Recovery

What is this “Mod-er-a-tion” you speak of?

May 11, 2012May 11, 2012 Jana Greene5 Comments

There are parts of me that just cannot be reasoned with. (Just ask this Kitty….he knows what I’m talking about!)
I know that moderation is considered a good thing – that a little bit of something is usually healthier than a lot of the same thing. I know this because it has been proven time and again in health journals, with kill-joy statistics and because the Bible even tells me so in Proverbs.
But you cannot make me understand this when I am eating a single Dove dark chocolate and the one-inch-squared melty goodness is coating my tongue. I immediately want more, lots more.
Chocolate, but only in moderation? Now that’s just crazy talk.
When I was a smoker, I burned down two packs of menthol lights per day. To be honest, I enjoyed smoking immensely, so why would I only smoke one pack in a 24 hour period? Okay, maybe because I couldn’t really afford it. And it affected my blood pressure and caused respiratory disease. Bad example.
Before I got sober, I absolutely could not drink moderately, even though I really tried to “pace” myself. (Advising an alcoholic to “pace” her drinking is like telling a tsunami to “pace itself” when it comes ashore….Actually, my life and victims of a Tsunami and had more in common than you might think; like walking around in a dazed state of shock while more and more destruction builds around you.)

From the very first time I took a drink, I knew that a thousand drinks would never have been enough, and one drink would always be too many. So drinking, as it relates to my moderation skill set….. Maybe that’s not the best example either.

This part of me who just can’t comprehend the “moderation” concept? In early recovery I found out that she is (a) quite an unreasonable brat, and (b) very loud and insistent. She is the troublemaker who insists that if ONE of something is good, than SIX of the same thing is GREAT!

And I have to tell you, that mindset makes a whole bunch of sense to me; it appeals to me.

Since that loud, insistent part of me won’t listen to reason, I just have to tell her “NO” sometimes. I don’t allow myself any cigarettes or alcohol, not even on special occasions. (Not even at weddings, not even at MY OWN wedding, not at birthdays, anniversaries, bar mitzvahs, pretty days here at the beach, groundhog’s day, on Leap Years, Thanksgiving, graduations, well, you get it.)

Since I can’t drink in moderation, I don’t drink at all. But something has to fill the space and time now laid bare by abstinence.

Indulgences. Sweet, sweet indulgences.

Indulgences fill the space in which I couldn’t make moderation fit. And they say “YES”!

Yes, I can hunker down and watch as many episodes as I like of the TV shows “Lockup” and “Swamp People” during marathon week. And I shall watch them whilst lounging around in my PJs. And not feel the least bit guilty.

Yes, I can take an afternoon to goof off and peruse the website featuring “parenting fails” because – I’m just being honset – it makes me feel like a slightly better parent after I look through them.

Yes, I will allow myself leisure time to surf the interweb’s selection of cat pictures with snarky captioned comments (Don’t judge, it is really quite entertaining – see above for an example.)
Yes, I can rub my elderly doggie’s belly for as long as I’d like at one stretch, and take my time scritching her ears and generally loving on her with nary a thought for “moderation”. Let’s face it; it’s a win-win for her and me.
Yes, I will blast my music while I am editing an article or cleaning the house, and “krunk” the bass up so high I feel it in my chest. I will not be moderate with the funky beats of Herbie Hancock, nor the Earth, Wind and Fire tunes I so adore. It is impossible to feel sorry for yourself when you are listening to either of those guys.

And Yes, Yes, YES! I will love my husband with wild abandon, holding nothing back. I will neither kiss him moderately, nor pray for him moderately, nor appreciate him in moderation. He is my passion, and there is no room for moderation wherever passion is concerned.

Yes, I will indulge my children (although they are spoiled already) and remind them indulgently how much I love them. Generously, I will spend the greatest gift of all with them – time. They are my passion also, and as I said, there is no room for moderation whenever passion is concerned.

I will love God and His only begotten son, Jesus Christ, with utter extravagance, and ask for His Holy Spirit to be POURED out in my life, not sprinkled moderately.
And yes…..I will copiously forgive myself for my lapses in practicing moderation with my chocolate consumption. You know, because its a passion thing.

To Thine Own Self be True?

May 10, 2012May 10, 2012 Jana Greene8 Comments

We’ve all heard the old adage

“To thine self be true”

But I say NO to that baggage…

I’ve seen what My Self can do

I love the verse in Romans that asks the simple question, “With God on our side, how can we lose?” It reminds me that God didn’t hesitate to put everything on the line for me, exposing Himself to the worst of humanity in order to save me. What could possibly even attempt come between the love of God and me?

Me.

I cringe when I think of some of the things I’ve done in the past. You see, I am my own worst enemy.

In my life as an active addict, I used alcohol as a numbing agent to quiet my anxiety. It started off innocently, but ended in the near-destruction of my body and mind. Yet the worse byproduct of my drinking was that it anesthetized the quiet, divine stirrings that my Father in Heaven was sending. He was loving me, trying to tell me He loved me. I chose numbness over relationship in order to keep my sickness alive. In countless small ways, I shut God out, preferring to get “my way”.

Before long, there seemed to be a pattern with “my way”. It always ended in destruction, and then surrender to God. What if my pattern were to become taking all matters – big and small – to Him, and bypass the whole “destruction” phase altogether?

I’ve been sober 11 years, but I’m still a work in progress.

“To thine own self be true,” ends, ironically, in my self-destructive behaviors.

People ask me sometimes when I knew it as time to stop drinking. I’m never quite sure how to answer them, because I knew the first time I took a drink and thought, “If I can feel like this all of the time, I’d be crazy NOT to stay drunk”. That warm buzz? I loved that sensation….I really loved it. At first, I tolerated the destructiveness because it felt so good. Years went by, and by that time I realized it didn’t help with the anxiety anymore, I needed it in order to stop the shaking in my hands. The shaking in my spirit.

And prayer? I’d stopped praying altogether, because of the mess I’d made of my life. I was embarrassed before God Himself, ashamed that I couldn’t control this thing, this one thing. That is how insidious my disease is. I was turning yellow, sick and retching, but I just couldn’t let it go. I wanted desperately to be a good mother, but that facade was breaking apart. I couldn’t get sober for my kids, for my job, or for my life.

One cold January evening, I walked to the harbor near our house, and sat on the bulkhead. I always felt the Creator a little closer near the water. I told God that I couldn’t do this anymore, that I’d made a mess of everything. I shouted at Him for not saving me from myself, and warned him that if I had to live without drinking, He may as well take me home now because I couldn’t give it up. I cried for my children, who were four and seven at the time. For two hours, my cares and worries spilled out in racking sobs until I had said everything. I ended the rant of my soul by telling the Almighty that He had to meet me in that place because I couldn’t take another step.

Essentially, I said, “Ok, God….You said you are enough to get me through this. You said your grace is sufficient. Show me your grace, then!” I’m not proud that a challanged God, but thats what I said.

The sun had set by this time, and all was quiet. I half-expected a light to beam from heaven, but instead, something better happened. I felt His Spirit gather me into the lap of his unfathomable grace and hold me there. I felt so incredibly small, like a much beloved child. I cried for a long time in the lap of Jesus. “What took you so long?” He seemed to say. “I love you so much.”

It was January 3rd, 2001. I was a captive set free.

Of course, it was no easy task to get sober, or to stay sober. It was very hard work, but every day, God extended His help, His supernatural-ness to me as I needed it; not ahead of time, mind you. But enough for each day. He is faithful every day, one day at a time.

My addictive personality didn’t change, although I have a healthy dis-trust of it now. I ask God to use the good stuff within me to tell others what He did for me, and to help me overcome the bad stuff within me so somebody might actually listen and receive his help, too.

Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us? Theres no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins found in scripture

That’s what God says about it. Still not convinced?

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing – nothing dead or living, angelic or demonic – today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable – absolutely NOTHING can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us. – Romans 8:31-39 (The Message)

I tried to drive a wedge, but I failed. He loved me still. Now I ask for His will for my life, and try to get out-of-the-way of it.

“Lord, your will…not mine,” is my prayer.

I’ve seen what “myself” can do.

Spiritual

Right in the Jugular

May 9, 2012May 9, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

oldschool.davidwesterfield.net

By: Jana Greene

“God went for the jugular when He sent His own Son. He didn’t deal with the problem as something remote and unimportant. In His Son, Jesus, He personally took on the human condition, entered the disordered mess of struggling humanity in order to set it right once and for all. The law code, weakened as it always was by fractured human nature, could never have done that.” – Romans 8:3-4 (The Message)

The jugular. I’ve never heard the gospel explained like that before. It sounds pretty graphic. It is decidedly untidy, and really extreme. Maybe even a little offensive.

What I know about human anatomy is very limited. But I know that if you are ever in Africa on safari and attacked by a lioness, she will “go for your jugular”. She is going for your lifeblood, and she means business. It would be a direct hit.

Society tends to think of the Bible as a book of stories of ancient peoples. But it isn’t just a bestseller. It is an account of the disordered mess of struggling humanity being set right with a true and omnipotent Creator. In the beginning there was God, yes. But the end? We know where eternity lies, but “the end” is not dusty pages of prophecy in Revelation. The end is still being recorded in the lives we live today. In my life, in your life.

God’s relationship with us individually was not remote and unimportant then….it is of the utmost importance now, and He means business. To reconcile His people –full of sin and selfishness and corruption – back to him, sacrificial blood had to be spilled. He had to have contact with this fractured human condition directly, swiftly. I forget this sometimes, when I try to tidy up the gospel to suit me.

In “going for the jugular” of humanity, He poured Himself over bone and under skin, walked around in flesh with all of the discomfort that entails, and was brutally tortured and nailed to the cross to die. His lifeblood was spilled while we were still sinners, the ultimate and fatal blow to death.

Webster’s Dictionary defines “jugular” simply: “The most vital part”. Thats where God hit sin and death. Right in the jugular.

In Him, we are set right, once and for all.

Spiritual

Manipulation Liberation

May 8, 2012June 12, 2015 Jana Greene9 Comments

By: Jana Greene

“If you are an approval addict, your behaviour is as easy to control as that of any other junkie. All a manipulator need do is a simple two-step process: Give you what you crave, and then threaten to take it away. Every drug dealer in the world plays this game.”

– Harriet B. Braiker, Who’s Pulling Your Strings?

The first time I read the quote above, I understood it in the context of an addict. As an active alcoholic, I drank in order to feel a certain way, which pleased my mind and body. My spirit, however, recognized alcohol as a toxic substance and understood that it simply had to go. I craved what would have eventually killed me, had I not surrendered to God completely on a cold January morning in 2001. The two-step process of behavior control – I get it.

But as I re-read it, I considered it as it applies to addiction to the approval of others. There are people in my life with whom I have had to construct boundaries in order to survive sane and sober. Quite literally, after eleven years of active recovery, there are people who still make me want to drink to oblivion. Complicating the issue is that some of these people are family; human beings tethered to me by DNA and some very dysfunctional patterns. Sadly, some of these relationships have ended in estrangement.

I really struggle with that. I know that , I am protecting my sobriety by limiting contact with some people. I am protecting the little girl who was not protected growing up. That child within me is at peace with avoiding such persons. But ironically, it is that child within me who also longs to be nurtured. Safe. Cherished. And who seeks out those things.

I struggle with it because it is a tragedy to lose relationships, but when people who love you use your weaknesses against you, the environment becomes unsafe.

For years, like a good junkie, I would return for another fix for the fleeting sensation of being loved by certain others, forgetting the sickness and drama that would be left in the wake. I was given what I craved, and it was t threatened to be taken away. And then it would be taken; boundaries demolished, the rubble having to be cleared away before another could be built.

So today, I just don’t take the “drug”. People are always and forever telling us who they are, but you have to pay attention to what they are. If manipulation came with a warning label, it wouldn’t be manipulation. That’s the sneaky thing about it, the game every drug dealer in the world knows.

Like the lyrics to a great song (All the Same) by the band, Sick Puppies:

I don’t care,

no I wouldn’t dare to fix the twist in you.

You’ve shown me eventually what you’ll do.

(To watch the Free Hug video on Youtube, accompanied by “Twist” by Sick Puppies, CLICK HERE.)

I am a follower of Jesus Christ, and He never estranged anyone. He ran toward the most dysfunctional people on earth. He is forgiveness incarnate, grace I don’t deserve and mercy I cannot comprehend.

There is absolutely no possibility that you could mistake me for Jesus. I am as imperfect as they come.

But I pray that He understands the reasons for my boundaries. I pray that He will help me heal from the trauma in my childhood and the tragedy that is a splintered family unit; that He will keep me sane and sober, and protected.

Simply put, the twist is not mine to fix. It is His.

Inspirational · Spiritual

How to Write a Life in Twenty (not so) Easy Steps – For my Daughters

May 7, 2012May 7, 2012 Jana Greene10 Comments

By: Jana Michelle Greene

You are a writer when you take your first breath in life, perhaps even before that. Preceding the ability to have cognitive thought, you start to etch the words of your life into being. Just by living, you write a story, an imprint on the world.

It is read by every person you come in contact with, and devoured by those you hold most dear. People are funny about books. Those who love them usually love them much.

Some are not readers. But all are writers. As you write the book of your life, remember these things, my daughters:

Don’t allow yourself to be typecast.
Fancy yourself an Overachiever? A Diva? A Loser? Never wear a label, it limits your dimensions. Chances are you will be an Overachiever, an Underachiever, a Type-A Personality and Types B through Z at differing times in your story. Expect Character complexity. You will at times be more complicated those who read your life can comprehend, and certainly more complicated than you yourself can understand. In your lifetime, you will stoop to shameful behaviors in spite of yourself, and overcome unimaginable odds by the same measure. In your travels, never allow yourself to become what other characters ascribe you to be. And you will transform from birth to dying breath.

Add colorful characters.
Use Best Friends sparingly in your story, and delve into their character with lots of detail. They are integral to getting through the sticky scenarios, and absolutely indispensable in chapters of great joy. Acquaintances will make cameos in your life, and give you reasons you show up in theirs.

The Great Love of your Life? The truest loves are part and parcel of your own soul, Main Character substance. Villains and liars? They have a place in the story, too. Even absolute fairy tales prescribe their presence, and you will have them with you, always. Acknowledge them; they are teaching you what not to become. But don’t give the storyline over to them.

And if your story needs a heroine?
Be the heroine.

But try to keep it about everyone else
Make the Acknowledgements at least as long as your longest chapter in the story, and give plenty of credit throughout to those who have lent the richness and depth to your life.

It’s ok to have fragmented sentences and grammatical errors.
Life is incredibly messy. There is no Great Spellchecker in the sky; nobody is counting your mistakes.

Short chapters are ok, too.
Some scenes will end before you know you’ve written the first paragraph. When a chapter has taught its lesson, it’s ok to walk away from a setting.

Every story has a beginning, middle and an end. Make them all count.
Just as your story begins with a date of birth, it has a finite number of pages until the Acknowledgments. Like any page-turner worth its weight of paper, you will never know exactly what’s around the corner. Never knowing the end of the story ahead of time keeps you motivated to write your best ending.

Bright, fancy covers don’t really matter.
The slick sleeves that invite others to read your manuscript always, inevitably fade and fall apart. The old adage “Don’t judge a book by its cover” has a postscript: “Give people more than a cover to judge you by.”

Allow for deeper meaning in the seemingly insignificant things.
A poem about the rain is sometimes really about despondency and angst.
And sometimes, it’s just about rain.

Keep the Table of Contents Flexible
Things change, sometimes a lot. Majors in college, boyfriends, financial situations; they can all evolve. Don’t let the shifting throw off your truth, or the telling of it. Write the Table of Contents of your life mostly in pencil, with only the most important core subjects penned. God, family, integrity and your truest passions – these should be inked.

Lighten up the Plot
Have fun, and enjoy the tale as you go. Much of the story is extraordinarily silly; laugh as much as you can. Laughter lightens any load and exhilarates those who read your story along with you.

Use the right punctuation when necessary.
Use lots of exclamation points! Everywhere you look, there are things to be excited about, and little manifestations of pure joy! Exclaim those things; they are worthy of literary device! And equally important, versing yourself in good punctuation means that you know when you put a period. After bad relationships. Unhealthy behaviors. Mistreatment. Selfishness. Utilize the “three dots” only when necessary…but don’t be afraid of “To Be Continued”…

Make your life a symphony of genres.
There is equity in throwing in a little Comedy when the Drama gets too intense, and a little Romance when the Tragedy is overwhelming. And daily, there will be Mystery.

Don’t be discouraged when the plot seems to drag.
It will seem to veer right as you try to steer the story left. Keep on keeping on. Keep writing.

Dedicate your “book”.
God is your Publisher and your Editor, the Ultimate Author and Finisher. Don’t try to do His job, yours is enough labor. Take His suggestions and read what He writes in the margins. Review His critiques of your work often, taking care to pay attention to the subtle cues as well as the highlighted ones; it will make the next chapter flow much better. He will make sure your “book” gets into the right “hands”, and He gives out no rejection letters. (It’s always good to be close to your Editor!)

Handle Writer’s Block with dignity.
All Great Writers suffer this crisis. Don’t mistake stagnancy with your identity. It is equally true that many of the greats turn to the numbing agents of drugs and alcohol and all manner of poison, all of which takes you back to some other point in the story when you faced the same dilemma. How many times do you want to repeat the same scene in which you suffer? Weakness breeds bad storylines; small bouts with strength (consult with The Editor) help you over that mountain. There are no small victories.

In all great works of literature, there is a Turning Point.
In your story, there will be lots of them, turning points. Never underestimate the power of a fork in the road. This is the moment in time where the decision of one tiny paragraph, sometimes one word. It can be one turn of a page, impacting each page thereafter and ultimately, and the end of the story.

Set out to make your story epic.
Don’t settle for ordinary, “See Spot Run” is easy but empty. Make sure every page is full, even if with mistakes. Love the people whom you love very hard (and with every cell in your being), you will get loved back hard. Mediocre is not an option, yours is a tome that will touch a life, and another and another.

Almost nothing you’ll ever do will affect only you.
No one life is a single-print.

And last, Love yourself just like the Great Classic you are.
Tattered pages, yellowed edges, typos and all.
Whatever goes into the final print, it’s all Character Development.

It’s your story – utterly familiar, irreplaceable.
Only you can write it.

Spiritual

May 6, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Reblogged today – Sunday. This one is near and dear to my heart, and today’s message at church will be about addiction. I thought maybe it was apropo.
Be blessed!

Musings of a Gypsy Soul

By: Jana Greene

Thebeggarsbakery.wordpress.com

Addiction is addiction is addiction. If you cannot control it, and it interferes with your relationships (especially your relationship with God), it is addiction. Alcohol, heroin, crack , porn, online shopping….all reward the reward centers of the human brain, but differently in different people. Which dopamine receptors scream the loudest determine which drug-of-choice a person might invest in. Mine happened to be alcohol. But all scream loudly. I long for the blood of Jesus to replace the toxic flow in my system that not even active recovery can replace. In constant touch with my limitations, both as an alcoholic and someone who experiences chronic health issues, I need a transfusion of the Blood of Christ every day.

When I first started dealing with chronic pain and fatigue, I had the “I gave at the office” mentality; as in thanks for considering me, God….really, it’s an honor…

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Spiritual

May 5, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Reblogged with pics…I’m learning, slowly!

Musings of a Gypsy Soul

By: Jana Greene

It is Monday. Although rainy days and Mondays don’t always bring me down, there is a tendency to feel a sense of let-down on the first work day of the week. Sunday mornings have eclipsed Friday and Saturday nights as the highlight of my week these days, maybe because I’m getting older, but mostly because I attend a church I look forward to attending. It is full of people like me: broken but crazy in love with Jesus. The worship is wild and the message is radical, and I leave feeling….vibrant. . Technicolor. No matter how washed-out I felt as I took my seat in the sanctuary, I am renewed when I leave the building.

But now it’s Monday. I can already feel the monotony moving in…the ho-hum.

In an effort to revive my enthusiasm, I picked up my Bible. In the interest…

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Spiritual

May 5, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Musings of a Gypsy Soul

By: Jana Greene

My mother used to call it “petering out”.

“You’re always starting things without finishing them,” she would say. “you just peter out.”

Oh, how hard I try not to “peter-out”!

I start out strong, and by ‘strong’, I mean obsessive-compulsively. I gorge myself with information about any given pursuit, lunging into it with enthusiasm. I will go the distance!

It makes no difference what the pursuit might be. Below is an incomplete list of projects I have begun without finishing (what…you expected a complete list?) :

Yoga: This routine involved a DVD set in which I was to emulate the “poses” of unnaturally flexible people. Thinking this excercise might be good for a tightly-wound person such as myself, I went all-out. I bought the mats – and, I am sorry to say – two pairs of spandex pants. (The mats are now rolled up decoratively under our living-room coffee…

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Spiritual

May 5, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Musings of a Gypsy Soul

I originally wrote this piece for a collection of devotionals on the book of James that my church was compiling. I hope it blesses you today 🙂

Jana Greene

For the past several days of Vacation Bible School, the children were encouraged to bring their parents, grandparents and friends to this Sunday service. Today, they would parade into the sanctuary, assemble in front of the altar and perform songs in culmination of all they had learned during the week. To the delight of the congregation, they sing songs about God, of course, and about loving one another. And just as many generations have sung before them, they often sing about the joy, joy, joy, joy down in their hearts and about being happy, so very happy. The last verse of the song really gets them excited.

“And if the devil doesn’t like it, he can sit on a tack! OUCH!”

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Poetry

Five

May 5, 2012 Jana Greene1 Comment

I’m kicking around the idea of making Saturday Blog entries a showcase for poetry. The poem below, entitled “Five” is one I wrote about several years ago for my step-daughter. It addresses the blending of our families, in simple prose.

Please let me know what you think about “Saturday Evening Poet” blog posts in the “Comments” section, and thank you!

Five

Once upon an August day

I happened on a family,

A father and his lovely girl.

Familiar, at once, they were to me.

Two daughters I’d had all along

Bright and loving, brave and strong,

And somehow yet,

Somehow still…

Our hearts and lives had space to fill.

As time went by, soft memories stacked

Like building blocks placed back-to-back,

Like traveling to places far away

And salty, swimming beachy days,

Talking together and movie nights

Laughter abundant (occasional fights),

All knowing each other deeper each day

And loving each other

Anyway.

Could it be that the whole five

Would find a way to survive

As not just two

And not just three

But as a God-shaped family?

Once upon an October day

We became that family,

A Dad, a Mom, three lovely girls

As it was always meant to be.

I gained a husband that day tis’ true,

And I’m blessed to be his wife,

But I gained a daughter, too –

Bright, loving, brave and strong

In my life.

– Jana Greene

Spiritual

May 4, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Reblogging this one, as image was just added.

Musings of a Gypsy Soul

By: Jana Greene

Several weeks ago, I wrote in my journal about the experience of breaking my right ankle. It was a deep and angsty piece ruminating on the inconvenient timing of the accident, why God would allow it to happen two days after I quit my job (didn’t He know it was supposed to be a happy time?) and why it happened before I had other health issues resolved. “Why?” I asked God as I typed. “Why?”

Surely God knew I needed to find another job, at least part-time.

Surely He knew we didn’t need any more medical bills.

Like so many other things, it seemed a random misfortune, especially considering the manner in which it happened. I didn’t injure it skydiving or bungee jumping, or even by participating in that fitness staple of the forty-plus-year-old woman, “Zumba”.

I broke it by stepping…

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Inspirational

Write, Wrong or Indifferent (Part 2)

May 4, 2012 Jana GreeneLeave a comment

Write, Wrong or Indifferent

Joining a Writer’s Guild

Part 2

The night of the first guild meeting finally arrived. Because it was December, it had already become pitch-black by the 7 o’ clock scheduled start. I was haggard from work, and had been in a fair amount of back pain all day. On especially trying days, I cannot wait to come home from work and pull off my shoes and put on comfy clothes, usually PJs. This was definitely one of those days. I chose a decent pair of sweats to wear to the meeting, and when I passed my husband as I walked out the door, grumbled: “I hate clothes.”

“I love you,” he said anyway.

How I adore that man.

The guild meeting was held in a church classroom, and the parking lot was only dimly lit. I realized how dimly lit when I accidentally ran over an orange traffic cone, and then another. The last cone was still dragging under the Jeep when I screeched into (what I assumed was) a parking space. When I look up, there is the silhouette of a woman standing in the doorway to the classroom. I can tell by her body language that she is trying to look casual, as if she is unsure whether to laugh, offer help, or call the cops. I am five minutes late now, and I hate being late for anything. Maybe I should just go home.

When I step out of the car, it immediately begins to rain. I am cold, nervous, embarrassed and now wet. The six copies of my article are wet too, I notice, around the edges. I slog up to the door, and the woman I had seen in the doorway was gone. But I do see Melissa!

She is standing at a “welcome “area. Melissa is a kindred spirit. She claims to feel awkward, too, on a regular basis, but it is hard to imagine her insecurity. She is deeply and powerfully beautiful and disarmingly candid – which made me love her right away when we met several years ago.

I couldn’t wait to hug her.

She explained how the guild meeting works, and gave me some pamphlets and other materials.

“I’ll sign you in,” she says. “What is your genre?”

I had no idea. This article would not fit neatly in any one “box”. If I were to “shop” the piece out, what magazine might buy it? Again, no idea. Although it was essentially about parenting, it would certainly not be a fit for parenting magazines (which, really, only cover the predictable parenting topics like potty training or making popsicle-stick art. Show me an article in a magazine for parents entitled, “You Want to Pierce WHAT?” and I will buy a subscription on the spot).

There are spiritual aspects to the piece as well, but I doubted a Christian magazine would touch it, what with its subject matter (tattoos) and generally snarky overtones. And, it was neither comedy nor horror, though to be honest, there were elements of both. I tried to quell the anxiety that I am in the wrong place at the wrong time, with a genre-less essay. This was not a good start.

“Don’t worry about it,” Melissa soothed. “It’s ok. Just find a seat.”

In a room right off the hallway, the other ladies sat in school chairs in a small auditorium. It was, actually, the Band room for the Christian school housed at the facility. There were less than a dozen women scattered unevenly throughout about forty chairs and while I was wondering what significance – if any – choosing where to sit might have with perceived writing skill, they stopped chatting amongst themselves to say hello. I responded, took a random seat, and resumed thinking about the universality of Band rooms all over America, with their distinctive scent of woodwind oil and their porous ceilings, and …yes?

Oh, yes…..Nice to meet you, too.

A lady had just arrived and taken the seat right next to me.

She was well-dressed (business-casual, you might say) and I noticed that her brown leather purse matched her brown leather shoes perfectly. A quick look around the room revealed that all of the ladies are lovely. They are all “put together”, by outward appearance anyway. No-one else is wearing sweatpants. No-one else had her hair in a poorly executed (and wet) ponytail. Suddenly, I was in 8^th grade band again, the new kid. I wondered why I was there.

I was wondering, too, where did the other traffic cone I hit go? When Melissa sat in the other free chair next to me and took my hand to hold. And the meeting began.

Inspirational

Write, Wrong or Indifferent – Part 1

May 3, 2012 Jana Greene3 Comments

Write, Wrong or Indifferent

Joining a Writer’s Guild

Part 1

By: Jana Greene

Joining a local writer’s guild almost kept me from writing. I say “almost” because I have since come to love it and look forward to the monthly meetings. It was because of fear – yeah, that old chestnut – that I nearly didn’t participate at all.

From the time I could hold a crayon, I wrote about things. I can remember forming “J”s first, and from there, looping and dotting kindergarten hieroglyphics to tell my story. Because even then, I was a historian of sorts, not a fiction writer. I felt the need to journal everything I experienced and observed, wanting to chronicle my own life story. My name is Jana, and I am six was my first story. And later, I wrote about the things that happened to me as a child – some of them traumatic – that I could not speak about aloud. Many times, in middle and high schools, I wrote angst-laden pieces about my social awkwardness, with titles like: I don’t fit in anywhere .

What a strange little girl I was. But writing things down helped me deal with things, big and small, that I couldn’t reconcile in my spirit any other way.

At forty-three years of age, I am still a strange bird. If I am going to tell my story, I’d better start doing it now. I am becoming annoyingly forgetful, and I don’t want to erroneously tell someone else’s story by mistake. One of my dearest friends, a woman named Melissa, also finds comfort in the writing, and has her own story to tell. We are forever vowing to write a book together about overcoming struggles and such, but we can’t seem to lasso one issue onto the page before another is bucking and rearing back, thus our tales never seem to get written. This is why we joined a writer’s guild, a Christian writer’s guild.

I missed the first monthly meeting , which was kind of an orientation. I was sick that day. But the following afternoon, Melissa left a breathless voicemail on my phone about her experience.

“Jana!” She began. “Guess what? I know what we are supposed to DO with our lives! Call me!”

I could not dial her number fast enough. Our very purpose, made clear! (Of course I would be absent on the day my life’s purpose was designated!) Her line rang only twice. When she picked it up, I could feel her warm energy burning through the line.

“Write,” she said, instead of ‘hello’. “You and I, we are supposed to write!” With her sweet, Georgian accent, she launched into a synopsis of her time at the meeting. There were other women, she said, just like us, who dream to translate a tiny little fraction of what God whispers into our lives onto the page.

But of course! We needed support! Support from a group was the missing ingredient; it might even override the fear….the fear that still says that I don’t fit in anywhere.

That evening, I could hardly wait to write a piece for the next month’s meeting. But what to write? Whisper to me, Lord. Please whisper.

Nothing. Like the proverbial author who sits down to his typewriter and taps out the word “The”. And that’s all.

Oh NO!

I strained for ideas, for eloquence. I longed to write as Helen Steiner Rice, the prolific Christian poet whose very prose rivals those of the Psalms. I wanted to present something that would glorify God and really showcase my writing style, except that those two things are sometimes mutually inclusive.

Stalling, I logged onto the guild website and paid my dues (literally, with MasterCard). No turning back now! Surfing through the site, I noticed that one of the membership perks was a free critique.

Critique. That sounded a lot like critic, the root word of criticism, which I am not a huge fan of, constructive or otherwise. Immediately my concern went from channeling Helen Steiner Rice in order to glorify the Almighty, to how I would soothe my own bruised ego when the bruising commenced. Ashamedly, I was licking my wounds before the whip was anywhere near.

It is those self-serving thoughts that result in articles titled “The”, wherein the main character – me – does nothing. Writes nothing. Glorifies no-one.

God, what do you want me to say?

And with that prayer, a pseudo-crisis appeared in my life just in time to become the subject of an actual story. The issue was that my eldest daughter decided to make good on a lifetime threat to get a tattoo, and I was upset about it (hey, don’t judge me for judging her!) so I wrote about the experience from a mother’s point of view. As usual, a serious bout of writer’s block was averted by the antics of one of my children (thanks, girls)! The piece I wrote was raw and real, and more importantly, helped me heal from an event I couldn’t work through my mind and spirit any other way. It was twice as long as the guild guidelines allowed for, and did not follow proper grammatical rules. Also, it contained the word “damn”. It was a rather rough “rough draft”.

I removed the naughty word, but left the rest alone. With no idea what to expect (or who my fellow guilders were), Melissa and I agreed to meet at the front door of the church that hosted the meetings. Still, I wondered…..what if I don’t fit in?

I drove there with my hands on the wheel at “9’o clock” and “3 o’clock”, just like they teach you in Driver’s Ed. My hands were shaking that badly.

Inspirational

A World Away – Picture of an African Mother

May 2, 2012January 29, 2015 Jana Greene4 Comments

I have always had a desire to travel to Uganda for a mission trip.

Maybe one day I will. It was from that desire that the idea for this article grew.

photo credits below — PHOTO: The then eight month-old Martha Akwango, who was suffering from malaria, with her mother Janet Awor in September 2007. Martha and her mother live in Katine, a Ugandan village where the Guardian is participating in a project to improve medical facilities and infrastructure. Photograph: Dan Chung.

In my mind’s eye, I see an African mother. She is an amalgam, really….her face a compilation for every young sub-Saharan woman whose picture I have ever seen on the glossy pages of National Geographic magazine.

Her haunting eyes implore the camera to, “Come. Capture my reality so that the world can see.” And, at the same time, “Stop! Don’t record my shame!”

We, in our comfort, like to banter about who we consider our “Most Inspirational Person”.

She is mine, but I don’t know her name.

Her figure, baby strapped to her back, is a montage from every television commercial that has implored me to “feed the hungry” and every picture brought back from mission trips to Africa by white, middle-class Americans.

A powerful beauty, her hair is shorn close to her head (no time for vanity here) and her sandaled feet are dusty. Always, there is at least one child tethered to her body. Her hands are never empty because they are always at task. She doesn’t get coffee breaks or vacations, or time to unwind. Her work is never done.

Unlike her First World counterparts, she does not have issues with self-esteem. Survival is the esteemed goal here. Is she a woman who “loves too much”? What about her “inner child”? Does she take healthy time for herself, and is she setting aside time in her busy day for God? No time for that – she hums prayers as she works, and that is her worship.

She is a fallible person who makes mistakes, just as we all do. But doubting her Creator is not a luxury she can afford.

Her children, barefoot….do they have enough to eat today?

Yes? She hums her praise louder.

No? Pray and hope, and work all the harder.

She doesn’t despair in losing the keys to her car, or fuss about the value of her 401k plan. Her grief, when it comes….is wracking, life-altering. Her loss… it’s behind her eyes if you care to look.

In the Western world, we like to say that our lives are our gift from God, and what we do with it is our gift to Him. How presumptuous we human beings are. My Sister in Africa has little opportunity to bring gifts that we in the First World consider valuable. I think God smiles on her offerings especially; they are her very life and the lives of her children.

I think that is what God intended us to bring. She inspires me so.

I, as a white, middle class mother in America, sometimes wonder why I was not born as she. If life were fair, I mean. If life were fair, I would have been.

Sometimes, when my kids are getting on my very last nerve, I think about this woman. Because I often say to myself and others, “If this mothering thing were any harder, I couldn’t do it.” I mean it, too, when I say it.

When my children were small, I felt like I knew what I was doing as a mother. Like my Sister in Africa, I wore my babies in a sling on my hip or my back. I nursed them into toddler-hood. It felt natural, like they would be tethered to me forever.

Nowadays, as they are approaching young adulthood, I’m not quite as confident. Writing about their growing up and my mistakes as a mother now is my attempt to capture the reality and share it. And yet I know that during the process I will record my own shame.

If this mothering thing were any harder…..God would equip me to do it, I suppose.

But meanwhile, in a third-world, poverty-stricken, war-torn country in Africa….

My Sister on the other side of the world. Her life, just as precious to God, lived in the same units of time as mine – minutes, hours and days. Her love for her children just as fierce as mine. When – if – her babies have survived to young adulthood, unclaimed by famine, drought or disease, she is not fixated about the proper way to “let them go.”

She is grateful.

Triumphant.

I want to meet her one day, to touch her. And to tell her that she is the Inspiration to another mother, all this world away.

Spiritual

Sleepless

May 1, 2012May 1, 2012 Jana Greene5 Comments

By: Jana Greene

Last night was a self-choreography of tossing, turning, fitfulness. Like synchronized swimming in the bed.

Yet, the sun still came up this morning, right on time.

Last night, when I scrootched in bed next to my sleepy husband around 10:00 p.m., the possibility of slumber seemed promising. I was in peaceful spirits because I had made it through the entire day without any pain medication at all. For over a month, I had been weaning down to only one-half tablet per day at bedtime for pain due to a surgical procedure. But not today, I thought, triumphantly. This pain, I can handle.

I tried to get comfortable, as the mild throbbing in my leg intensified. Sleeping in the orthopedic boot is as awkward as sleeping with one of those giant “#1!” foam fingers you see waved around at football games strapped to your leg, if that foam finger were made of brick. Still, I can usually manage to sleep a little.

Not tonight. It is now 1:00 in the morning.

The pain is spread like a rash in my bones. I take three Advil, and wait for them to negotiate with the pain.

Meanwhile, I move my spastic-ness to the living room couch and try to settle in there. There’s no point in keeping my hubby up as well. Our dog – an elderly Golden Retriever with a lapdog mentality, tries to jump on the couch next to me. I scold her. She slurps me with a kiss to the face anyway, because, honestly, Golden Retrievers don’t know any other way to react except with love. I could learn a lot from my dog.

On this night, the Advil is a crappy negotiator. I take the boot off, but my ankle feels too vulnerable.

So, I put the boot back on, and it feels heavy on the hardware in my leg, like there is no flesh between it and the titanium plate.

I don’t feel like “#1!”

I start to worry about things, because the peace in my tired mind had vacated hours ago. One anxious thought leads to another until the soundtrack to my mind goes something like this:

“I wonder if I took enough chicken out to defrost last night. Did I remember to feed the cat? I wonder if Blues Traveler broke up, or if they might be touring? I like harmonica music. Hmmmm…..What bills have I not paid yet? What if our kids live with us forever and never fly the nest? (this is when the thoughts took a turn for the worse, I think.) OHNO! How can Bob and I make them NOT WANT TO live at home forever? We make things way too easy for these girls…..How much RENT should we charge them? Oh, no….but I WILL MISS THEM when the nest is EMPTY! When should I look for another job? WHAT IF I DON”T FIND ANOTHER JOB??? Why is the economy so bad? Where will the price of gas level out? WHAT IF I NEVER WALK ON MY ANKLE NORMALLY AGAIN AND WHAT IF I CAN”T LOSE THESE FIFTEEN POUNDS AND NEVER BRING MY TRYGLICERIDES DOWN AND OHMYGOSH, I”VE BLOGGED EVERY DETAIL OF MY LIFE AND WHY DID I DO THAT???”……

You get the idea.

3:34 in the a.m. now.

My oldest daughter be-bops out of her room to go to the bathroom down the hall and sees me on the sofa. I shut my eyes quickly and try to fake sleep (oh how the tables do turn)…..it’s too late. She lights up like a Christmas tree.

“You have insomnia too, Mom?” She beams, like we’ve both been invited to a Prince’s ball, instead of sentenced to a night without sleep.

Because usually, when neither she nor I can sleep, we agree to watch a movie, or play Scrabble together, or look at funny pictures of animals saying captioned things on the internet until one of us gets sleepy. She is young, at that glorious time in life in which she can choose to eat or not eat what she wants. Sleep or not sleep. It makes no difference to her body….yet.

No, I grouse at her, turning over on the couch. Not tonight.

Then, it comes, the slightest hint of drowsiness, as if someone is pouring sleep over my head. Ah….sweet, sweet slumber. Sleepiness is warm, I think, pulling my soft blanket up and smiling a bit. Really warm. Whew…..I kick off the blanket, panting. Dammit! This is not sleepiness!

HOT. FLASH.

If these villians all formed an alliance to combat the superhero of Sleep…they would be Pain, Anxiety and Menopause.

And they were attempting to take up headquarters in my body!

I start to cry a little now, because I am being slowly drenched in sweat, and I’m already miserably tired. Sometimes I have to get to the point of crying to remember to pray, and this was one of those times.

I began to pray for myself. I asked that God would help me combat the forces keeping me awake. Ouch, Lord. Ouch! And a hot flash, really? But as I pray, I began thinking about all of the people I am blessed to know who are standing in much bigger need of prayer. I didn’t really want to , to be truthful. I wanted to complain and be grumpy. But….Names and faces, appearing in my mind, rapid-fire….until there is no room to worry about lesser things. I lay still (and blanket-less) and try to concentrate.

I see the face of a friend who is in the intensive care unit in a hospital in Chapel Hill, fighting for her life. Pray. I think of my three closest friends, and the battles they are going through right this very minute, real issues with potentially lasting implications, and I ask God’s guidance for each of them by name. Several long-distance friends from high-school, brought back into my life via the miracle of Facebook, who stand in the need of prayer two-thousand miles away…..please, Lord, hear their cries.

Miles are no hindrance to God. And neither are units of time….hours, minutes, seconds…time that I’ve designated for sleeping. Maybe He had designs on my insomnia for other purposes. Maybe for prayer.

There was no sleeping last night, and I will stumble around today with Uncle-Fester-esque circles under my eyes. I will also most likely be a bit ill-tempered with sleep deprivation. But as I write this, my elderly Golden Retriever is wrapped around my feet, not seeming to mind the awkward orthopedic boot under her head, not seeming to mind that I wouldn’t let her on the couch with me last night. She is sleeping, not a worry in the world.

I could learn a lot from my dog.