The Song That Friendship Taught Me

Moving so often as a child was hard. School after school—new friends and more new friends. Sometimes I found my niche right away and sometimes I never really fit in. Many of the kids I wanted to befriend were fine with a casual friendship, but made it clear they didn’t need anything more. In other places, I would bond with someone quickly, only to be ripped apart a year later when we moved again.

Over and over again, I experienced not fitting in, not being needed, not being good enough, not being anyone's first choice. It didn’t take much for that message to resonate in my heart.

To dig in deeply. 

To make me desperate to figure out where I belonged.

The first stable social group I had was my friends at boarding school. My Sophomore year I spent most of my social energy on hanging out with a bunch of kids who were in full-blown rebellion. I wasn’t far from that point myself and I loved the attention I received for breaking the rules. Most of them were expelled from school that year and I had to “re-group” my Junior year.

Most of them. There were two girls I met that year that I became incredibly close to. Tami was my roommate and Wendy lived across the hall. We shared the typical dormitory confidences and some disagreements, but we were definitely fixtures in each other's lives. My friendship with Tami and Wendy formed the framework for female friendships that sustained me over the years. I learned about the importance of honesty and vulnerability from them. And I learned about the hurt of broken confidences and forgotten promises. They taught me the strength that comes from being woven into each other’s lives and the emptiness you feel when you realize you’ve unraveled. I let them down sometimes, but they didn’t let go of me—and vice versa. 

Wendy and I remained close friends after graduation. She understood when I was sad and discouraged, and she never stopped loving me, even when I wasn’t the best friend she needed. To this day, I can look forward to the occasional comment on my Facebook page reminding me that we have a lasting bond. Tami and I were close for a few years, but in adulthood we drifted apart and my attempts to stay in contact with her were unsuccessful; I gave up several years ago. 

Over the years that followed, I had many more transient female friendships. Some were intensely important for a season, but most just grew out of common activities like church or our children’s social groups.

But then two special friends came into my life. We met through church and school activities. Through our volunteer work at our kids’ private school, we developed a friendship that deepened when they helped me through a family crisis. Once again, I had friends who would make me their first choice. And I grew more and more dependent on their friendship.

The first heartbreak came when one of them moved--sixteen hours away by car. 

I cried when she left, because I suspected she was the glue that held the three of us together. Once she was so far away, the two of us talked less often, but our conversations were always meaningful. We could go months without talking and pick things right up where we left off. To this day, we can just look at each other and know that our hearts are still connected.

My other friend and I grew closer after the move—talking and texting every day. Other friends moved in and out of her life (she was seriously the most popular person I knew) but our friendship was steady and strong. At times I would get a bit jealous of all the people who wanted to be part of her life, but we maintained an active and growing friendship throughout the next few years. And through her I made other friends who became very important to me.

And then she moved. And I cried again at another loss. 

She was only a couple of hours away, so it seemed completely doable to maintain our friendship. After all, it was a place I travelled to frequently, as my children were nearby. For a long time, we continued talking almost daily. We often stayed at her home when we went up to visit. There was always time for coffee and conversation.

Until there wasn’t. 

We were visiting and had gone to church together. She said, “You don’t mind if I go and sit with _________. I don’t get to see them very often and want to catch up with them.” 

I said I didn’t mind. But I did. A lot. After all, I didn’t see her that often and those people lived right there in the same town. 

I was fine with moving from “BFF” to “close friend” most of the time. But again and again during a visit, she would leave me to go and hang out with someone else. I was so insecure in my ability to find a new best friend that I convinced myself that everything was OK.

All of that changed in September 2014. It was the weekend of the Proverbs 31 OBS Retreat, which just happened to be near her home, and I had emailed her a couple of months prior to see if we could have a “girls’ day” on the Thursday before the retreat started. I knew September was often a busy month for her, so I was careful to ask if she had other plans. After a few days, she replied that she was free and we planned the day. 

Thursday was wonderful!  We went for a drive and shopped and talked and ate and had so much fun. We stayed up late talking and I looked forward to spending the morning together the following day, before I left for the retreat.

After breakfast on Friday, she asked me when I planned to leave, because she had some friends coming over so they could all leave together for a girls’ weekend. It was pretty clear that she needed our visit to be ended by the time they arrived, so she could focus on them. She knew a couple of them really needed to talk. I understood, didn’t I?

I understood. I was no longer her first choice. I packed and was gone within thirty minutes. I knew it was done. I was done. I was tired of not being good enough to spend time with when someone better came along. I treated myself to a fancy lunch and a couple of glasses of wine. I was so sad and felt so unnecessary. I had become someone who was easy to leave behind.

I headed to the retreat with a heart that was heavy. I felt unwanted, unimportant, and definitely not good enough for anyone to invest time and energy in.

And that day I met Wendy. And everything I knew about friendship changed.

How ironic that as this friend drifted away, another Wendy told me she’d never give up on me. But that's another story...

The Song That My Church Taught Me

I’ve gone to church since I was a baby. I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t feel the call to be with people who love God. I’ve attended the Seventh-day Adventist (SDA) Church for my entire life, as well. As someone “raised in the church”, I’ve spent my life immersed in the unique SDA culture and it is my comfort zone. Even in times of adolescent rebellion, there was a feeling of safety in the routines of vegetarian potlucks, Friday night worship, Sabbath afternoon naps, and church school.

Even when I struggled with being good enough, my Sabbath School teachers and Pastors told me that Jesus loved me--loved me so much that He died for me and wanted me to spend eternity with Him. They explained grace to me again and again, even when I couldn’t believe it could be that simple. They showed me the peace that comes from setting aside a day to worship and rest. They explained the importance of understanding Creation and knowing my Creator, so that I would grasp how He could re-create me when I sinned. I was taught all of these things and more in my church. But somewhere along the line, I picked up the message that God loves good little girls and boys and I must never make wrong choices because God wouldn’t love me anymore. This fed right into my tendency to believe I wasn’t good enough; it left me so discouraged by every mistake I made and feeling defeated by every temptation I encountered. All of the other kids in Sabbath School seemed to have it figured out.  Why didn’t I?

For me this is a question that took 50 years to answer.

As I sat down to write about church I realized that my relationship with church has had some distinct phases, and in each one of them I’ve learned different things about church and God and myself.

Phase One:  Childhood/Adolescence

• “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know”
• Jesus loves good little boys and girls
• Are you going somewhere that God can go with you? (A question often used to point out the need to avoid temptation. I know now that God is always with me)
• Jesus IS coming again. Will you be ready?
• Know your Bible--read it, study it, learn it.
• Keep the Sabbath as a time holy and set it apart.
• Your body is God’s temple--No caffeine, smoking, alcohol, or “unclean” foods. No adornment (piercings! tattoos!!) No dancing or Rock & Roll or “bad” movies/TV. No sexual immorality.

Phase Two:  Young Adulthood

• God is love--people around us will know we are Christians by our love!
• Spend time in Bible study & prayer every day
• Tithe & give offerings from a spirit of praise/worship/gratitude.
• Go to church! Be active and be heard!
• Raise up your children in the way they should go....your responsibility for your children is immense and has eternal implications.
• If you are struggling with anything from Phase One, don’t let anyone else know. They might not think you are good enough for the responsibility they gave you.

Phase Three:  Middle Age

• Church politics and church cliques. Some leaders are going to lie and misrepresent and mislead.
• Friendships evaporate when you are a part of an uncomfortable situation--even tangentially.
• Discovering your true self and expressing that is NOT rebellion. It is simply your truth.

And this is my truth...

It’s hard to leave a church I’ve attended for 25 years.

It’s hard to grow in a church where you feel like you can’t ask questions that are outside of the accepted dogma.

It’s hard to make myself go when I know that few people care whether or not I show up.

It’s hard to be truthful and be myself in a church where I feel appearances are judged and I know some of my lifestyle choices wouldn’t be or aren’t acceptable.

Each little act of living truthfully has pushed me further away from my church body, until I find myself on the outside looking in.

But what am I looking at?

Other sinners in need of a Savior.

Other wanderers in a place that is not their home.

I don’t want them to expect me to be perfect and I can’t expect that of them, either.

Someone will always be looking; that can never be avoided. Where does my responsibility to set a good example end, and their responsibility to make their own informed decisions begin?

For years I couldn’t understand how people could walk away from a church that had been their home--a church they loved and that they had poured so much energy into. How do you walk away? How do you get to the point of giving that up?

I know now that it happens so slowly and so quickly, both at the same time. I know it doesn’t happen because you feel hurt or angry. And it doesn’t happen because other people are angry at you. It might start that way, but it really happens when you stop being hurt and angry--when you stop caring. That’s when the pivot occurs. When you look around and realize it doesn’t matter whether you show up or not. Let me tell you, that’s not bitterness. For years I assume that bitterness was what poisoned a person’s love for their church, but I was wrong.

No, it’s not bitterness. It’s the realization that you no longer belong in this “club” and few people would really miss you if you never showed up again. It’s the realization that you are an acceptable loss in the church’s need to show the world that everything is “Just fine, thank you!”

It’s apathy with a tinge of sadness and it’s so much worse than bitterness.

The question isn’t how do you walk away--at least not for me. The more important question is why did I stay so long? Why did I think this church, both locally and as a denomination, was my home? Because if I don’t know why it was, I’ll never know why it isn’t now. And it isn’t. That is one answer I am sure of.

Over 50 years my church has taught me so many valuable lessons--so many songs to sing. For years, the most powerful melody it taught me was how wonderful it felt to belong and be needed. But my love for God can never be based on that song. Because, just like a Top-40 hit, it will fade someday. God needs to be at the top of my play-list forever.

These days I’m asking questions of myself, of God, of the other people sitting in the chairs and the pews with me. And my questions sound roughly like this:

• What does God expect of me--in my heart, in my home, and in my church? This must ALWAYS be my first question!

• What is my responsibility to my adult children, with regards to modeling a healthy spiritual growth?

• What is reasonable for my fellow church members to expect of me? And is it OK for me to be there if I’m not living in full agreement with their choices?

• What is reasonable for me to expect from them--agreement, acceptance, tolerance?

• What can I learn from worshiping with people whose beliefs are slightly, or even greatly, different from mine?

• And finally, where is the balance? I want balance in my life more than anything right now! 

I want healthy priorities that give God His proper place in my life, rather than the expectations of other people determining my every decision.  I want to value being in a right relationship with people more than being right when we disagree about something. I want to extend grace and forgiveness, but I also want to guard my heart against the not-so-grace-filled words and actions of others.

I want to embrace the message that Jesus loved me enough to die for me...I was more than good enough in His eyes...I am His perfect creation.

The Song That Ian Taught Me--Listen to Your Heart

During the months of waiting for my second child to be born, I spent some time getting to know “it.” I worked the night shift on the Mother/Baby Unit, and almost every night I would take our doppler and slip into one of the rooms and listen to his heart beat. The dimly lit room would be filled with the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart; the sound was so reassuring and beautiful! Each time I heard it, I fell a little more in love with “it”; boy or girl--this baby was filling my heart with love!

Scott was three years old and I ached to hold a baby again. I wanted a warm, soft, snuggly little one to hold in my arms and God heard the longing of my heart, giving me just what I needed! In the first moments that I held Ian, he snuggled in against my shoulder, peaceful and content. Motherhood was beginning to feel like a role I could embrace and know that I could be good enough for my sweet boys.

From the very beginning everything about Ian was easy: easy pregnancy, (comparatively) easy delivery, and easy-going baby. He rarely cried and he went to sleep easily--and he slept a lot! At first, I worried that something was wrong with him--it was too easy! My inclination to worry kicked in, and I wondered if he had some sort of neurological problem! When I mentioned my concern to Mom, I could hear the smile in her voice as she reassured me that Ian was just fine and I was blessed to have such an easy baby. Her reassurance was just what I needed to hear, and I began to let Ian teach me a new song--just relax.

Ian had other things to teach me, too. Like how to laugh more at the mothering experiences that came my way. He brought lizards and frogs into my life and into our home; he made silly faces, flashed huge dimples with his smiles, and shared hilarious impersonations of everyone from Donald Duck to his teachers. Ian adored his older brother and they quickly became very close. He taught me to chill out and had Dave laughing so hard that sometimes discipline was just hard to follow through with!

This boy of mine did love an audience, but he also loved to help people in need. I realized how important this was to him as I was putting him to bed one night and he asked about a song he had heard on the radio that afternoon. I had noticed how quiet he was earlier, as he listened to Craig Morgan sing "Almost Home", but I had no idea how deeply it had affected Ian until he asked me why some people didn’t have homes to live in. It was a profound moment, as I tried to explain to my 10 year old son how choices could take people down different paths; sometimes those paths were determined by our own choices and sometimes by choices that others made for us. I tried to explain veterans whose bodies and souls were wounded by war and the struggle some people had with mental illness. We discussed runaways and women who fled abusive marriages. It was the most sobering conversation I’d ever had with any of my children. With big tears in his eyes, Ian asked questions and listened and then told me he thought everyone should have a bed to sleep in at night. From that point forward he looked for people to help. He always wanted to have money for the Salvation Army buckets at Christmas time, and he would shop so carefully to be sure he would have a few dollars left over to share. If we passed someone begging on the sidewalk, and Ian had even a dollar in his pocket, he would have to stop and talk for a moment and share what he had. As a teen, he chose a mission trip to Portland to work with a Mission that cared for the homeless, and seemed fueled by his opportunity to learn more about people who didn’t have that bed to sleep in at night. At the heart of Ian was a belief that we should all take care of each other.

Yes, Ian had a big heart and loved animals and people alike, but my sweet boy had another side, one that taught me something else about motherhood and myself. Ian had a temper with a very low flash-point; it was like the yin to the yang of his humor. If something really frustrated him, he would almost explode with anger. When he was about two, I began to worry even more, as he took to hitting his head when he got mad at himself, and then hit Scott a few times when he became frustrated about something they were doing together. Soon he escalated to yelling and screaming when he was angry. I was becoming very concerned and I knew that discipline would have to be different with him. We couldn’t raise our voice with him and, other than in the most extreme circumstances, spanking was out of the question.

One day, as one of these “storms” brewed in his soul, I sat down on the floor and pulled him onto my lap, facing him away from me and wrapping my arms firmly around him. He yelled and tried to squirm out of my grip, but this hug was the perfect way to secure my little Tasmanian Devil until the storm passed. While he tried to leave my arms, I held on and then began speaking softly in his ear, telling him that I loved him and he was safe--he could let the storm out and when it passed I would be right there with him. After 5 or 10 minutes, he was back to being my sweet, smiling boy. In time he and I would work on ways for him to calm himself when I wasn’t with him. I reminded him that, at his core, he was a loving boy and I explained that he had to learn to control his anger or it would control him. Today he is one of the calmest people I know and while his feelings run very deep, they don’t control him. He loves as intentionally as he feels anger. Ian learned to listen to his heart, but to never let it control him.

As I helped Ian to learn that we control the expression of our emotions, not the other way around, he taught me something just as powerful--that loving your child well isn’t measured by all the things you do to be good enough. You love them well when you listen to your heart and realize that you don’t always have to be doing things for them. Sometimes you just need to sit still with your child in the midst of the storm and hold them until it passes.

Last year Ian had a health scare with his heart and we went to several doctor appointments together. I sat there with him while the EKGs were done and couldn’t help but be reminded of all the times I’d listened to his heart as he grew beneath mine. Talk about coming full circle! After trips to the cardiologist and a myriad of tests, we had a diagnosis and Ian had a plan. And just like he conquered his anger issues, he learned what he needed to do and followed through with all of the doctor’s instructions.

And I was reminded that Ian’s heart has always been strong. He has a calm heart in the face of disappointment and a loving heart in the defense of others. He has a loyal heart--caring for his grandmother in a way that would make his Pap so very proud.

As I looked back at the years before this moment, I realized that once again I was both the teacher and the student, as Ian taught my soul some beautiful new songs.

Ian taught me to just relax and laugh at life a little more often.

He taught me that we can make the world a better place if we just take care of each other.

And while I taught him that the storm would pass, and that I wouldn't leave him until it did, he taught me to stop worrying about being good enough and just listen to my heart.

The Song That Scott Taught Me--Chase Your Dream

When you become a parent for the first time, you embark on the strange journey of being both the teacher and the student. Everything this new baby knows about their world, they have learned from you. Before they are born, they listen to your music and adapt to the rhythm of your day. After they are born, their coos and cries and laughter are the music of your days and their life rhythm becomes yours.

As you teach your child, they are teaching you.

I’m crying, but I’m not broken.

If you bribe me with candy in the grocery store, you’ll be buying it every trip.

You think you’re not good enough for me, Mommy, but I love you just the way you are.

Scott is my oldest; my learning experience. Heaven knows I made tons of mistakes during my “on-the-job” training! He has worried me, encouraged me, laughed with me, and pushed every single button I have. And I love him just the way he is.

Scott has always been his own person--not afraid to be the geek in the crowd of jocks and comedians. He is a Sci-Fi nut, a bookworm, and a knowledge hoarder. He has usually stood out among his peers, and has never been afraid to be different.

Like me, my boy has loved books from infancy. He was always memorizing, learning, and using books to travel to new places in his mind. I remember a young Scott telling me that when he reads a book, he forgets where he is. He finds himself inhabiting a different world and enjoying new experiences and entertaining new ideas. I think that’s why the Sci-Fi and Fantasy genres of literature and TV appeal to him so much; it’s more than just a trip to a different environment--it’s travel to a whole new world.

Years ago, when he was in elementary school, Scott told Joann that one day he would be a “World Traveller” and he would take her anywhere she wanted to go. He has my wanderlust and restless need to get out of the house and go somewhere...anywhere! His travelling began in his books--the travels of the mind--but now he has made this dream real with his move to Russia.

When Scott first started studying the Russian language, I wondered what in the world he would ever use that skill for. My practical side was seriously distressed! And then he took a semester off of college to travel to St. Petersburg, Russia. He just set his responsibilities at work and school to the side and chased his dream! He spent two months there--something that was way outside of my comfort zone, and maybe even outside of his. At first I really worried about him! But as the days passed, and he shared his adventures via Facebook, I could see how chasing his dream was changing him. It was helping him find his place in this world and expanding his comfort zone. And by the time he returned home, he’d helped me redefine mine, too. I began to question if my comfort zone was really a good place for me to be.

Scott taught me how getting away can be a good thing. I’d always enjoyed escaping from the routine of life through books or music or travel, but often felt guilty about avoiding responsibilities while I did something I worried might be considered frivolous. He showed me the importance of getting away from the routine to learn new things and have new experiences; explore new worlds, both internally and externally. I saw that I needed to get away from myself--from over-involvement in my own thoughts, plans, ideas, and opinions. I needed to find my own voice and write my own language!

Currently, Scott is chasing a new dream; a dream to pursue his PhD in Linguistics. He is thirsty to learn about other languages and other cultures. He dreams of teaching at a university and creating brand new languages for books or films. He has dreams for his life that I never could have dreamed for him, and it is exciting to watch him chase those dreams.

I never imagined that those precious moments of reading with him in childhood would transform into this love of words. WORDS: found in books and conversation and other languages and even music. I watch him and realize he is teaching me to write my own language, draw my own maps, and sing my own songs. He is teaching me to keep exploring life and the new opportunities that come with each day and week and year.

Don’t “settle” for comfortable when amazing is right around the corner.

And never get so focused on being good enough that you forget how to step outside of your comfort zone and learn more about the world and yourself.

Chase your dream!

The Song that Don & Joann Taught Me—A Perfect Fit

Falling in love with Dave was not what I had planned on, and the experience was nothing like what I expected. But I was totally unprepared for the package deal that came with him. You see, this man came with an amazing set of parents who drew me into their family—making me feel like I had always been a part of them.

While I knew that Joann and I would get along great—we’d chatted enough that past summer for me to know that she approved of our relationship and truly cared about me—Don was a bit more of an enigma to me. Before this time, he had always been on the periphery of my involvement with their family, so I’d had fewer interactions with him.  But I wasn’t worried about how we would get along. In my dating experience, the mother was always the tough nut to crack, and she and I were already cool!

I was right . . . and I was wrong.

I had no idea how important my relationship with Don would come to be.

I remember thinking about something I’d read a few years back on the subject of dating—that you should watch how a man’s father treats the mother, because that’s how you will be treated someday. And so I paid attention.

This man loved this woman! I observed them as they talked and laughed and worked together, and it was like watching master ballroom dancers glide across the dance floor. Their personalities complemented one another. Their conversation was honest and laced with love and humor. But what caught my attention most of all was the tender look in Don’s eyes whenever he spoke to Joann and the way he smiled when she came into the room. They had been married for nearly 30 years, but he looked at her as if he had just fallen in love with her that week!

And then there was the way he treated me. I quickly found out that this man I’d always thought was kind of quiet actually loved to talk. I enjoyed his stories about work and about the family. I loved his corny jokes. He got a kick out of teasing me—and that’s how we began our “fight” over the jelly beans.

Let me first explain that. Every time I have visited their home, there have always been several candy bowls scattered throughout the house. They are usually filled with whatever candy is on sale, but two candies are staples: pink wintergreen lozenges and jelly beans. I love both of these, but my favorite is black jelly beans. I would pick through the bowl looking for the black ones and eating every one that I could find.

Which led to this conversation . . .

Don:  “Where did all of the black jelly beans go?”

Sandi:  “I’ve been eating them—they’re my favorite!  And Dave hates them, so I thought I’d save him from them.”

Don:  “Well, they’re my favorite, too!  And now they’re all gone.”

I started to feel bad about eating all of them, but then I looked up and saw the way he was looking at me . . . and then I saw a little wink and a smile.

We continued our banter, about who got to eat all of the black jelly beans, for the rest of my first visit. And on the day that I left, I found a bag of ALL black jelly beans on the dresser top, with this note: “To the Sweet Young Thing, From the Mean Old Man”

I’d already promised to marry their son. But, in that moment, I knew I wanted to be their daughter, too. I knew that it was likely Joann who had probably bought this gift, and put it there for me. It was so much more than a gift of candy—to me it symbolized just how much they noticed the little things. I fell in love with their son a little bit more in that moment, because I began to understand what that would mean for me in the decades to come. I would experience this attention to the details so many times, as the years went by, as their house became more than just a place to visit—it became the place my heart called home.

Home is where you learn and grow. Home is where you can be yourself. Home is where you retreat when life is just a little bit too much. And Don and Joann showed me how to build a home.

I knew my relationship with my mother-in-law was unique and beautiful. Most of my friends, and hers, couldn’t believe how much we enjoyed our time together. My relationship with my father-in-law was just as incredible.

I watched Don Brewer love his wife. I watched him help his son. I watched him play with and teach his grandchildren. I’ve never encountered a more decent man, and I know I’m a better person because of him. There aren’t enough pages to share all the memories I have stored up and all the ways he taught me about unconditional love. February 17, 2007 was the saddest day of my life, so far. For 23 years I was Don Brewer’s daughter in all of the important ways; and then he was gone. In all those years, he and I never exchanged an angry word. His love wasn’t only unconditional—it was consistent. His example to his son and grandsons showed them the path to become the fine men they are today. His passionate and tender love for Joann was a beacon to Dave and to me as we navigated our own marriage.

God knew what I needed in a husband. He knew how my insecurities and wounds would tempt me to be manipulative and selfish at times. I would need a man who could look at all of my hurt and my mistakes and wave them away and teach me that new song of unconditional love. And God knew I would need these parents as role models of total acceptance. All the time I had been navigating the pain of my parents’ divorce and my own mistakes, God had been preparing this safe place for my heart to land.

It was a place where I was more than good enough—I was a perfect fit.