The Other Side

By Lori Freeland –

My eighth grader slumps at the kitchen table, his mouth curving down into his frustration frown, as I leaf through his unfinished homework.

Tears fill his eyes. “Dad didn’t help me while you were gone. He played Wii every night.”

Heat rises from my chest, up my neck. Settles into my face. My, “What?” comes out a strangled half cry-half scream as I lunge for my cell. Before my hand touches the phone, a small voice breaks through my fury.

Wait.

Wait?

Wait an hour.

Are You crazy, Lord? An hour will douse the flame of my anger. In an hour, I will forget all the nasty, witty accusations forming in my head.

Have you considered the other side?

There’s another side?

His side.

Hmm. I ponder that. Just a little. Because right now, my side screams at me to run off on a tirade of what did not get accomplished this last week while I was on my girl’s only cruise. The cruise my friend, Gwyn, dubbed our chickation.

I don’t want to remember that he encouraged me to go. Crying and carrying on about how I feel punished for taking this time for myself seems a better idea. I want to throw the unfinished homework at my husband when he comes through the door while I yell about the unopened emails pertaining to the week’s activities. Like the basketball team photos my daughter missed.

Remember, the other side.

I have spent the better part of my life as half of a whole, married to the same man, for twenty years. Throughout our many conflicts, the other side lurks. Just waiting for my attention. I don’t like to listen. In the center of my frustration and anger, looking at the other side means letting go of my own hurt and resentment.

Take my chickation. I don’t want to remember my husband taking our children to a movie on Monday just to hang out with them on his day off. I don’t want to admit he forgot the basketball game and team pictures because he cleaned the house as a welcome home present. For me. I don’t want to think about how he changed the sheets on our bed on Friday, in honor of my clean sheet fetish, and slept on the couch to keep them fresh for my return on Saturday. Or that he made a special trip to Central Market to concoct a fabulous dinner while I unpacked.

I want to keep my anger. And if I think about how he not only paid for my weeklong chickation, but also encouraged me to have a good time while he took on all my jobs for the week in addition to his own, I can’t keep my anger.

During my wedding, I recited Corinthians 13:4-5. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.”

Hmmm. Is not easily angered.

The other side. His side. I allow myself to think about the good and release the bad. I don’t even need to wait the hour. Suddenly, I don’t feel like making that phone call. I think I’ll wait until he gets home, wrap my arms around him, and whisper thank you in his ear instead.

Can God Find Me Anywhere? Even in a Restroom?

By Lori Freeland –

I ran down the hall desperate for a quiet place to meet God. Around the corner, through an old wooden door, an alcove hid a tiny restroom in the north end of the hospital. I pushed through the door and locked myself in the cold, grey refuge of the single stall. A knot formed in my chest, tight and suffocating.

“Lord, please. I need to be alone. Don’t let anyone need to use this restroom.”I stared at the chipped, stained tiles. Would God meet me here? In a worn, broken down, dirty restroom?

Footsteps echoed outside the door. I held my breath as they paused, then continued on.

Unexpected laughter bubbled up and I sagged down onto the worn toilet seat, balancing over the oval shaped hole. Even if this was an odd venue to beg for Kyle’s life—it painted an accurate picture of the day.

Was it better to leap right into the begging or make a bunch of lame promises first? God knew it all anyway. And my time alone was limited. Straight to the begging seemed the best option.

“First, I need you to forgive me. For getting too busy for You. Please don’t be too busy for me.” I flexed my foot, moved my ankle in a circle. Fixated on my dirty shoes.

The air conditioner kicked on and I slid forward on the seat.

Shaky laughter escaped, echoing through the bathroom. “Lord, please. I don’t want to do this. I’m not strong enough. The whole concept of You only give what I can handle? Well, I can’t handle it.”

I rubbed my palms along the rough fabric of my jeans. “I don’t want to handle it. So maybe we could do something else instead? Something easier? I could get sick.”

I stared at my wedding ring. Watched the diamond sparkle under the fluorescent light. “Or Pat? He could get sick. What about a fire? Tornado?” My bitten off nails dug into my legs. “Pat could lose his job. That would be character building.”

I squeezed my eyes together. “Pick something else. Please. I’m begging from a toilet seat.”

I paused to give God time think it over. But there was no great booming voice.

“You could wave the last few days away.”

The air conditioner chugged louder. Tears escaped and I turned my face to wipe them against my shoulder. “This isn’t supposed to be my life.”

The shape of the hard porcelain indented the bottom of my thighs so I stood. “You’re not letting me out of this, are You?” I sagged against the smooth metal wall. Slid down to the floor.

“I guess we’re going with cancer then.” Goosebumps formed on my back where my tank top scooped down.

“I can’t do this alone. And I can’t waste time and energy wondering if You caused this, or allowed this, or could have stopped this. I need to feel Your love, Your goodness. Every day. You are my rock.”

Tears rolled down my face—no point in trying to stop them. As the tears flowed, the hard knot inside my chest stretched and softened.

Still no booming voice.

But for the first time in days, my shoulders relaxed. A verse filled my head. “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” (Psalm 139:8 NIV). God could find me anywhere. He could fill me anywhere.

That day, six years ago, God found me in the restroom of the Children’s Hospital. He heard my plea and answered. No, He didn’t take it away or swap it out for something else. But He met me where I was, in that dirty old broken down restroom, lifted me up and reminded me why He was my rock. Throughout the entire four-year journey, I walked alongside my son with God as the glue that held us together. And not for one minute did I question His love.

The Uninvited

By Lori Freeland –

Dinner begins—I look at my watch—now.

Cars have pulled in and out of my neighbor’s driveways for the last half-hour. Babysitters arrive. Smartly dressed couples depart. From my perch on the window ledge, I admire Melissa’s sapphire holiday dress and envy Dawn’s red high heels. Even though I can’t see up close, I’m sure Jen sports glittery earrings to accent her new haircut.

A swift glance down at my black sweat pants and stained white T-shirt is enough to remind me that I’m not going to this holiday dinner.

My husband peeks around the corner. “Let’s go eat sushi at Geisha.”

“Not in the mood.”

He comes to stand behind me. “Fajitas at Cristina’s?”

George and Cathye are last to drive away and I yank the curtains closed with a sigh and shake my head. “I have a stomach ache.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.” His footsteps fade behind me.

We’re good neighbors. We mow our lawn, water our grass, pull our weeds. We drive down the street slowly, constantly vigilant of small children. We pet sit and mail collect. Rescue the occasional dog. We throw an annual barbeque. But tonight, we’re The Uninvited.

I’ve never been The Uninvited.

We must’ve done something wrong. I’m tired of trying to figure out what. Which drives me crazier? That we are the only people on the street not going? Or knowing that The Inviter made up her mind to dislike me, and nothing I do will change that? Maybe I’d feel better if I knew why, even if I can’t fix it.

I drop onto the chaise lounge in the living room and rest my head against the burgundy throw. No matter how many friends my husband reminds me that I have, it doesn’t help tonight. People are mean. I would never treat anyone that way.

The Lord whispers in my ear. “Are you sure?”

I grip the arms of the chair. “I would never be so callous with someone’s feelings.”

The whisper grows louder. “Remember when Caroline struggled with friendships and you told her to adjust?”

Hmmm.

“Remember when Ann mourned a broken relationship and you told her she was obsessed? You said walk away and let it go?”

Uh-oh.

“Remember when Julie shared her feelings of alienation in your old neighborhood and you brushed her feelings off as paranoid?”

I am callous. And mean. I offer my friends paltry words, blow off their feelings when I should encourage and validate them instead.

A tear slips down my cheek. “I’m so sorry, Lord. I didn’t know.”

Until now, rejection has lived outside my world. Or maybe, until now, I’ve been obliviously unaware.

“Be a blessing with your words.” The Lord encourage sme. “A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed” (Proverbs 11:25 NIV).

I long to be refreshed. I want Him to heal the awful ache eating through my heart.

“You be the refresher.”

“Yes, Lord. I will.” I close my eyes and make a note to call my friends and ask their forgiveness—to let them know I finally get it.

My husband leans around the corner with a frown. “Crazy people talk to themselves. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” With a tiny smile, in the midst of tears, I wipe my eyes on the corner of my ratty shirt. “Let me change my clothes and let’s go out for sushi.”

And Always Be Thankful

By Lori Freeland –

With a sigh, I drop into my favorite overstuffed chair and rest my cheek against the green tweed fabric. Leftover turkey, green beans, and mashed potatoes, brown with gravy, litter white plates scattered across the counter. The spicy aroma of warm pumpkin pie floats into the family room.

My boys tear through the room, flashing silver foam swords, my husband on their trail. He scoops them up and plops them down on the couch next to my sister and my grandpa.

“Turn the game up, I can’t hear the score,” My mom yells from the kitchen.

The dishwasher clicks on and I tune out the soft hum and close my eyes. Full of warmth and family, the day seems perfect. Yet, something is missing—the picture incomplete.

Grandma’s absence fills the room.

The smooth scent of vanilla slides over me. A hand rests on my shoulder and I cover it with mine—trace the bumpy veins on loose, spongy skin. I open my eyes.

Grandma kneels beside my chair, dressed in her favorite outfit—blue sweater, matching pumps, and pearl clip-on earrings.

I bite my lip. She’s not supposed to be here.

A smile warms her face. “I just want you to know that I’m okay.”

“It’s not the same without you.” I squeeze her hand and lean my head against hers. “I miss your hugs.”

Her fingers comb through my hair. “I miss yours, too.”

“Mom made your pistachio salad. It was all wrong. She put in the nuts.”

With a laugh, she kisses my cheek.

A harsh buzz shatters the moment. Startled, I sit up in bed. My husband snores softly by my side. I hit snooze on the alarm and fall back against the pillow.

It had only been a dream.

And now it’s too late. Too late to tell her how much she meant to me. Too late to hug her and realize what I had.

My husband rolls over and rubs his eyes. When I take the time to think about it, there are so many things I’m grateful for—like when he takes out the garbage and scoops out the cat litter. He’s made dinner on my tired days more times than I can count.

I roll over and scoot down so I can face him. “I love you.”

With a sigh, he pulls me close. “I love you, too.”

My hand rests against the rough stubble of his cheek and I breathe him in. I want to live in this moment, be grateful for what I have right now.

“Thanks for putting away the laundry yesterday and coming home early to drive Maddy to church.”

Surprise lights his eyes and, after he stares at me for a moment, a huge smile lights his face. “You’re welcome.”

As he holds me, I think of my kids still asleep, under their covers. How many hugs have I pushed off, busy with the drive to finish this or that? How many times have I punished their bad choices and neglected to praise their good choices?

My devotional reading from early in the week drifts through my mind.

“And let the peace that comes from Christ rule in your hearts. For as members of one body you are called to live in peace. And always be thankful” (Colossians 3:15 NIV).

Thankfulness. Something I don’t spend much time pondering. It will take a conscious decision, some deliberate prioritizing, and major prayer to make a permanent attitude change. But it will be worth it. My grandma may be gone, but my husband and my kids are here.

After a soft kiss on my husband’s cheek, I climb out of bed to wake my kids up with a hug. I can’t wait to tell them how special I think they are!