taking inventory

Sometimes I forget who I am.

Not because of early onset Alzheimer's or some form of denial, but more precisely--who I am supposed to be in each particular context at any given time.

On the stage of life, I play many roles.

I am a Presbyterian.
In my church I am a newcomer by the standards of those whose relatives settled here long ago.
As a soprano in the choir I strain to sing high enough, mindful to wear a skirt with a hem low enough.

Finding a place at the table of the Lord within a faith community is not for the faint of heart.

I serve on the board of directors for my church's daycare center.
I am a church lady without any financial training overseeing the operation of this non-profit.
I am often a silent witness.

I choose to be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt, as the saying goes.

I am a ruling elder, the Stated Clerk of Session, and leader of the worship and arts team.
I am one of the youngest members, born in the North, raised as a Catholic. I am a woman.
I weigh what I say and do carefully, not taking my ordination lightly. I want to please God.

What I thought leadership would look and feel like is somewhat different than how it really is.

I am a regular vendor at a farmers' market and on the vendor advisory council.
I am not sure if the farmers know that I grew up on a farm; I am a crafter--the bed bunny lady.
We are all small business owners coming to the market to sell our wares.

We barter; we support one another. We only know each other according to what we sell.

I am one of 24 women on staff at a Baptist church preschool.
I am not drawn toward anything laminated or at what sometimes passes as the arts for children.
I am not a teacher who writes, but a writer who teaches; an artist with a day job.

Babies smile at me and fall asleep in my arms. They know who I am.

I am part of the art community.
Spirituality takes on infinite expressions; judgment not permitted--Guinness welcomed.
Inspiration and creativity come before marketing and self-promotion. We all long to be known.

We seek to touch the hearts and minds of those who want to understand what we have to share.

I am a daughter, sister, aunt, neighbor, citizen, and friend.
Lover of dogs, camper, hiker, coffee drinker, someone who keeps asking questions and seeking truth.
I am an observer of life, a collector of quotes, an admirer of music and art. I love books.

Dream with me. Together we can celebrate life. This is my business slogan.

I am a mother of sons who excel without excuse or the need for others to get competitive.
A mother who has spoiled her boys with the kind of food that makes them not want school lunch.
A mother who will keep believing all is well right up to the point in which it is not.

Motherhood has made me less selfish, and more fierce.

I am the wife of a chemistry teacher who revived his teaching at a traditionally black high school.
I married him when he was in food service which he still does on weekends for a catering company.
Eating healthy with him has added years to my life. He runs marathons; I am a runner of 5Ks.

We manage our household together. What we lack in resources, we make up for in faith.

I am a writer.
It is all I have ever wanted to be.
To express myself in writing is how I translate life, which is why I am taking inventory now.

I choose to serve God with my mind--a choice given me long after I put away the hope for a career.

I am a beloved child of God.
I try not to create division, rather erring on the side of love. I just say no to politics.
I look for ways to reach across beliefs that divide us to discover that which we all hold dear.

I can only be who I am, without shame, playing out all of these roles before an audience of One.

on the precipice

In the midst of unpacking from our recent camping trip to the beach, I notice sticking out from the pile of mail on the counter, a small, padded manila envelope addressed to me.

Though it had been awhile, I recognize the handwriting as unmistakably that of my estranged sister-in-law. I read what seems to be a new return address, still in California, and figure I may as well open it and get it over with--my prevailing thought: What does she want this time?

Pulling the tab at the back of the envelope reveals a gift box from a museum along with a folded sheet of notebook paper. Inside the box is an exquisite green jade bead necklace.

In the one page letter, she tells me she had a few days off from work giving her the opportunity to sort through belongings as well as the emotions they provoked apparently, as friends and family were brought to mind. She makes mention of the necklace, explaining that it was purchased by her mother's sister during a trip she made to China. She remembers my fondness for it; I do not.

She then says she regrets the exchanges we had during her mother's illness and death, and apologizes for hurting me.

One sentence. And I am hurtled back through time and space.

The year is 2004 and we, as in, my husband and our three sons ages 11, 8, and 5, struggle to make ends meet. The matriarch of my husband's family is in her final days, weeks, months. All we know is that difficult decisions seem to be continually before us. We are aware that navigating through this time is something new, different, and painful. We are not always able to do or say the right things. We react instead of respond. We have no idea what we are doing most of the time.

I take on the role of translator as the only adult involved not biologically related. As his family is in crisis, this is my way of offering assistance, not because my family of origin is any less dysfunctional, but because I do not have the history and emotional triggers that keep setting off the members of this family. But try as I may, I am ineffective and have no recourse other than to withdraw.

This is problematic for me because I see my marriage to my husband as giving me a place; a voice in his family. I realize over time, however, it does not always work that way.

On a particularly trying day I cry out to God for wisdom, as I rock in my chair seeking comfort for the pain. I have reached the point in which I want to hurt my sister-in-law as badly as she has hurt me. I try to think of something I can do that is as shocking as some of the decisions she has made. As misguided as my prayer is, I sit, listening for the still, small voice to help me formulate a plan.

Rejoice that the money is not yours, the voice says to my heart.

WHAT?!

The money is not hers either, the voice continues.

The money is mine--always has been and always will be, says the Lord.

And in that moment, I find the strength within me to do the most shocking thing I could do: forgive. I let go of it. All of it. I would begin to trust that in time the estate would be settled fairly and the inheritance would be issued in accordance with the legally binding documents. In time we would receive our share--far more than we were even expecting.

Numerous attempts at communication with my sister-in-law are made: letters, emails, phone calls. All fail.

Five years go by. A brief attempt to let bygones be bygones emerges. It too fails.

One day I come to terms with the fact that perhaps what my sister-in-law said to me years earlier is true: I am not her family. So I stop trying. Altogether. I then reason if I do not exist in her life, then neither do my children, though she would try to remain in contact with them as she could. She still had her brother, though they rarely communicated, since he did not want to act independently from his wife.

Estrangement is not an easy road to walk. Forgiveness is possible with divine intervention. An expression of regret and an apology for the hurt caused is a major step in the right direction.

And yet . . . .

I stand carefully on this precipice, preferring to remain quietly on the solid ground of my truest self and not risk free-falling off another emotional cliff. I am not entirely sure what to do.

It has been ten years.