The Greater the Pain, the Larger the Growth

Nothing is more rewarding than coming out through the other side of pain. I don't mean a hard decision, or running a little longer so that you have a stitch, even though that actually could be a great representation. I mean true pain. Mental anguish that physically twists your insides and makes you gasp for breath. A tear that is so large, if you don't mend it, it will leave an ugly scar. I may have healed mine. We will see. If you decide to read this, sit down and get a tissue.

I've been living in a bubble. Safe and sound just outside of Denver for the past 15+ years. I have a very supportive husband. The 'hide the body' kind that is pro- Cass on all fronts. Bring on the zombie- apocalypse. We're a team and he has my back.

I am remotely in charge of my (almost) adult children's lives. They text me daily. Existential crises like, "I can't find my phone charger!", or "I'm out of gas!". Never asking a question, but making a statement that I must decipher with my parental wisdom, and share a resolution, then offer direction, often following up to ensure the simple tasks were completed for the most positive outcome. It's exhausting. They are too old for this and I am too.

This is my own fault that my children are so needy, but I enjoy being relied upon, being wanted and needed. It is part of my character. They are my family and I would do anything for them.

This weekend changed for me. I clearly saw the gap between my children's growth and my own. Living in a quiet little bubble where only soft blows ever land, "We're out of milk", and "I'll never wear these shoes again." quickly became nauseatingly clear how large that gap was.

This weekend, my brother and I attended the funeral of my Grandmother, Wilma. For you who have read my posts, you have seen me post her picture a few times with some well said words that have made me the person I am, and now I have to remember her by. At 97, many who lived closer to her were ready for my Grandmother's passing. Me? I was still stuck somewhere in 1982. A dream that if life ever got too hard, too bad, I could always return to her, I would go home.

It's a childish fantasy, I know, but I have been living with it since I was 12. After two previously failed marriages, I resigned myself stubbornly that I would not go 'home', I could do it on my own. But my fall back plan was a statement that only survived due to the fallacy that 'home' would always be there.

Even writing this, I realize the importance of instilling my offspring with the tools to get through the toughest of circumstances, hanging on by their own hope. By their own WILL. By their strength alone. It's a powerful feeling and I have been selfishly hoarding it, unwilling to share. We all have our burdens, challenges, and we eventually do what we must, but today's youth fall under so much more pressure than we ever did. Even just while I was away there was another teen suicide in my city. We must do our part to prepare as best we can for our youth to believe in themselves. That no matter how hard life can be, they can overcome the pain and emerge on the other side. Stronger. It starts with a kindness to others and must become contagious. They watch us and see how ugly the world is, but most miss the beauty here too.

I felt that acutely this weekend. My parents separated when I was just 6 years old. My younger sister and brother were too young to remember anything but mental pictures in their mind, glimpses imposed by yarns told over the years, some true, some based on fact, but essentially just a memory passed through the lens of another persons memory. I corrected some of my own brother's 'memories' as we traveled to the quiet, deserted little town in Texas to lay my Grandmother's ashes to rest. This is where we spent our fragile, chaotic youth, living with my Grandparents until one or another parent showed up to care for us for a time, then they would be gone again. Our foundation was built on sand, but we were loved by two people whom I cherish. They were our heroes.

Being asked to attend the funeral of a person whom I held a relationship with only over the phone for decades can be devastating, enlightening and is the PERFECT garden for growth. To me, Grandma never aged, despite her telling me of her little ailments over the years. I never thought for a million years that she would be gone. That statement seems ridiculous. That hole was too dark and scary for me to consider a reality. Over these past couple of years, I had begun to mentally 'prepare'. Boy, was I wrong. I was no closer to being ready for this then I was when I left that house at the age of 12.

My family and I have been estranged for over 40 years. Not 10, not even 20 but 40. The bulk of my entire life. Most of them did not even know I existed until recently. My Grandmother was the only person I had contact with consistently. My only family left after my PaPa passed in 1984. I was asked to be the Lector at her service. As the oldest Granddaughter, I could not say no.

No one said, "Oh my GOD, Cassandra, we've missed you!" It wasn't like that. It was quiet. It was quick glances, averted eyes and hushed whispers in a church filled with strangers who looked like me in some way or another. It was the creeping realization that I had a family that my children never knew. While my kids knew I did have relatives somewhere, they also knew that I was estranged, meaning 'off-limits' and that they would probably never really know their own heritage. I'm sure it is this way for some families, but the south has its own set of rules. And with each generation, we were further away as those who remembered we existed, passed on or kept that 'etiquette' and never mentioned our names except in catty circles in the back rooms of churches much like this one.

Let's go back just a minute. I did know it would be weird and uncomfortable. I tried to prepare. I want to make sure you know I tried.

As I left Denver to travel to Houston to lay my Grandmother to rest, I began to panic weeks ago. How could I deliver the Word as a Lector in front of this entire congregation, filled with people who shared my blood, but would not know me if I bumped into them in the street? I had a little bit of bitterness somewhere deep down that I didn't really realize existed. I missed out on so much of what could have been my life, but I also realized that I was where I needed to be in the end. I have a great close-knit, loving family, small as it may be. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Entering the church was terrifying but I kept moving forward. I saw faces I had not known I 'remembered'. Eyes I knew from my childhood embedded in weathered, aging and questioning faces. So many eyes and faces much like my own. I knew they were kin. I guess I did know a few faces more recently as my Aunt reached out to me a few years back when my Grandmother became ill and we raced out to see her, reconnecting to my Aunt via Facebook. We thought Grandma's time would be then, but she pulled through. This was the 'primer' for rediscovering a family I had lost at a very young age.

It ended up being a very strange situation that I let my professional self take control of as I whirled the insecurities of my most personal life. I relied on my speaking skills as I walked up to the Lecturn. I had resigned to put that trust into myself as I practiced the words, clearly and with conviction for these past two weeks since I heard the news and was asked to speak. I would trust my professional self to do the heavy lifting while my personal emotions swirled and made me feel as if I would faint, vomit, pass out or even disappear. I have studied EQ, I know how to put on my big girl pants and 'smile and wave'. Being in Human Resources for over a decade helped more than I ever thought as I have sat near highly emotional people in the middle of turmoil and remained the voice of calm, yet I am also a highly empathetic person. I try not to let empathy control my emotions on the outside. I will add that to my list of 'strengths' if anyone ever asks.

As the Pastor delivered the funeral service, my heart started racing. My rational brain said, "Excellent!" It was working. This was the jolt of adrenaline I needed to keep my feet one in front of the other. I was relieved as I could feel the rush course through me as the time for me to speak came closer. My 'fight or flight' kicked in, but flight was not an option. I loved that woman. I still do. To me, she was the most beautiful person ever created and I owed her everything. My sanity in all of the times I called her when I was lost, alone, and afraid. Every time I ran away from my parents, calling her from payphones from who knows where that metal-wrapped cord was my lifeline. The end call tone my reality. I always made sure I had at least one dime, for emergencies. If you can understand that last statement, then you know how important a dime was then.

Grandma was my 'Mother' figure. Then later celebrating the birth of my children, years of heartaches, celebrations. All over the phone and the long letters she would send with a lovely but modest card published by whichever humanitarian society she was giving to in charity. The $10 bill freshly pressed from the bank on birthdays, the Christmas cards. Mostly, it was the phone calls where she would lift me up to an elevated status just by having her in my life and that I was hers. That feeling got me through the darkest times. I relied on her like water to replenish myself.

And the words she wanted spoken at the service as we celebrated her life profoundly resonated with me. I clung to them, shutting out the rest of the world, almost communing with her as I remembered her and every lesson she ever taught me. Beautiful words that I wanted to believe were for me alone, but she was never selfish, she loved everyone. Psalm 121, and her personally selected 2 Timothy 4: 5-8, 'As for you, always be sober-minded, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry...' This was the kick in the butt I needed to keep my eyes forward and stand tall. I came down from that lecturn a different person, imbibed with the strength she always gave me.

Wilma was a strong woman who believed in helping lift the hearts of others in every interaction, a true minister to everyone who was a part of her life. She was not perfect, and was hardest on herself, but she was always trying to be better than she was. To me, it was a great honor to read these words to her, for her. And in the end, it was that thin strand of strength I held onto as I spoke, keeping my tears in my chest.

I felt that though these strangers shared my DNA, I would be looked upon as the black sheep. And I was. I felt that they would be indignant that I should read these words as a representative of her life, who was I? I was her legacy, her precious 'sweet girl', her guarded and well-revered 'daughter', so I kept my head high as she would have wanted me to. I know she felt that I always deserved it.

This was a kind of suffering I had not experienced before. I felt shame at running away. So far away that no one still living knew me at all. Fear that one person would say something horrible and my instinct to fight back would kick in. I actually worried I would make a scene. I could respond with accusations, excuses that I was only a child and did not have control over my own destiny at that time. Or worse, I would break down and cry in front of strangers who held no sympathy for me.

I'm reflecting on the intensity of speaking to a crowd, not of strangers, not of professionals who wanted to hear me speak, but to those who have wondered, or worse, never cared where I had been for the bulk of my entire life, with me suddenly stepping in at her passing as if my Grandmother had some riches that they would be forced to share with me, a stranger. An outsider.

But I already had the riches as she had already given them to me. I recognized them in different areas of my life where I overcame and pulled up my bootstraps. When I decided I was worth more than what I had and sought to better myself on my own. How I am not afraid of standing up for what is right, no matter the cost. How she gave to me her sense of ethics and a fierce sense of justice and equality for all. I recognized her gifts immediately in how I handled myself, as she would have in this tense situation. With grace, with empathy, as I took hands and hugged people I had not seen in 40 years, I looked into their eyes and saw the loss they shared with me. I consoled them too. Who was this person? ME. I never knew I had it in me. I was utterly humbled, yet felt like I glittered in gold.

While my professional speaking skills kept me on my feet as I delivered the lecture in church, it was how I was raised by my Grandmother that took over afterward. 'Think not of yourself, but of others.' and I learned the truth in that lesson as I let myself be led by kindness instead of internalizing my own anguish at having been rejected by generations. That kind of power keeps a person together, makes them stronger and helps them to be the support of others. As we know, it strengthens us to hero status.

I could babble on about how similar this lesson is when comparing it to great leadership qualities or how you should better yourself, but you have heard all of that before. I just wanted to share my own growth experience because I believe that you can hear the words over and over again, but when you experience the pain of growth, that is when it truly sticks. You change and emerge to become someone else.

Unfortunately, as I have learned this truly hard lesson, I have also recognized where I have failed my own children in not teaching them internal strength and self-trust earlier on. We coddle and support and feel that we are helping, but we are only putting a bandaid where there should be a cast. We are offering a butter knife when we should be teaching them to create a machete to chop down the weeds of struggle that keep them from their path.

I'm sure there will be a little turmoil around my household as my kids realize that they will have to start figuring out a few things on their own. Hopefully, they will look back and appreciate the 'riches' they will be receiving while I am here to teach them. I will be there, but they must endure the struggle.

PS. Work where you can to mend the relationships you have, but mostly to mend your own heart so you can know that is accomplished, and go on to help others to do the same. I can move forward knowing I have not lost the lessons of my Grandmother's memory. She would be so proud of me right now. I'm sure she is.

~Cass