Surrender – I Hate It.

I hate words like surrender.  I hate actions like surrender.  I hate to surrender.  And what I hate I’m attempting.  And don’t like it.  It’s been two years and a few months living a jellyfish status.  A new me brought on by a total thyroidectomy February of 2015.  A self I have never known. 


Sloppy walking. 

Buzzing head. 



Fumbling words. 

This past week I hit my limit.  That same day I heard a talk on the radio about a famous swimming champion Michael Phelps who kept a paper calendar.  Each day he swam, returned home and with red sharpie cut a line through the day.  He was determined to keep an unbroken chain of red marks on the calendar, and did so for many years.  His collection of medals show how effective his unbroken chain of swims had been. 

His story inspired me.  Inside I’m an athlete.  Yes, an athlete who never was, but still inside I house the drive and dreams and the planning of one who is driven by such things.  I have a hard time walking much at all these days.  Still, down in the bones I tear through brush to the top of grand mountains.  I run and run and run some more. Bike till I’m in shreds.  Swim till I’m gasping.  I want to be all that, and can’t.

And so this week, I decided to start an unbroken chain of movement.  I have moved plenty in the past 2 years, with no results.  This time I decided to take the advice of those who help people with my condition for gaining momentum.  I decided to force myself to not overdo.  What that looks like for me right now is to swim 20 minutes per day, six days a week, with one day of palates and hula and stretching, the other 6 days lap swimming.  Just 20 minutes. 

Kind of like eating 1/2 spoonful of ice-cream when my body wants the bucket.  Because although 20 minutes is all I am able to manage the first week, my core is screaming at me to swim that – times 20.  To push myself.  To count laps to a mile, two, and then three.  Kind of a strain-the-body junkie.  An acceptable addiction in this culture, but damaging, nonetheless. 

Which brings me to surrender.  Surrender what I want to do for what just might help me get my health back.  Surrender the fix for what heals.  Surrender looking lazy, old and lame for what my body needs.  I don’t care for surrender.  In fact I hate it.  Will following direction and doing what is best for me prove beneficial?  At this point, I’m 30 pounds over.  I sleep more than I would like.  Am foggy brained and weak and limited.  I’ll keep you posted as day after day my calendar takes on a sharpie mark.  I pray for an unbroken chain. For a stronger body.  And a newly discovered contrite spirit. 

1 Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy,

to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice,

holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.

2 Do not conform to the pattern of this world,

but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. 

Romans 12: 1 and 2 (a)


Mind Fog

I’ve so missed writing.  Day after day I’ve tried.  No luck.  Today I’m writing anyway.  Although I can’t think of a meaningful thing to write. Because my mind is a fog.  Sometimes folks with mind fog have some medical reason for it.  Such as untreated thyroid issues.  In my case, that’s been checked.  All is well in that department.  Mind fog can belong to ADHD.  Ya, I already know I have that but can’t treat it as the medicine can cause the heart reaction (Vtac) that sometimes happens to me.  Mind fog is sometimes caused by peri-menopause… there seems to be no solutions to that one but for the hereafter.  Stress can cause mind fog.  That goes away when one moves to a remote island at someone else’s expense and spends the rest of life sipping water from a coconut.  I haven’t found my benefactor yet, so that’s out.  So instead of hit a brick wall, I thought I’d blather on inside the mind of fog with high hopes that as the ugly thing is found out, it will scuttle away into the shadows.  If any of you have successfully corrected mind fog, I’d love to hear how you did it

The Post Surgery Gift

The Post Surgery Gift

Written two years ago, wobbly and foggy headed. Written from hospital bed high above the Seattle skyline. The surgeon had taken my thyroid, then a second surgery on heels of the first to stop post-surgery hemorrhage. Had a hard time stabilizing, day six of bed-bound hospital day of jello and broth, and out from behind discouragement, Goodness peeked around the corner, reminding me of my amazing life. Here’s to all of you out there struggling along, with an occasional patch of color peeking through the grey.

Jello red it shines
in Pudding bowl and waiting
And chicken broth, a golden hot that warms me

All IV places swelling, bruised
Electric shocks into my hands
The wound from surgery still pains
And pressured chest from walking

But still, red jello shines
The golden broth it warms
And beauty sings above the pain,
A song about my life.

Her eyes they brown as chocolate brown
A smile wide and joyful
His careful placing of the cuff
and working on the details
Raw I feel, and wobbly
Too many days no shower

But still, I see
eyes bright and kind
One working on the details
And beauty sings above the pain.
A song about my life


Thank you Marcelo Leal for the Image.

Trauma Treatment

Written for all who have had multiple traumas and try hard to be “fine”.


Everyone thinks I’m fine

I haven’t been so shut down since parts were cut off me last,

since I was carved on,

cut for the healing of me.

And isn’t that what trauma work is.

A carving.  A clearing out,

a reworking of the old wound

cleared away for the new to heal all complete and pink.

Everyone thinks i’m fine

I haven’t been so shut down since last time I said

“I’m fine, thank you.”

In answer to a question that wasn’t one.

Everyone thinks I’m fine

And that’s OK.

I will be again one day –

And what they think

And what I am will line up nice again.


Priorities by Mary Walter-Feltner


This is written by a dear friend of mine.  

I think it beautifully captures some of the tension we experience as women,

trying to make the very best decisions about our lives.  

Thank you Mary for allowing me to share this.  

While the weak December sun rose outside, pink hues brushed the clouds in flowing waves.  As I looked through my east-facing window in Cincinnati General Hospital’s maternity ward, I was conscious of the thousands of patients, employees, and medical students or residents like my husband Rols.  Invisibly, they swarmed around me in the huge building complex.  Steam from the hospital’s heating plant rose in thin columns; light sparkled on the heavy frost covering every building and piece of equipment.  Industrial noise provided a constant background symphony.  But somehow, the dawn light took me out of all that.  For a few moments, I felt suspended between “the real world” around me and an otherworldly dimension.

Nathaniel, only 12 hours old, lay in my arms.  Our first-born child.  His skin was softer than rose petals.  He radiated a magical, newborn baby smell.  He was, as countless babies have been throughout history, wrapped in swaddling clothes.  His swaddling was a standard issue, thin General Hospital blanket, greyish-white, lined with faded blue and red stripes. 

There I lay, a 29-year-old professional who had previously questioned how children could possibly fit into all my ambitions.  Up to Nathaniel’s birth, I had wanted to use my law degree and masters in community planning to end homelessness and poverty.  My husband had wanted to cure all physical ills.  After all, we were children of the 1960’s; President Kennedy had told us: “Don’t ask what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”  And as eager, young Christians, we felt the call to serve the poor as a religious calling.

Our personal histories also called us to something more. I’d spent a lot of my youth nurturing my younger brothers, and Rols had spent a lot of his youth supporting all his older brothers and sisters. We didn’t want our adult lives to be squished by care-taking.  Yes, we’d have our family, but we would not limit ourselves to just taking care of our own.  Changing the world would come first.

Our personal histories had also been touched by judgments that we wouldn’t or couldn’t achieve anything, and we wanted to prove those judgments wrong. We’d spent countless, late-night hours regaling each other with our dreams of all we wanted to achieve.

Now, in the early morning light, our “do-gooder” ambitions felt like ancient history.  As I held my baby, I felt that all I’d been or ever would be was wrapped into mothering this child.  Everything else had fallen away.  I was A Mother, and nothing else.

Priorities had radically changed for me, overnight.

A plastic, infant bassinet sat next to my hospital bed.  Nathaniel had either lain in my arms or in that little bassinet most of the night.  I had dozed, bone-tired after the labor, on and off.  Occasionally a nurse came to take the baby to the nursery for some reason.  When that happened, I fell more deeply asleep, but woke startled, aware of my empty arms. 

Now, as the sun rose, I became aware of the date – December 24th, 1984.  Christmas Eve.  The date we Christians celebrate the birthday of Jesus, the first-born son of Mary. 

“Well, Mary,” I whispered to the universe, “I guess we’re close to celebrating the same birthday for our first boy child.”  I looked around the room and out the window at the pink clouds.  “The circumstances are a little different.  Your hospital room was a stable, and your bassinet was a manger.  You were perhaps an unwed Jewish teenager.  You lived in an occupied country, threatened by all kinds of dangers.  I’m none of those things.  But I wonder …  Perhaps, when you bore baby Jesus, you felt a little how I’m feeling now.  Sore.  Tired.  Full of awe.  Conscious of the mystery involved in bringing a new life to the world.  Worried for your baby’s future.  Dead certain that your little, red-faced, wrinkly little boy was the most handsome child ever born.”

As the sky brightened a little, I got a little irreverent.

“Being protestant and all, it does feel a little awkward talking to you.  I’m not sure we’re supposed to give you that much credit.  We leave all that to Catholic believers.  But what the heck.  You’re named Mary like me. You’re revered by billions for being the Mother of God, and I’m feeling like I should be raised to a semi-divine status, just for bringing a human being into the world.  Maybe Catholics are right to light candles in your honor.  Maybe people should light candles every time any woman does this amazing thing …

Well, for what it’s worth, and from one Mary to another, I honor your part in the story.  I must hand it to you, you sure were brave to bear and love your baby Jesus if you knew anything about what was destined to happen to Him.  I’m not sure I could have played the part you played in His story.  I couldn’t bear to have anything bad happen to him, ever.”

I grew weepy, looking down at Nathaniel.  “In fact, even though you were the mother of God and all, I don’t think you could have loved your newborn baby Jesus any more than I love this baby.  I really, really want to be a good mother for him, Mary.”

No lightning struck me as I whispered all this to the universe, so perhaps my musings didn’t offend the Heavenly Authorities.  Maybe the heavenly host had a nice chuckle.  Maybe Jesus’ mother smiled.

Soon afterwards, someone came in to help me nurse, Rols arrived for a quick visit, and the phone started ringing.  My surreal, other-worldly experience dissipated.  But my new sense of meaning and purpose remained.

And Then…

John came in 1987, via labor and an emergency C-section, followed by a cross-country move 10 days later.  Alanna was born after a difficult, life-threatening pregnancy and about nine weeks in the hospital, in 1991.  Katherine came in 1994.  Along the way, we did foster care for kids ranging from two to 17 years old.  We ended up adopting Peter and Evie through the state’s foster-adopt program, in 2009.  Rols and I continued to work and do a lot of volunteering. 

Our ambitions to solve world problems were pushed aside by our drive to nurture one-on-one.  Rols and I enjoyed the personal nature of our small practices and our volunteer work.  And — despite or because of – our caring for brothers and sisters when we were growing up, we ended up loving the parenting role.  We became enamored with the idea of having a big family.  Rols liked the idea of having the same number of children his parents had borne – eight.  I like the idea of having 12 children, because that was the number of children in my favorite book as a child, The Family Nobody Wanted, by Helen Grigsby Doss.

Well, we sort of failed in that area, along with falling short in the Sphere of Great Achievements.  We ended up with “only” six children.

In addition to my 1984 “talk” with Jesus’ mother, over the years I’ve talked with relatives, bosses and friends about priorities and children.  Sometimes those conversations touched on the conflict between work ambitions and the desire to have a big family.  Feedback about our priorities was often very critical.  I agreed with some aspect of every point raised by the critics.

Although I usually enjoyed VIP status with my grandmother “Mama,” she was highly critical of how I gushed over the prospects of having lots of children.  She archly sniffed and urged me to limit child-bearing to two children.

“But Mama,” I protested, “You had three children, and my mother – your daughter – had four children.  What’s so wrong with having more than two children?”

She evaded my question, countering with, “Mary dear, you are not a brood cow.  You need to have time for a social life and time with your husband.  Two is enough.”

My mother didn’t criticize me for having more than two children, but constantly told me how wrong it was for me to work at all.  She shook her head and demanded: “Why have children if you’re not going to be there for them?  They need you.  Full-time.  They’re your primary responsibility.  Stop acting like such a — woman’s libber; nothing is more important than being a good mother.”

“But Mom,” I countered.  “You and Dad pushed me to achieve in high school.  You scrimped and saved so I could go to a good college.  You said you were proud of me for going to graduate school.  What was the point of all that education if I don’t actually use it?”

Mom’s response was that my educational achievements enabled me to be an awesome mother, and gave me skills to rely on if something happened to Rols.  And, she concluded, “If I’d known how — irresponsible you’d be about motherhood, I would never have supported all that education.  I assumed you’d know how to assess your priorities.  I can’t believe how — self-centered you are!”

Mom’s position was like those of friends from our church in eastern Washington in the early 1980’s.  Most of them found it difficult to imagine a mother working outside the home with small children, unless the husband died.  Sometimes I was given a little heart-to-heart talk, a Bible verse, or an article about the benefits of full-time mothering.

On the other hand, my close friend Sandy, an environmental activist, supported my idea of working, but lambasted the idea of having a large family on ethical grounds.  “If rampant procreation was ever acceptable, today it’s downright sinful to have more than one or two children.”  She and her husband had chosen not to have any children.  She gave me a package of condoms after Nathaniel was born. 

The senior partner in my practice in Okanogan scoffed at trying to practice law and have children.  He would angrily snuff out his 50th cigarette of the day, lean back in his old swivel chair, and present me with Life Lecture #67: “With kids, you’ll just end up playing at the practice of law. You probably won’t be a good mother, either.  You’ll end up doing a half-ass job at everything.  Look at my daughter.  Laura was going to be an architect.  Now she works part-time as a nurse’s aide and the grandkids run around our place, half-wild.”

“Am I doing a half-ass job here?” I asked.

He’d light a cigarette as his bushy, gray eyebrows scowled at me.

“No.  You’re doing fine.  But having to take care of the kids like you do, you’re sure as hell not going to end up at the top of the legal ladder.”

I remember nodding at him.  He was probably right.

Then again, was it that important to climb to the top of the legal ladder?  The cost, in terms of time, would be very high.  Wouldn’t it be worthwhile to forget the ladder, and just try to contribute some value along the way?

My old friend Rachel from the joint graduate program went the farthest of all the critics.  Back before we had any children, she lectured me: “I just don’t see how you can do any good in the world if you’re tied down by relationships.  You’ve got to be free to give 120%.  You made your first mistake when you got married.  Now you’re talking about kids.  Your life, Mary, is going to devolve into bourgeois mediocrity. You won’t be able to accomplish anything of any worth in your life the way you’re going.”

Along with all the other critics, Rachel had a point.

Thirty years later, many things have changed.  My grandmother is gone now; my mother, presented with three daughters-in-law who also work, has toned down her rhetoric.  While my activist friends gave up on me, other friends share my angst about balancing work, mothering, and contributing to the universe. 

Not Wanted


“I’m not wanted.”  I can say the words and blood, it rushes fast toward face, fills with heat burn.  Hot tension, pounding the words into the shame place of flesh.  “Not Wanted.”  Salt tears sting eyes at the rawness of the thing.  Chest tightens.  Heart blasting beats to the rhythm of rejection.  “Not wanted.”  A cut deeper than not liked, not needed, not appreciated.  Words that gnarl more than ugly and stupid. 

To be wanted is to be wished for.  A wish come true by just being, as is.  It’s the best thing in the world to be wanted.  Hoped for.  Dreamed of.  Which is why being not wanted gouges into flesh and leaves us immobile and self loathing.  It’s as if we decide to take up the rejection, right along with the one who doesn’t want me.  I don’t want me either.  The place where self hate, cutting, shooting up, hiding, and suicide resides.  Not all self loathing and suicide of course, but some.   

“Not wanted.”  We’re ok to say it to each other in rather benign ways.  “I need my space.”  “No offense, it’s just that you’re not my type.”  “Let’s ditch um, we could use a break.”  Sometimes we call it self-care, sometimes boundaries, when really what is being acted out is rejection and walls.  We invite people to our celebrations that make us larger than life, and if we are honest, we will admit to ourselves that the people on the fringes of our lives are not wanted.  I don’t want them, and neither do you.  And when I’m on the fridge, holding on best I can, but my dignity has gone in exchange for just getting through another day, I don’t want me either. 

The idea of being wanted is most strongly associated with a discussion about family planning. Wanting.  Wanting a baby.  Choosing.  And how much choosing do we really do, in our wanting.  At the mercy, we are, of what arrives.  And then if what has come is not what we want, distance is served.  Pain is felt down to the marrow, and lasts a lifetime.  Felt by the one who wanted and and was left wanting, and by the one who arrives but has not adequately filled the order.  Wants a boy and gets a girl.  Wants a violin player and gets a cement man.  Wants a cowgirl and gets a princess.  Wants a live baby to hold and instead has to hand off, already gone away to Heaven. 

Belonging and being desired is such at the core of our being, that when we aren’t we crack.  Then why do we do it to each other?  Give a cold shoulder.   Sneer.  Shame.  Do all we can to let others know they aren’t wanted.  Kids do it naturally.  “Kids are mean”, we say, and it’s true.  So quite naturally we become rejectors.  And God shows us another way. He shows us what it’s like to feel planned for, sought out, wanted, desired.  Created special for a purpose.  To be seen and treasured.   

Psalm 139

For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

1 You have searched me, Lord,

    and you know me.

2 You know when I sit and when I rise;

    you perceive my thoughts from afar.

3 You discern my going out and my lying down;

    you are familiar with all my ways.

4 Before a word is on my tongue

    you, Lord, know it completely.

5 You hem me in behind and before,

    and you lay your hand upon me.

6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

    too lofty for me to attain.

7 Where can I go from your Spirit?

    Where can I flee from your presence?

8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

    if I settle on the far side of the sea,

10 even there your hand will guide me,

    your right hand will hold me fast.

11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

    and the light become night around me,”

12 even the darkness will not be dark to you;

    the night will shine like the day,

    for darkness is as light to you.

13 For you created my inmost being;

    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

    your works are wonderful,

    I know that full well.

15 My frame was not hidden from you

    when I was made in the secret place,

    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

16 Your eyes saw my unformed body;

    all the days ordained for me were written in your book

    before one of them came to be.

17 How precious to me are your thoughts,[a] God!

    How vast is the sum of them!

18 Were I to count them,

    they would outnumber the grains of sand—

    when I awake, I am still with you.

If I don’t want you just right, God does.  I want to want you, beautiful you.  Want to want your company.  Want to desire your friendship.  Want to love your presence.  Even when I can’t always feel these ways towards you because I’m a broken human, I ask God to use my friendship with you to give you the gift of wanted.  I matter to God, no matter how you treat me, and so do you.  And want you to feel it.  Wanted.  Forever.  Just what is wished for.  Just right.  Settled.  Love-breath upon wished-for heart.  Just right. And I settle into a love for rejecting you, as I know what it is to be limited in my abilities to want.