Running Out of Reasons

To get through winter more joyfully this year, I made an idea list for each month.  I wrote down things that encompassed the feeling of that month or things that match the weather.  February had me trying new tea blends, bundling up and looking at the stars, and writing love notes.  March is transitioning from winter to spring.  It can be rainy, so I added “jump in puddles” to the list.  I don’t actually like jumping in puddles, but I thought, ‘Why not?  It’ll be out of my comfort zone.’

 

Two days ago, the perfect puddle jumping day presented itself.  It was cold, it was wet, and we needed to walk our dog.  My four year old daughter and I looked outside with whiny reluctance.  Neither of us wanted to go out.  “Hey,” I said, thinking of my checklist, “Let’s find puddles and jump in them as we go!”  My daughter was instantly sold.  She donned her pink rubber boots and off we went. 

 

We found great puddles.  We got soaked.  It was cold and wet.  It was uncomfortable.  And, it was a lot of fun.  We couldn’t help but laugh and look for even bigger puddles, bigger splashes.

 

The weather was a very good reason not to walk.  To stay inside.  No one would fault us for that.  But, just beyond that normal threshold of comfort, beyond that excuse, there lay surprising and refreshing joy. 

 

As a recovering sugar addict, I keep bumping up against scenarios in which I would normally binge on sugar.  For example, on Tuesday, two of my kids were sick and our puppy began her period.  That felt like a big load of extra responsibility on a regular weekday.  I didn’t want to go out in that rain, so to speak.  The Brooke who uses sugar to deal with life would have needed some serious snacks to take care of all those needs.  Sugar isn’t one of my tools now.  I didn’t have a good enough reason to fall back on food.

 

Then, yesterday, I was at the grocery store by myself.  That used to be another good reason to binge on candy.  If I was by myself, I could buy something I wanted and no kids would beg me for it or comment on how much I was eating.  It’s not a reason anymore.  I say that with a sigh.  I really wanted it to be a legitimate reason to buy some Easter chocolate I love.  I thought about my accountability friends, I thought about who I’m becoming, I thought about how terrible it felt to be trapped in impulsive eating.  Just like that, “being alone at the grocery store” got erased from the list of good reasons to abuse myself with food.

 

I’m thinking of others still on the list:  what if I get really bad news, or I’m too tired, too stressed?  What if I don’t have healthy food ready when I’m hungry?  What do I do on my birthday (hasn’t happened yet since giving up sugar)…?  The reasons are fading fast.

 

It wasn’t comfortable to take care of sick kids and figure out how to diaper a dog.  I didn’t plan on doing that all in the same day.  I didn’t like it, but I did it.  I did it without sugar.  That in itself was its own joy.  Addicted Brooke couldn’t imagine taking on big discomfort without sugar numbing the sharp edges of the situation.  Beyond that, it was nice to have my boys at home.  We read under a blanket on the couch.  We walked the dog (it was sunny that time).  We ditched the usual responsibilities and just hung out together. 

 

The next time it rains, the proclivity to stay inside won’t be as strong.  I know what it feels like to get outside anyway.  I know that God can help me take care of sick kids.  I know that He can steer me past Easter candy at the store.  I know that He hides joy in uncomfortable situations.  I’m running out of reasons to stay stuck. 

Duct Tape House

They say duct tape fixes everything

It’s a versatile, simple, and quick

My car’s side mirror was coming off

It was either going to be hundreds spent

At the mechanic

Or three firm wraps around with the duct tape

Right in my own garage

Problem solved.

 

If I continued this logic throughout the house

Imagine where I’d end up:

Leaky sink?  Taped pipe.

Rip in the couch?  Sealed with shiny gray.

Toys, walls, furniture, holes in the wall

I need look no further

Than my sturdy, handy roll of tape.

 

For the moment, it works

The problems get addressed

Kind of.

Over time, though, the tape shows its limits.

Besides looking terrible,

It wears out, or, in most cases,

It never addressed the real issue.

 

I don’t want to live in a duct taped house.

That sounds very tenuous.

Yet, this is what I’ve been doing my whole life with food.

Food has been my duct tape.

 

Whatever comes my way, I’ve tried to fix it with food.

Boredom?  Eat something to perk up.

Overstimulated?  Eat something to calm down.

Too sad?  Food will comfort.

Happy?  Celebrate with special foods!

Even this one:  feeling like I’m trapped in a negative cycle with food?

Eat again, because I give up trying to make it better!

 

As I’m gaining freedom from addictive eating,

I’m faced with a leaky pipe and no duct tape.

Each day presents various life events I’ve always navigated with food.

I stand, looking at the pipe, with a new tool – a wrench, let’s say.

In theory, I know what a wrench does,

But I’m so used to using duct tape that a wrench feels weird and clumsy.

Am I going to have to disassemble the pipe and see what’s in there?

Maybe.

Am I going to have to sit in uncomfortable feelings and allow

Tough things to exist?

Probably.

 

Right now, this feels like a lot of work.

I’m not good with a wrench – or, with being present to life.

But I don’t want to live in a duct taped house anymore.

I want to be a church, a beautiful vessel of the Holy Spirit,

Fully and truly functioning

A testament to His care and love

Ready to be used

Not patched and ready to burst.

 

 

Milestones Instead of Stumbling Blocks

At church last night, the drums were particularly loud on one song.  The drummer really got into it and you could almost feel the beat in your chest.  It was a milestone moment, bringing me back to a time in my life when loud drumming would have felt like danger.  For several years, I had daily, debilitating panic attacks.  Certain things would trigger them- loud, sudden noises like drums, for example.  In those days, if I was around drumming like that, I’d have to leave church and walk the neighborhood until my heart stopped racing and my chest relaxed so I could breathe better.  Last night, I was able to stay calm and keep singing.  Drums are now a marker of God’s healing in my life, rather than a trauma trigger.

 

 

Tunnels are like that too.  In the panic attack days, I’d scream my way driving through the I-90 bridge tunnel, “GOD!!  Please get me through this!!  Please!!”  It was awful.  Whenever I drive that way now, it causes me to smile.  I can go through that tunnel with no thought but gratitude.  I remember the terror I used to feel and thank God that He saved me from it.

 

 

My current journey has me newly released from sugar addiction.  Sugar and compulsive overeating have plagued me, probably since I was eleven years old.  I cycle around and around, always attempting something that I hope will result in lasting freedom from dysfunctional eating.  As I’m navigating life without sugar and overeating, stumbling blocks keep coming up.  My son’s birthday was last week.  Normally, a birthday in the family is a fabulous opportunity for me to bake and sample my way into a sick stomach.  I called the coach who’s helping me and was honest about my headspace around the upcoming birthday.  After planning it out, I made my son some cupcakes to take to school.  It was harder than I thought not to lick my fingers or the spoon.  The smell of warm vanilla in the house was cozy, but maddening in its allure.

 

 

Instead of staying inside while batches baked, I got outside into the cold winter air.  I used the time to help my daughter practice riding her bike.  With my sons, I watched them learn their bikes more from the sidelines.  My husband was the primary biking coach for them.  So, it was new for me to assert myself in this activity.  Because she was scared, we prayed before starting, for God’s help and to remove her fear.  As she increasingly had success, she kept calling out, “I’m doing it!  God is helping me!  Praise God I can do this bike!”  I hugged her and got close to her sweet, joyful little face.  It was an irreplaceable moment.  Without God’s healing, I might have otherwise been caught up in the mental gymnastics of how much sweets I could consume and still feel okay or not have my family notice how much I ate. Instead, I was fully present in a precious life moment with my four-year-old. 

 

 

A few weeks ago, I went to a friend’s dad’s funeral, only months after my own sweet Mom’s memorial.  It was hard.  I was very new in recovering from sugar addiction, still having headaches as my body adjusted.  My impulse around the huge emotions welling up was to get candy to eat.  I realized with some disappointment that I was going to have to feel those emotions instead.  I cried and I missed my Mom so deeply it physically hurt.  And I did it without numbing myself with food.  I honored her that way.  I honored myself that way.  And I believe God was glorified in that too.  I allowed Him to be present with me and carry me through it, without the crutch and destruction of overeating.  That is a memorial, a memory and testimony to which I can return and remember.  God was faithful to me in a place of deep grief.  He led me through that place in freedom, and He can do it again.

 

 

As God brings me into increased healing around food, my prayer is that all these things that used to be places of struggle and defeat will become milestones of the miraculous.  Instead of dreading birthday parties, I’ll see them as an opportunity to celebrate my health and freedom from addiction.  Already, as my next son’s birthday looms around the corner, I have a testimony of God’s faithfulness in a birthday situation.  I have that monument and we can build on it.  Add another rock, saying, “God helped me here, again and again.” 

Untethered

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes losing you makes me feel untethered.

I’m far from being a little kid,

But even in adulthood

Your unconditional love provided

A grounding

That feels scary now that it’s gone.

 

I remember maybe six years ago

When my kids and I visited your house

After the trip,

My son told me his blanket had a new smell.

I held it to my nose and breathed you in.

“That’s my Mom,” I told him, “That’s comfort.”

 

When your memory got foggy

The untethering began.

I became a caregiver, our roles swapped.

Even so, the last time we walked together

I apologized that I didn’t bring the kids.

You told me it was me you wanted to see.

 

I’m so old – my body is changing in ways

I thought were just for old ladies.

But how do I go through the rest of my life

Without a Mom?

Without my Mom?

I don’t think I’m old enough for that.

 

I reach for something to hold on to.

I wonder who I am without you,

And reflect on who I am because of you.

In moments when I feel alive and present,

I whisper, “I’m living, Mom!”

And the bond I thought I lost reveals itself once more.

Surely You Know

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A struggle  

Surfaced yet again,

With stronger impact than usual.

This particular struggle

Plagues me daily,

Yearly.

I felt the weight of it,

Trapped in its impossibility,

I cried and snapped at God:

“Surely You know!”

 

It was an accusation,

From a heart

That felt forgotten.

 

Surely God knows

What I’m going through.

Surely He has the power to

Change this.

Surely God knows

How unbearable it is

To keep going this way.

 

I moved on,

Did the next thing,

Washed some dishes.

Within the mundane,

This thought arose:

“Surely You know.”

 

This time,

It was a statement,

An affirmation,

Trust.

 

Surely God knows

How this began,

How it will end.

Surely God knows

My heart,

My inability to fix this

On my own.

Surely God knows

And doesn’t delight

In His kids’ suffering.

 

That night,

The moon was

Nearly full.

I stood, watching it,

Imagining myself

Holding God’s hands.

I said it softly,

“Surely, You know.”

 

I let my body

Absorb the truth,

The love,

Held in that awareness.

I watched the moon

And listened

To Him telling me back,

“Surely, I know.”

 

 

 

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The Volume of Joy

 

My mom passed away two months ago.  A word that she embodied was joy.  My aunt, my mom’s younger sister, told me that it came about on a girls’ trip.  The sisters (my mom was one of four girls in a family of six kids) each chose a fruit of the Spirit with which they connected closely.  My mom chose joy.

 

I’ve been putting together a slide show of photos from my mom’s life.  Younger to older, her bright, full-face smile is consistent throughout.  I know she didn’t always feel joyful, but even in dementia, her pictures show an irrepressible joy.  My mom used to decorate with words.  In my parents’ house, you can go into any major room or bathroom and find a sign that reads “Home”, “Hope”, “Family”, “Love”, and of course, lots and lots of “Joy”. 

 

Sometimes my mom’s joy made me feel like hiding away.  I remember being pregnant with my first baby and going to this wonderful baby shower at my childhood church.  My mom was bubbling over.  She wanted me to take my coat off so everyone could see my belly.  In the large room, people couldn’t hear what I said when I opened presents, so my mom somehow got a microphone set up.  I shied away from it, so she stepped in, giving commentary and stories. 

 

My mom’s joy was exuberant.  It was expressive.  Her joy was loud.  

 

Since she’s been gone, I’ve thought, ‘What if I were more intentionally joyful, as a way of honoring her?’  I’ve rarely expressed joy the way she did.  Could I turn up the volume?

 

Today, at church, I chatted with Pat, a church member who turned ninety last month.  She told me she celebrated by going horseback riding.  That was her desire for the day.  Pat had ridden horses up until her forties.  She missed it and her family made the adventure happen for her gift.  After she told me about it, Pat said something that resonated with what I’d been wrestling with, related to joy.

 

She said, “You know, joy can be quiet too.”

 

Pat explained that her heart felt filled to the top with joy while she was riding that horse.  She reveled in it.  But, on the outside, she said, she probably just looked calm and peaceful. 

 

“You don’t have to shout and jump and make a big fuss for it to be real joy.”

 

I love that, and it fits what feels like me.  I can carry on my mom’s joy in the world.  Maybe it will be loud and expressive sometimes.  More likely, it will continue to be that sweet, inner delight that comes from savoring each moment.  The kiss I plant on my sleeping daughter’s sweaty forehead.  The smell of somebody barbecuing nearby.  My feet sinking into sand as waves hug my ankles.  Joy is a good choice, whatever the volume.

 

 

Dear Mom

 

May 26, 2025

Dear Mom,

You died today.  Part of me wants today to last forever because I want to keep being inside a day in which you were breathing and here.

For you, maybe this day will last forever.  You entered forever.

As I sat beside your hospice bed, I sang worship songs.  The words were sharper somehow, with heaven so close.  In between songs, I whispered, “Jesus, open your arms.  Jesus, open your arms.”  I wanted Him to be ready to catch you.  To embrace you so fiercely.  The hairs on my arms tingled.

I wasn’t there when you finally let go.  Dad and Bryan and Nate were your loving witnesses.

Sometimes, God has been quiet in my life.  But this week, He was loud.

Rainbows, compassionate nurses, tight-knit family, friends so very supportive, a gluten-free cheeseburger at just the right time, the book I “coincidentally” got from the library, Jeff’s steadiness, songs, visitors, gardens, and a castle. 

Every corner, He shouted, “I am kind!!!!”

It’s hard to imagine life without you.

Who will commentate over the top of TV shows with Dad?  Who will get our “Br” names mixed up?  Who will share mildly inappropriate family stories with store clerks?  Who will eat all the black licorice?  Who will go for long walks with me? 

You always adored Julie Andrews and the “Sound of Music”.  I can see why.  You two are a little alike.

Beautiful voices, always singing.  Kind of kooky, open to oddball ideas.  Loves your kids.  Not afraid of a good hike.  Committed to God and His desires for your life.

Thank you, for leading me in knowing our Savior.

Thank you for being an example of servant-love.

Thank you for being the voice in my head: “Tell yourself the truth, Brooke.”

The truth is, I am really blessed to call you my Mom.  I will miss you terribly.  And, I hope it’s okay that I’m going to talk to you out loud sometimes. 

I’ll think of you when the lilacs bloom, when I snuggle my kids, and when I have a really good laugh.

The day is almost over, but you’re a part of me forever.

Love you so much,

Your daughter Brooke

More Best

 

 

When my friend Megan and I were roommates for a season of life, one of the phrases that came out of that time was “more best.”  I preface this by noting that both of us love words and grammar.  The wonky grammar is part of what makes it funny.  She and I were chatting in my room and I had a pile of clean sheets, fresh out of the dryer, ready to go back on my bed.  I hugged the warm sheets, took a big inhale, and said, “Isn’t this the best?”

Megan’s eyes lit up.  She broke into a huge smile and replied, “You know what would be even more best?”

She then wrapped the warm sheet around her body like a cocoon, closed her eyes, and grinned from ear to ear.  It was indeed, more best.

 

This is a picture of God.

Ephesians chapter 3 ends with Paul’s prayer that his readers would understand the vast dimensions of God’s love.  How wide and long, and high and deep, is the love of Christ.  Then he worships God for who He is: 

“Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever.  Amen!” -Ephesians 3: 20 & 21

The one and only God of the universe is a more best God.

In less than a month, I will celebrate how God was more best in Megan’s story.  I get to be a bridesmaid when she marries, Sam, a man who goes beyond what Megan asked or imagined.  She asked and she imagined for a long time before she met him.  It took patience, trust, and hope.  And now, celebration and exhaling into the beautiful answer.

I married a more best man; also beyond what I asked for or imagined.  When I’m worried and reviewing all the ways things could go wrong, he occasionally says, “But what if it’s really good?”

Of course, goodness is an outcome we can expect as deeply loved followers of God!  Even in the crappiest of situations, we have guidance and help and the power of the Holy Spirit for all who believe Him.  Romans 8:28 says God works everything for good for those who love Him and have been called according to His purpose.  There’s another level of goodness – of best – that’s possible because God is good beyond our imaginings.

I hope you can wrap yourself in that.

 

 

photo credit

Memory Loss Milestones

 

Having a mom with dementia has been a journey of slow grief, but also with pockets of unexpected richness and joy.  There are landmarks, like when she stopped driving, stopped cooking, and a sad one – stopped reading.  The dementia milestone I’ve long feared is the day when my mom wouldn’t recognize me anymore.  Thinking about that probability has always brought tears and a panicky feeling in my chest.  What will I do when my mom doesn’t know me anymore?

 

I’ve experienced a version of this event before.  My paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s.  I remember my mom making photo flashcards for Grandma Elaine and laminating them with the person’s name below each photo.  The idea was that any visitor or caregiver at the nursing home could either quiz her or just spark up conversation about loved ones.  Understandably, she didn’t like to be quizzed on people or events, so the cards became just friendly faces near her bedside.  When she didn’t know me anymore, Grandma Elaine called me “that doll”.  I accepted the new nickname as a term of endearment and didn’t push her to remember that I was related.  One time, my dad also visited while I was at Grandma’s nursing home.  He stood in the doorway and said hello.  In an exaggerated whisper, Grandma Elaine said with suspicion in her voice, “That man comes around here an awful lot!”  My dad and I laughed.  I said, “Well, I think it’s because he’s your son!  You gave birth to him!”  She broke into giggles, “Oh!  Okay!”

 

This past weekend, for Memorial Day, my husband, kids, and I drove five hours to my parents’ cabin on the beach.  We had a great time with extended family.  My mom needed a reminder of my son’s name, but otherwise seemed pretty clear-minded.  The tide was way out, so I dragged some chairs and beach toys down the hill so my mom and I could sit while the kids played in the sand.  My sons and husband explored the rocks, finding little live crabs to hold and show us.  I brought my book, thinking I would read for a while.  I started to read quietly on my own, then thought of what a voracious reader my mom used to be.  Sometimes, she would read a book in one day.  Dementia has made reading difficult and it’s been a long time since she’s successfully enjoyed a book.  So, I decided to be her audio book.  I told her it was an author’s story of making bread and how God taught her things in the process. Then I read the pages out loud so she could join in.  It was a really sweet moment, being outside, watching the waves, having the kids shriek with crabs tickling their little hands, and enjoying a book with my mom.  She commented on parts that connected with her experience, like growing up Catholic and the process of receiving Eucharist.  We usually don’t know what to talk about because she remembers so little of her present life.

 

I always thought the moment of my mom not knowing me would be this solid turning point.  Like, she’d have no idea who I was and it would be very traumatizing.  That’s not what happened.  We were reading on the beach and she pointed to my two year old daughter, out in front of us, squatting on the tide flats, collecting creatures in a bucket. 

 

“Who does she belong to?,” my mom asked, “Who’s raising that little girl?”

 

“I am,” I said, “That’s my daughter.”

 

My mom smiled at me and said, “Well, that’s nice.  You must be doing a good job.”

 

“Well, I grew up with a good mother, so that helps,” I said.

 

“Oh?  You did?  That’s good.  That little girl says such clever things.  My kids never said all those clever things.”

I laughed and gently smacked her arm, “Hey!  I’m one of your kids!”

 

She laughed too, “Oh!  Well, I certainly don’t remember it being as clever as what she says!”

 

We continued having a nice time on the beach.  Later, my mom knew me as her daughter and recalled some stories.  It wasn’t a sharp turning point.  It was a moment, and the moment was lighthearted, not a stab of grief.  I wasn’t expecting it to be gentle like that.

 

I recognize that there’s more to come; probably harder transitions, including stopping knowing me altogether and other events that may be much, much more challenging.  I don’t want to pre-grieve anymore though.  I was wrong about how this one turned out, and I feel like I wasted grief in imagining the event well before it occurred.  My mom is not the same, but she is with me.  I’ll keep praying for God’s help and healing, I’ll keep reaching out for relationship with my parents, I’ll keep trying to adjust and receive her as she is now.  Whether she knows me or not, I plan to come around an awful lot.

 

 

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