The Art of Humility

So, I was talking about humility the other day.  And it is an art and a promise and truly difficult and truly humbling.  I've had many experiences that have brought me to a level of humility that I now have, and I suspect that I will still have to hand over more of my pride and even more of my pride before I am done with my walk here on the bluish-greenish-brownish-smoggy ball. 

You see, being Lucy's mom has been extremely humbling.  In fact, I couldn't actually put words to it until now, not until someone else was kind enough to prime the pump for me.  This blog post by Dr. Karin really made me feel like she knew exactly how I had felt, and still often feel, about what it's like to be Lucy's mom.  Especially this passage:

I never knew fear until I put my child’s life in someone else’s hands, out of my sight, out of my control, and beyond the swinging doors of a room filled with masked healers with gloved hands.
I never knew faith until all I could hold onto were the reassurances of the nurse who took him away in her arms, the spoken confidence of the surgeon who promised he knew what he was doing, the words in the Bible that I had memorized in my youth … and the prayers of so many people, some family, some I did not even know, who loved my baby boy and wanted him healed.
I never knew the love of God until I realized that He was okay with the fact that I was angry, exhausted, confused, and petrified and unable to pray for a time when my newborn was first taken from me, but He waited right there by Hoyte’s bedside with me anyway, loving me all the way and waiting for me to come back.
I never knew gratitude until I saw the surgeon walk through the swinging door of the hospital waiting room, removing his mask to reveal a reassuring smile.
I never knew joy until I watched my child recover body and soul from infections, procedures and surgeries and then one day finally saw his smile again … even brighter than before.
I never knew closeness until I realized that God indeed had been tucked up beside each of us every single hour. And when I regained my strength and was able to reach back up to Him with a renewed spirit, His voice sounded closer than before, and the warmth of his compassion flooded my heart with indescribable blessing.
I never knew anything more certain than what I know today for sure: Our little Hoyte is a miracle, and he is HERE FOR A REASON.
And so is your child.

You see, when Lucy was first hospitalized, I had to actually give up being her mother.  I couldn't hold her or comfort her or even feed her anymore.  I pumped loads of milk that we poured down the sink.  I literally could do nothing for my infant daughter.  I couldn't save her.  I couldn't help her.  I had to hand her off to strangers, and hope for the best.  And I told people I prayed -- I tell people I prayed, and I think on some level I did.  But the inside of me looked like this:

I had to lean on the assurances and the help of strangers.  I had arrived at the hospital with the clothing on my back, with my purse, and with nothing else.  The nurses brought me food, found me soap and contact solution and a cell phone charger.

For the first time, I learned what it meant to put aside my pride and allow people to really help me.  But my lessons weren't over. 

When I returned to work, and the syndrome grew worse, I learned what it meant to have a good boss who was really there for me to help me.

I learned how to lean on friends, and talk to them, and tell them when I was sad or scared.  I learned what I really needed and what I wanted.  And through it all, the people have come back with love and support beyond what I have imagined.  My old pride has taken a beating -- because as I realized that first time, I am not enough. 

I have to accept more for Lucy.  She needs more.  She has assistance from the state.  She has a team of therapists and nurses and doctors.  I've slept in a Ronald McDonald House, and when I could, I gave back.  I've eaten the food given to me by complete strangers, and brought food back.  When se almost died last Christmas, the outpouring of support and love buoyed us up.  And so we work very hard to be anchors and pillars for those we see who are sad. 

Charity is not the strong helping the weak -- it is a symbol of infinity, in which we see how God's love shows for all of us.  The more humble I am, the more I can love the greater mass of humanity, because it allows me to see better how to love and to accept more love so as to give it.  Infinitely, infinitely, infinitely. 

Infinity.

Lonely nerd seeks same.

I'm having a hard time making friends in Wisconsin. Now, I'm not necessarily the most gregarious person, but I'm nice and fun and a good listener and a weirdly obnoxious know-it-all who can tell you which direction your ceiling fans should go, and why the "white only between Memorial Day and Labor Day" rule came about. Also, I will tell you if you have spinach in your teeth, and as my friend Kim once said, "She's the kind of girl you want to go out and party with. She'll be fun while you're out and she can still put it together to get you back to your place safe."

Here's my problem: Midwesterners are friendly. They will talk to you as long as you want to talk. I like friendly people and I think it's cool that the folks in the Midwest, largely, are friendly. But I come from the South, where people are polite. They will only be friendly to you when they want to be friends.

So while I've been learning the language and am becoming proficient (eh?) I'm still learning the unspoken language. I guess it's why I now find myself in a mysterious limbo between "insider" and "outsider."

Except that I'm not colonizing the Midwest. I'm just trying to find some like-minded chicks.

Learning to speak Wisconsin

The first thing you learn when you move to a new place is that while you may think that most people in the United States all speak the same English, you are dead wrong. I was born and raised in the American south by a northern mother. I was educated, for the most part, in North Carolina, where I learned that people can be suspicious of those not from the south. I adapted by adopting a bit of an accent and learned to say things like "bless your heart." But most of the time I understood what people were saying to me.

That is, until I moved to Wisconsin, where for a while I assumed that some people used a bit of pidgin German.

"Do you want this in a bayg?"
"Excuse me?"
Person holds up a bag.
"Oh, you mean a BAG."

Person looks at me like I'm stupid. I explain I'm from the south. What I don't say is that in the south, some people may add an extra syllable to "pen," but we don't add a "y" to bag so it now rhymes with "vague." Also, we understand that you don't know what we're talking about half the time, but we like to use props. That's why we hold up the pen.

I just read that part back and realized it sounded snarky. I didn't mean for it to sound snarky. Really, once I stopped being confused I found it kind of charming. I used to work in a store, and I pronounced "bag" somewhere in between "bag" and "bague," so as not to confuse people. I thought of it kind of like learning to speak Wisconsin. Once.

That's another bit of Wisconsin lingo. You do something once, even if you're going to do it more that once. "Let's go look at the brown shoes once." I don't know why. It's just kind of . . . musical.

But after walking around for a little while feeling like an outsider, I embraced it. Part of it had to do with the Sausage Guy (and no, it's not dirty, and yes, it's another post) and another part of it had to do with enjoying the little bit of Americana I was really getting to see. I was never going to be a native Wisconsiner (Wisconsonite? Wisco?) but I could always just enjoy being transplanted.

For now.