population  of Christian men has some inner work to do. Trust me on this one, gentlemen, grief is hard. You are not ok.  “Getting back up on the horse”- that is to say dating immediately after your divorce- is a simply terrible idea.

Your divorce has left you scarred, just like my widowhood has left me. What can you learn? How can you be a better partner?  Christian men especially, how can you authentically, honestly put the needs of someone else before your own? Things have changed, middle age is different than your twenties, you are different, and believe me, no woman of character wants to see your dick pic.

You know what though? This kind of work rocks. I’ve wrestled with these questions since Chris died. Thank heaven for good counsel, great friends, and the forgiveness of those who love me. We can make progress, we can figure this out, we can find like minded friends. We’ve got this.

I think  I might even ask Stockholm to lunch.

Much love,

Victoria

What’s The Surplus For?

Check out this shot from my ‘surplus years’, Visitors.

This portrait was ten years ago. I was 42, and Chris was the picture of brawny health. A mere four years later, heartache of the most enormous magnitude would be forced on me. My kids would lose a terrific dad, the world lost a funny and talented teacher, and frankly, I would lose a pretty smooth life.

I traded it for scarred and resilient children. I traded it for working all the time with a high degree of focussed intensity, and I traded it for some hard won successes.  In recent years, my inner emotional ‘bank balance’ has been getting pretty hefty. EA is going swimmingly, my dad is OK and my kids are making terrific life choices. Life is good, and I rejoice in this stretch of peaceful sailing.

Lately, it seems a though my situation has been an ‘anguish attractor’. I can’t figure it out. For my Christian visitors, one might ask “What is God doing here?”.

Heartache of all sorts has rained down around me. A dear friend is divorcing an addicted and abusive wife, and asked for my help to rent out his house. Another dear,  close friend lost a relative to a freak accident. Another was just hospitalized for a heart  issue, third time this year. Another has a child who was just diagnosed with bone cancer, stage 3. Yet another has joined the absolute legion of folks my age getting rejected by their spouses and enduring a bitter divorce. All have come to me, seeking counsel from me or merely a listening, supportive ear. I am happy to do what I can.

Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, Chris and I were steered to some wise, Biblically grounded budgeting advice by our pastor. The late Larry Burkett ran a wonderful ministry devoted to helping God’s people learn wise money management according to Scripture. Nearly thirty years later I am reaping what I sowed, and often have a budgetary surplus to share with folks who have less than me.

It occurs to me, Visitors, that surpluses, or ‘extra’ can take many forms. None of my wounded friends are asking me for money, this is Evergreen, after all. But did you ever notice, as time goes on, that the essence of loss is lack?

Ponder that one with me for a minute, Visitors. I lost Chris, the most heartwrenching life experience I’ve had to endure, thus far. In the years he’s been gone, I felt the lack of a friendly companion, a useful partner, a father to these kids, and warm feet under the covers.

The people around me are lacking. Lacking health, lacking loved ones, lacking direction. Our society answers that in curious ways. It frosts my cookies more than I can tell you to listen to the myriad of predators out there who promise the moon to hurting people. I see it with every single hurting situation around me, these days. Take this vacation! Buy these clothes! Eat this product! Use this cosmetic! Do these things and that lack in your soul will be filled! What nonsense.  Listening to these types tell my people that the holes in their souls can be filled by emptying their pocketbooks nearly incites me to violence.

(Perhaps you’ve noticed, Visitors, one thing I lack is tactful diplomacy. My people can’t take this sort of directness. )

See, Visitors, I lost the burning desire to ‘be right’ a long time ago. What drives me now is the desire to be useful. Evergreen Academy is a great example of this. I get the privilege of guiding new parents every day in my job. Most of my clients are self-directed and accomplished, and most are self-aware enough to face their cluelessness head on (My clients are pretty endearing). New parents are easy enough to guide, usually they’re a pretty open bunch.

The newly grieved, though, are an entirely different matter.  The haze of grief is often impenetrable, and is often perceived as permanent. How to be useful to the ones that end up weeping on my shoulder, or slogging through a seemingly endless grief-stricken marsh, like Frodo in Lord of the Rings?

Christian and non- Christian visitors alike, I think the answer to this is found somewhere in the idea of community. Someone I respect once told me that ‘just showing up’ is critical to the meeting of any need. Reaching out in the real and digital domains, a simple “Are you ok? Just checking up on you” enhances the idea that we are not alone, there is a long chain of hands pulling even the saddest of us back from the brink.

I have a surplus of emotional energy now. I’m sure someday that will change, but in the mean time, I’m giving it away. It helps my little community around me, and honestly, it’s the least I can do.

Much love,

Victoria

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Time To Ditch The Term “Sexual Purity”.

I’d like you to meet someone, Visitors.

This is Beauty Beyond Bones. (beautybeyondbones.com) She’s a stunning, young Christian woman who writes a blog about her life, which starts with a very dark description of her bout with anorexia.

Visitors, her story is friggin’ terrifying. I had no idea. For those of us in helping professions, I’d like to steer you to her blog, where she eloquently writes about the depth of self-loathing, self-hatred and utter despair that lashed her mercilessly during her battle for her life. Beauty, as we shall call her, entered an inpatient eating disorders clinic at 5′ 6″ and 78 lbs. She was so skeletal that all of her inpatient medical personnel were on a death watch for this kid, and were surprised when she woke up each morning. She had depleted ALL of her fat stores, including the ones that protected her brain and vital organs. Her body was feeding on her muscles- the biggest concern being that her body would start to devour her heart, and it would stop. Horrifying.

Read here for a heartwrenching description of Beauty’s raging battle with profound dysmorphia. (https://beautybeyondbones.com/2015/03/) Brace yourself, this is a very difficult read. She’s a victorious delight now, and writes about her artistic endeavors in NYC.

Beauty is a true, powerful warrior of the Lord. With the help of the Spirit of God, daily she vanquishes the inner voice of torment that works so hard to convince her that she is unloved, a burden, a parasite, and the world would be a better place without her.

Beauty recently wrote a  troubling column detailing her commitment to her future husband. She wants to preserve her sexuality as a magnificent gift reserved only for the man God is preparing for her.

Read this one, Visitors, there’s something off here.  (https://beautybeyondbones.com/2016/06/13/v-card/.)  Did you catch that? Beauty is a committed Christian woman, yet somehow she’s saddled with the idea that obedience to God’s direction for sexual exclusivity is somehow weird. Granny panties-orthopedic shoes- six cats at home weird. Conspicuous, somehow unnatural, weird.

What’s up with that? What did we, fellow Christians, have to do with adding to, or lightening that burden that weighs on Beauty?

I’d like you to meet someone else, Visitors. Her name is Diane, and I met her through a shared interest in dance.

Diane was blindsided by a recent divorce. She’s the same age as me, and had been married for the same 23 years. Diane was very engaging to me for many reasons. One of which was that her husband presented as if he were an abuse survivor, a topic that they never broached during their marriage. Predictably, physical intimacy was a challenge for Diane and her husband,  one that became insurmountable and eventually was the tipping point that ended the marriage.

Diane was devastated by this. She simply didn’t see it coming. When her husband abruptly had her served with papers, she was plunged into an ice-cold, isolating eddy of despair.

Physically, Diane is one of the most stunning examples of humanity I have seen. She’s an eight time IronMan athlete, her full head of chestnut hair sprinkled with becoming touches of grey. Running is her specialty, she habitually brings home Firsts in her age group in any race she participates. She’s nationally ranked, and coaches running groups of lesser athletes with humor and grace.

I helped Diane pick out some clothes for a student production at her studio. For me, it was a blast to peruse shocking pinks and lively blues and talk about tailoring items to flatter her unusually fit physique.

Diane could hardly stand it. As we got to know each other better, I would be very direct with Diane.

“Di, look at this dress.  It makes your shoulders look great! Your legs look fabulous in this one, and this one makes you look smoking hot all the way around!”  With every observation, Diane seemed to withdraw, to pull farther into herself. It was as if, in her fifth decade, any aspect of healthy sexuality was somehow taboo, off limits for even adult women to discuss. What’s up with that? Two fellow Christians, talking about sexuality-related things. Why should this be hard?

Like all of my post-40, newly divorced friends, Diane was floundering. Everything she thought she knew to be true had been rocked by this profound rejection.  Diane was ashamed of her life,  ashamed of her failed marriage, and doubted God’s love for her.

Privately, sexual intimacy loomed in front of Diane as a solution. If she could find another man to ‘love’ her in this way, someone with whom she could share her most intimate desires, perhaps life would regain some sense of normalcy. Perhaps she would feel better.  Someone to fill her lonely days, someone to appreciate her athletic aspirations, maybe even someone with whom to share the second half of her life.

It is terribly hard for me to watch my divorced friends suffer like this.  Self deceit is a  trap like no other and Diane paid the price.

One freezing Colorado afternoon, I held her hand on the surgical table as the gentle doctor removed a portion of her intimate parts. I gave her tissues as she wept in lonely sorrow over another man who she thought had loved her, and had abandoned her to the ravages of a cancerous sexual infection he had given her.

Diane was alone, rejected,  again.

Christian Visitors,  how can we mitigate this, help ease this suffering of our own?  We simply must drop the shame, that will help.   We must unbind the language of cultural judgement, and attach our value to the word of God. ALL sin is created equal, ALL steps outside of God’s best break the heart of Jesus.  Beauty has enough on her plate without shame, and Diane is bone-tired and weary. We have to talk about these intimate things, and we have to do it in a healthy way.  Science and the Word of God tells us that sex is entangling, every single time. There is no such thing as ‘casual’ sex, ‘free’ sex, or ‘meaningless’ sex. That said, sexuality is a gift! ALL aspects of it!

Beauty, you are simply lovely in your slinky little  dress and stiletto heels. Your makeup is darling, and your fashion sense is impeccable! Diane, you’ve worked very hard on your body, and now, you are the picture of glowing health. Your athletic performance is reflected in your lovely form,  and  you are drop-dead gorgeous in cerulean blue.

American Christians, let’s look at this hurting population through the lens of unconditional love. There is no difference at all between Diane’s mistake and me holding a grudge, or getting angry for no good reason. We are ALL impure.  Jesus made us all righteous, if we allow it.  Let’s start looking at each other how Jesus does.

Much love,

Victoria

 

 

Digital Laziness And Risky Reality- With Single Dad Laughing

So, Visitors, ever notice how rapidly we are losing our humanity behind our screens?

This worries me, on many levels.

In the last column, I detailed to you my excursion into online relationship building. Online hilarity aside, there is something happening here that is essentially broken. In the single week I have been exploring, I have had several texting relationships with interesting men.

I am rapidly losing patience with the online world, so I am developing my own internal standards.  I won’t text with an interesting man for more than three days, for example. Honestly, for me? That’s it. I am all over meeting actual real-life members of the opposite gender who interest me. In real life.

  

What’s more distracting? The lovely woman or the distracting screen? 

It’s been about a week, and about half a dozen of these virtual conversations. So many of these guys are good at online conversation! Witty, entertaining, and interesting as all get out. After day 3, I propose a meeting, and the response rate drops dramatically. Interesting. Texting is so incredibly easy, and so distracting from the real, actual humans on each side.

Here’s what I wonder about screentime, Visitors- what seems to be broken here is a sense of relational work, and I just can’t stand it. Three days is more than enough to decide if you want to have coffee with me, just go ahead and pull the trigger.

Of course, it’s more complicated than that, it always is. See, men in my age demographic have been beaten up. Usually, there’s at least one divorce in the story, and if there are children in the picture, some assorted heartbreak there.

(I’ve discovered I’ve raised intolerant children in that area. I detailed one of these custody-battle stories with my oldest daughter, her response? “Geez Mom, you’d think these guys would have thought this through before having children with someone they really don’t like.” Hmm, some truth to that.)

I get it, men, and it’s ok. You’ve had it rough. You really have, my heart goes out to you. Here’s a suggestion, let’s not overlay that on me, please? Don’t manufacture some sort of grief or pressure that you’ve been carrying, and pretend it’s coming from me.  I’m safe. Stop texting me. Rally some courage. Let’s FaceTime and arrange a coffee date. Real communication is tough, I get it, but you’ve got this, I’m sure.

What’s becoming interesting to me, is that there seems to be very little difference between the men who claim to be Christians, and men who are flat-out prowling for dates.

One of the prowlers propositioned me. It was actually hilarious, and he pulled it off. He was part of the younger set, not quite 40. We were merrily texting away, him as eager as a puppy.

“….We could meet for coffee at the park, and then if we liked each other, we could go back to my apartment?”

Uh, after two days of texting? Pass.

One of the Christians simply couldn’t figure it out.

“Hey Angel, did you sleep well? What’s going on at your job? How are things?  Text me back when you can.”

Gracious! Delightful man, you have a phone in your pocket. Zip the texting, please.

See, Visitors, actual, real-time, face to face communication is risky. Even in some cases, difficult. Check this out-

Stuttering humor. It’s OK! I laughed the loudest! 

You guys know me, I stutter. You know the reason why, a minor brain injury as a toddler. I just about DIED laughing when I saw this on Dan Pearce’s website, Single Dad Laughing. (danoah.com)

Dan is just an amazing blogger and author. I love this guy. Dan has battled obesity, the demise of two marriages, the challenge of adoptive and single parenting, and crippling depression. He’s our tribe, he gets it. Life sucks. It’s just terrible. Awful things happen, and something is waiting around the corner to ambush you, even now.

On the other hand, life is frigging awesome, especially face to face. The love of friends (like you,dear Visitors)  is a gift! The face of a child is hopeful! There really is a God who cares! Whole Foods has cookies and cream ice cream!

The stuttering thing is emblematic of all this, Visitors. See, unlike you fluent speakers, I take nothing about speaking for granted. It’s hella work! My parents were good, I landed in speech therapy around age 6, and stayed there until, oh, about two weeks ago.

I’ve been trained in all of these tiresome fluency techniques, I’m aware of breathe control, articulator use, word choice, soft contacts, blah, blah, blah. It’s like playing the piano. If I practice, I’m pretty good. If you distract me, or I distract myself, things might get a little slow.

Speaking IRL, (In Real Life, for those of us over 45) is a flipping challenge for me.  If you muster up the courage to put down the screen and actually speak to me in the same room, I might stutter. Or take a little longer to say something. Guess what? You get to show me what an awesome real-life person you are! This is how it works-

Me: “Well hi! It’s nice to see you! Shall we go to starbucks and grab a t-t-t”

You: “Table?”

Me: “Yes, table.  Hey, look, that was sweet, but I really can’t stand people finishing my sentences.”

You: “Oh! Ha! Sorry!”

Me: “No worries. ”

See? That’s not so tough. Road bump crossed,  imaginary crisis averted, Victoria awards you mad courage and respect points, and a nice coffee date likely follows.

Gracious. Well, we could go on about this for hours. I guess, before I lose all hope, I’d like to ask you guys to come alongside. Put down the &$#% screen. Have tech-free dinners, tech-free weekends. If you’re married, DO NOT take that thing to bed.

If you’re single, like me? Send me one, last text.

“Starbucks, 5:30. Looking forward to it!”

Much love,

 

Victoria

 

 

 

 

 

Online Dating and the Digital Language of Love

I have news for you, Visitors. I’ve started online dating, and it is a blast.

Nothing for OKCupid?

Now, most of you know me pretty well. I’m a committed Christian, and in my life, I take all comers. I have “normal” friends, single friends, married friends, adulterous friends, gay friends, a dear person who is an authentic transsexual,  deviant friends with every fanged addiction imaginable, and families in every single configuration you can possibly come up with. It’s very enriching.

(I model this take-all-comers attitude in my school as well.  When we admit people, we have a very directed interview, where we explain that we come from a conservative Biblical worldview. Of course, we cover the usual things-curricula, regulations, teacher qualfications, etc.  We also explain, clearly, that your preschooler will get Christmas as Jesus’ birth, Easter as his resurrection, daily prayers, Bible stories, all the things a good, solid, Christian school should provide. Choose EA or not, but know what will happen. )

I had heard about OK Cupid among some of my friends, so I decided to open an account and see what the commotion was all about. I figured there is nothing inherently unBiblical about meeting people like this,  it piqued my curiosity.

Well. Those of you familiar with meeting people this way know the drill. Fill out a profile about yourself, mark some interests, set your limits, and off you go. Gracious! One hour and 253 “likes” later (no exaggeration) I started sifting through all this information.

Good heavens alive, Visitors, what an education! I put down my professional reading for the night, and started reviewing data points.

Data point #1 : Hi! I’m Rich. Ever consider dating a younger man? Your profile looked great! (Rich, 32, teaches English at a public school in Denver)

Data point #2: Hello Beautiful!  I’m Ed. You have a calm “vibe” and I’d like to get to know you better! ( Ed, an engineer at Martin Marietta)

Data point #3: Hello, Gorgeous! I’m  Mitch! (Followed by this groaner) God was surely showing off when he made you! Care to chat? (Senior petroleum engineer at a local oil company)

I quickly activated my ‘predator sensor’ and wrote off the creepy idiots asking for intrusive information. Surprisingly, this was, oh, perhaps 20% of the total. Fewer than I would have thought.  I then wrote off the ones with obvious health problems, for reasons you can guess.

People like Rich, I shelved for further attention, more on that later. “Mitch” and “Ed” types (not their real names, of course) garnered my attention. Why would professional, educated men resort to something like online dating? Are we desperate, boys? (Ooops, pots calling kettles black, came to mind)

So, I gave some thought to this. See, in my case, meeting like-minded, Christian, male buddies is nigh on impossible. I work with a team of delightful women. Middle aged (mostly),  white, devoted-to-their jobs women. All of you know that my dad stroked a while ago, so I gladly take him to HIS church, full of gentle grey heads. I go to grad school with hard-boiled (usually married) cops or fresh-faced twentyish grad students.

Is it too much to ask to hang out  with someone my own age? HA! Not on OK Cupid. This whole thing is just fascinating. As I continued to peruse the data points, I discovered my vocabulary to be lacking. How about these newly-coined words-

Sapiosexual- Someone who views intelligence as the most attractive characteristic. (OK, that’s a pretty cool attribute)

Demisexual- Someone who can only be sexually attracted to someone with whom they have developed a strong emotional bond.  (What? Isn’t it supposed to be like that?)

Omnisexual-(synonym to Pansexual)- Someone who is attracted sexually to both genders.  (Oh, brother, how convenient.)

This exercise in vocabulary development led to a whole new world of ‘blue’ vocabulary that I can’t possibly relate to you, Visitors, without censoring this essay into nonsense.

At any rate, I whittled down this tidal wave of interest into a few likely candidates, so far.

“Rich” piqued my interest immensely. What!  He’s 32! Mommy issues? I won’t lie about my age as a matter of pride. I could be your mother, boy!

Seriously!

What followed was an utterly charming conversation with an athletic young man who actually likes introducing middle schoolers to good literature. Turns out he was at a recent 21 Pilots concert the same night I was, and had just as much fun. This light and fluffy guy actually likes the focus older women possess. Hilarious!

“Ed” was genuine, if a bit of a downer. A parent of adult kids, Ed is four years divorced, and striking out on his own, relationally. Fair enough.

“Mitch” is Armenian, and speaks more graciously than he writes, thank heaven. He’s an attendee of an Armenian Orthodox church, and invited me to a service. I think I shall go!

All of this simply cracks me up, Visitors. The communication skills required in this kind of relationship-building are immense. We only get words until we talk on the phone, and even that is incomplete. Nothing, absolutely nothing, beats in-person communication, and that’s coming next. I’ll keep you posted.

With great hilarity,

Victoria

PS- I love you all, and I can anticipate the cautions a mile off. Remember, I am safety-minded to the point of paranoia. Meeting in crowded, well-lit spots? Yep! Telling someone where I am and when I’ll be back? Got it covered! Applying all of my newly-acquired background check skills to these guys? You betcha!

🙂 V

The Education Of Victoria Faith

My firstborn daughter graduated yesterday, Visitors, and it rocked.

Victoria Faith was the smallest of my biological crew, weighing at at 6 lbs 12 oz. She had the biggest head of the bunch, though, and makes a habit out of apologizing to me every birthday. This running joke still cracks me up.

That head proved to be stuffed with brains, as this kid talked at about eight months, showed remarkable fine motor coordination early, and not an iota of interest in walking until she was nearly 2. Early childhood specialists know that could be cause for concern, so we had that enormous head scanned to check for problems, anomalies and incubating aliens. Nothing out of whack, just a cantaloupe held up on a fragile neck-stalk, and we had to be careful until she grew into it.

It normalized, eventually.

Victoria Faith was, of course, one of four reasons why I felt the burning desire to start Evergreen Academy. As most of you know, Visitors, Jefferson County Public Schools is a flaming train wreck, and is getting worse as time goes by. (More on that later)

Jeffco was in bad shape in the nineties, and I simply could not abide the idea of sacrificing my children on that particular altar. Victoria Faith was a case in point. When she was three, she had a preschool teacher that went a little overboard on phonics instruction for preschoolers. Three year olds should not have direct phonics instruction, and I was constantly correcting that particular teacher. That said, Victoria Faith made these mysterious synaptic connections, and one day when she was four, Chris caught her reading Curious George out loud to herself. Fluently. With expression.

Faith’s intellectual development proceeded by leaps and bounds after that. I knew what was going on, and as with all my kids, I handpicked their public school teachers when they entered public high school. Largely, Faith’s public school teachers were a good influence on her, and Chris and I mitigated the influence of the bad ones.

She rocked the Salutatorian stage.

Chris and I started saving for our children’s post-high school education after they got their Social Security numbers. (With four of them, we knew we better start early. ) When Chris died,  all of the kids really dialed in on the financial arrangements for college.  All of them could see me working hard for that goal, and were hugely appreciative when Poppa wrote the occasional check for that purpose. All of them stayed on task, but Faith’s path was the most torturous, in my opinion. THREE sections of Organic Chemistry? That says “Orgo III Reaction Guide – Wheeee!”.  (I have very sarcastic children.)

Victoria Faith was about thirteen when this picture was taken. Chris was diagnosed shortly after.

Chris left us when Victoria Faith was sixteen, and that considerable brain power was knocked cleanly off the rails. Victoria Faith, like all of my children, was devastated.

I have never gotten permission from my children to detail  here what they experienced when they lost their father. Life was shattered for all of them. They loved their dad. Life, though, has this tendency to go on.

Victoria Faith struggled through her first year at DU. She made it.

She developed her own interests, and her own delightful friend group.

 

 

 

 

She made a wonderful, wonderful connection with this woman, Dr. Robin Tinghitella. Dr. Tinghitella  is a PH.D primary investigator at DU’s Tinghitella Lab, where like minded-scientists study rapid evolutionary change in organisms such as crickets and sticklefish. (http://mysite.du.edu/~rhibbs2/Robin_Tinghitella/Welcome_1.html) With Robin’s rigorous review, Victoria Faith earned a Distinctive UndergraduateThesis award.

All of this with me providing the most minimal, diminishing guidance. Visitors, those of you who , like me, have been visited with loss, remember the days when it seemed like nothing would ever change? Loss is here. It is defining. It rains on my days, it deepens my nights. I will not see the clear light of day anytime soon, maybe not ever.

 

 

 

 

 

Things change, Visitors.

Things change for the better.

 

Like a friend of mine once said – “What are you going to do with it now? ”

I’ll keep you posted.

Much love,

Victoria

Divorced Baby Boomer Men and Later Life Marriage- Take Heart!

So, I had the most charming news a few weeks ago. A very good friend of mine, we’ll call her “Sarah” got married! Sarah was a widow, and her boyfried “Siegfried” (a stout man of German extraction) was a widower. We lost our spouses about the same time, and Sarah vowed she would never marry again.

“I just miss Mitch too much.” (Sarah was like me, married for decades.)

“I can’t imagine ever being a wife to anyone else but Mitch!”

Siegfried was actually a friend of Sarah and Mitch’s for years, they went to church together, and had children about the same age. Siegfried and Sarah lost their spouses within a year of each other.

Sarah grieved Mitch, and after a couple of years, I began to notice Siegfried popping up more and more in conversation. Soon, they began to enjoy each other’s company on a regular basis, and Siegfried began to appear with Sarah at various functions. I would nosily question Sarah about Siegfried, and she’d timidly laugh, and say what a sweet man Siegfried was, and how much fun they had together.

I was delighted for Sarah.

Grief is hard, but so is marriage. Baby Boomer Men, check out the stock picture I found above. Most of you are grey foxes like the model, or on your way there. The chick reminds me a little of myself, agewise.

Remember the satisfying times? Remember why you married in the first place? Remember the times you laughed so hard together your abs hurt? Remember the trips, the new experiences shared, mutual support given?

It’s possible to go to that place again. Maybe it looks different than the first time around, but it can be just as satisfying, just as uplifting, and just as much darn fun.

Just ask Siegfried and Sarah.

(Newlyweds Siegfried and Sarah, 81 and 82, respectively.)

Much love,

Victoria

Divorced Baby Boomer Men and Their Ideas About Relationship “Work”.

NOTE: OOOPS! Somehow, I published an earlier, incomplete, and slightly idiotic version of this column. THIS is what I intended to print, and I hope you like it.

Much love, Victoria

 

Most of you know I started jumping out of planes last year. Christopher, my son, is now a tandem master, coach, and all around top-notch skydiver, so I thought I’d give it a try. It’s really more fun than should be allowed, and has introduced me to a hilarious crowd of bawdy boundary pushers. Among them are a segment of Divorced Baby Boomer Men, and I’ve gotten into some pretty interesting talks.

I have to be careful here with identity disguise, because the community of expert skydivers is so small, they’re pretty recognizable. Let’s call this one “Brian”. Brian is 47, an utterly brilliant skydiver, leader in the field, and organizer. Brian has been married once, and divorced after a handful of years.

“It was too much work, Victoria. If it’s the right one, it should be easy.”

“What does that even mean, Brian? What should be easy? What part?”

” Oh, hell, I don’t know. I just picture our eyes meeting across a room, and we just fall into it.”

Fortunately, these guys are genuinely punchable. I punched Brian on the shoulder, and told him he must be kidding.

Another is an engineer in real life, and skydives as an  expert hobbyist.

“This is how relationships work, Victoria,” he told me in the middle of his divorce. “Find someone you hate, then buy her a house.” Gracious, how cynical.

It’s a funny thing, Visitors. It’s as if this generation of men has checked out of the “Nothing worth having is easy” consensus.

Got it? I’m sure you do.

Divorced Baby Boomer men, of all stripes, seemed to be terrified of this one. This is just a brain-dead one to me, Visitors, because they are so accomplished. At least the ones I hang out with are. Pilots, athletes, businessmen, professors (so many professors) have at least one, perhaps two, broken marriages under their belts.

On the one hand, I get it. Women, if we’re honest, we can be a pretty emasculating bunch. Once we really get to know a man, to the point where we’re calling him ‘our’ man, ‘our’ boyfriend, ‘our’ husband, partner, any form of committed relationship, generally we’ve gotten to know our guy pretty well.

The Divorced Boomers I know have had been knifed pretty well. Remember Maynard, the firefighter in the previous column? Say what you will about bodybuilders, but bodybuilding is Maynard’s ‘thing’. It’s his hobby, what he does when he’s not fighting fires or being a divorced dad. Credit where credit is is due, the man looks like a block of granite, competes and has won prizes.

Obviously, ideas of self worth and masculinity are tied up in the mind of the male bodybuilder. To be knifed by TWO extramarital affairs must have been quite a blow. Completely human to be gunshy.

But on the other hand, is this the first serious setback you’ve ever had, gentleman? Somehow I doubt it. I’d venture to guess you’ve had failed businesses, don’t get along with someone you should, or have had one of many setbacks along the way. No one is invincible, and you’re over 50, after all.

So lean in, boys, this is the good stuff. We’re just as fragile as you are. We’ll meet you in that place, and we’ll give you your chance. Yes, most of us are pretty high maintenance, but you know what? So are you! And it’s OK! We’re all old enough, and smart enough, to figure out what a treasure we can be to each other.

What is 50+ anyway? High noon, as far as I’m concerned.

Much love,
Victoria