Yukon Men

I am addicted to other people’s lives. I must confess, I love to watch people and see how they live. When roaming around Facebook looking at pics I find myself always looking past the object in view to see the background. A person’s house, chairs, laundry and blankets; all of this is so fulfilling to me. It seems to paint a more robust story. And if I look at a picture that appears staged, I don’t want to look at that person’s pictures any more. Bizarre, I know. I seem to enjoy looking at situations that normalize my life. It’s easy to idealize other people’s lives and homes by looking at masked snapshots through social media. In the idealizing I can believe that my circumstances are marginal because I don’t have a turquoise Kitchen Aid mixer. I recently watched a show about two families who are completely self-sustaining in Alaska’s wild frontier. It was fascinating. I loved when we were given glimpses into their homes. One young couple amazed me. They had minimal “things” in their house. There was an altar. I’m assuming they are Buddhist. Vibrant colors plastered the walls. Herbs hung in the simple windows. The underground cellar was so unique. In it they kept all of their freshly canned meats, fruits, and vegetables. They also smoked hundreds of pounds of fish that they had caught, in a short three month period. That fish would sustain them through the nine months of hard winter. Greg and I sat there dumbfounded. He looked at me and said, “There’s no way that we would survive there.” I answered back with an affirmative, “Right.” Disappointment swept through our house when the last episode was watched. Much to our surprise there was yet another Alaskan reality show. Yukon Men was similar but it focused on a community of people as opposed to individuals. One episode confirmed our belief that we would die in a day if left alone in the icy outback. The last episode we watched focused on a dad and his 14 year old son. The son looked exactly like the kid from the animated movie Brother Bear. The father goes to him and tells him that they are in need of more meat. He then tells the kid that there has been a bear spotted a couple of miles up the road and ask him if he knows how to use the gun. Come again? We were freaking out. Did he just ask his son, who is as old as our oldest daughter, if he could hunt down a black bear, by himself, and kill it? The boy responds by saying soberly, “Yes sir. I’m going to make you proud.” I used to be 14 and I dunno, but no. The dad has his 30 second sound bite where he looks into the camera and explains that living in Alaska is difficult and laborious. He says something to the effect of, “We all have to work together here or we won’t survive, and he knows this (referring to his son), because it’s how he’s been raised.” I have had this episode on my mind for about a month now. Managing 5 growing children is difficult. Some do it better than others (me). However, it’s my first time to do it! One of the reasons that we chose to open our home to the fostering process was because we had an easy life. We were raising two kids in a safe, comfortable, environment and I remember thinking, “This will be a way for our whole family to share in the suffering of another.” I had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. We were extremely naïve and young. Julia Roberts in August: Osage County says, “It’s a good thing we don’t know the future. None of us would ever get out of bed.” My dad had a phrase that he used to say to me and Greg when we were first married: “You two are going to live on love and starve to death.” His point? It takes more than love to survive marriage. The same is true in raising children. It takes more than desire to parent. It takes more than a desire to ‘help the kid from a hard place’. A camp high will not be enough to sustain your desire while sharing in the suffering of a kid with fetal alcohol syndrome. I have days, like every parent I’m sure, when I feel desperate. I do not want to think about how things are going to turn out in some situations, however, to avoid those thoughts seems irresponsible. To not go down the road a little way, in order to divert the direction or destroy the path, is to choose my own comfort over the healing and protection of my child. However, to go down that road means that I must engage emotionally and relationally in ways that are horribly uncomfortable for me. And what is harder? I have to choose to engage in these thoughts and actions when things are calm and manageable so that I have the energy to change, prepare, and parent my children rationally and thoughtfully. If not, we will all starve when the first snow storm blows in. Sitting in the Psychiatrist office today I felt alone. I had a child that did not feel like talking about hard things because it would lead to feeling more difficult emotions. What set her off? She didn’t get a doll that she wanted. After she decided to go into the office I sat against the wall, beside a fake plant, looking at the dust that covered the bottom half of the sofa table. My eye hurt and my stomach was revolting. I prayed silently, “Lord, we never have an easy day. I’m so exhausted. Please help my kids. They never get an easy day either.” I know that easy is relative, but truly, it’s never easy. Oh my. I do not want to be that mom. God, save me from myself. On the drive home my older child sat in the back seat and played dolls with my younger child. This de-escalated an already 5 hour long episode. She was not begging to do this nor did I make her. But, guess what. She did it because she knew. She knew what many other kids her age do not. She knew that her 20 minute engagement would provide an evening of peace. She lives with a kid from a hard place. She recognizes dilated pupils, sullen expressions, and vacant responses. She knows that her sister does not have the capacity to work through disappointments like she should. She loves her sister. She does not remember a time without her. I felt like a wet wash cloth on the drive home. I was heavy, used up, and ready to be rung out. I feel like I always hear Story in the weirdest places. This time: One Direction. Really. The kids were in the back role playing with their Barbies when the song began. “Written in these walls are the stories that I can't explain I leave my heart open but it stays right here empty for days She told me in the morning she don't feel the same about us in her bones It seems to me that when I die these words will be written on my stone. Written on these walls are the colors that I can't change Leave my heart open but it stays right here in its cage I know that in the morning I'll see us in the light upon your ear Although I am broken, my heart is untamed still The story of my life I take her home I drive all night to keep her warm and time is frozen The story of my life I give her hope I spend her love until she's broke inside The story of my life” I am unable to explain how fitting this song is for someone parenting a child that they feel they cannot reach. But I know that you know. Because we all have these moments. Later that night, I thought back over the last nine years and how far we had come. I talked to my child who had had the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. She asked me what was wrong with her brain. She knows that her thoughts are like a torn apart jigsaw puzzle. I told her, “I don’t think you have a brain problem.” With her hand in mine, and her black eyes staring into me, I told her the truth. “The truth is: You have a heart problem. Your heart has been sad for a very long time.” One, little, tear pushed and fought its way to the corner of her eye and rolled effortlessly down her cheek. We talked for about five minutes, as something else had already sucked her into its centrifuge. “Squirrel!” When she left I sat on the little couch at the foot of my bed. It is tattered, torn, and comfortable. It keeps lots of secrets. I just sat there realizing how much I love this child. My mind was racing with scenes from the past. Running, escaping, yelling, fighting, pushing away, spitting, and destroying. She has no memory of any of this. Then my thoughts poll vaulted into the present. Sitting, talking, spontaneously saying, “I love you, Mommy.”, reading well, questioning God, trusting God, and finding her voice. We are more than survivors. We have done more than “weathered well” over the past decade. We have conquered. We have shown Light into dark places. We have stalked the bear and shot it.