Yesterday afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore. When my husband got home and started blowing snow, I bundled up, and the dog and I joined him outside. Not surprisingly, the dog lasted less than five minutes (it's a real deep freeze right now) and wanted back in the house.
I grabbed a shovel and began clearing off the deck. Overnight, we had accumulated something like 5-6 inches of snow - mostly fluff and easily removable, so clearing the deck required moderate but not excessive effort. As I shoveled, I noted that our lazy dog had been using the deck as her bathroom instead of the weeds. Our deck is new, so I decided to apply a little more effort to remove the spots because I didn't want there to be permanent stains when the snow melted.
I'm (close enough to) a middle-aged gal in fairly good physical shape; however, as I shoveled, I decided to pace myself (slow) so that I didn't over-exert myself before the job was finished.
As I leisurely pushed the snow off the deck, I heard a voice from the past call out clear and loud. Just like that. Out of the blue.
It was my dad's voice. And what he said is not fit for publishing. I have to say that it startled me, made me stand up and pause for a second.
It's something that I heard my dad say to mom on several occasions when I was growing up whenever the two of them were working together, and either my mom wasn't doing it right or wasn't doing it fast enough. This particular phrase is one that I always found to be particularly repulsive and disrespectful, as it was specifically referencing the female gender.
As a kid, I remember very clearly stating to myself that I would never allow my husband to say something so offensive to me. Never. Fortunately and thankfully, I have been blessed with a near-saint of a husband, so I have never had to address this particular problem.
My dad is still alive, and so whatever memories flair up from my youth, I try to keep to myself out of respect to him. Hence the reason I will not type what I heard.
In his younger years, my dad was a hot mess, emotionally. Many years after the fact, we now know that he suffered from crippling anxiety and depression. Back in the day, there wasn't a specific name for it (at least, to my knowledge), and medication was reserved for the extreme cases (think: mental institutions).
In practical terms, this meant that at least once per month, we could count on Dad losing his shit and then spending the rest of the weekend (i.e. two days) in the bedroom by himself while the rest of us would have to tiptoe around the house and not make noise. Likewise, it also meant that every social occasion (particularly, family events) would be precluded with intense moods and/or physiological reactions (for Dad, puking).
At the time, I didn't know what to think of my dad. The bottom line was that I was at first, scared of him, and later, severely pissed off at him. As a little kid, the scary part was that you just never knew what would set him off. It felt as though we (my brother, mom, and I) had to walk on eggshells all the time. Inviting friends over was out of the question. There was no way in hell I wanted my friends to witness that.
Later, as a teenager and young adult, I was just effing pissed off. I thought he was being straight up selfish, holding all of us hostage for his uncontrollable emotions. Plus, I felt generally ripped off because my dad was just straight up inaccessible to me. I had a couple of good friends who were very close to their dads and enjoyed loving and trusting relationships with them. I never had that, and it made me sad.
Now, there are more pieces to puzzle. I know more of the back story, which explains (not necessarily excuses) a lot. I now know that my dad grew up under the tyranny of a beast of a father. An abusive a-hole. Dad never shared/shares much. He is pretty closed off about it all (except with my mom), but every once in a while, he lets his guard down and throws me a few bread crumbs. What I know is pretty limited, but I'm disgusted, nevertheless.
To further complicate matters, I also know that my dad's dad (my grandpa) also grew up in a questionable household. Again, I don't know much, but from what little I have been told, my great-grandma, although diminutive, had a hellish temper. I can only assume that my great-grandpa (her husband) wasn't a model parent either since almost all of the boys in that family (my dad's uncles) are the subject of legendary tales of emotional imbalance, raging tempers, and/or near-criminal behavior. Although the boys could have picked up their behavior from their mother, it seems much more likely that they learned it from their dad - the person around whom they would have spent the most time (in considering the cultural mores of the time).
Here is another complicating factor to the story -science to further complicate matters. There is an intriguing concept in psychology called genetic memory. It is officially defined as "a memory present at birth, which exists in the absence of sensory experience, and is incorporated into the genome over long spans of time." Basically, it means that experiences can become genetic. A traumatic experience can physiologically alter a person's DNA, which then is passed on to subsequent generations.
I recently attended an educational workshop on trauma-informed schools, and the speaker discussed a study in which lab mice were simultaneously exposed to a particular smell and a pain stimuli. Ultimately, the mice would scream in pain whenever they were exposed to the smell, without the pain stimuli.
The crazy part is that the experience altered the DNA of the mice. To explain, the mice, two generations removed, reacted the same way to the smell. . even though they had never experienced pain yet in their lives.
What do we learn? Traumatic experiences can alter DNA. And I believe it. My family provides the necessary proof. As I stated, my dad has extreme anxiety. While I believe we all experience some social anxiety at one time or another, neither my brother nor I have been impacted to such a degree. However, my daughter and my nephew both have severe anxiety, which definitely impacts their lives. Of course, I will agree that there may be extenuating, contributing factors as well, but it seems more than an interesting coincidence that the two grandchildren have a similar malady.
Sad tale, right? Yes. Feel sorry for me/us, ok?
Not so much.
While this is a fraction of my story, it is not a unique story. I could canvass the entire "inter-web" community and find stories of generational woe and turmoil amongst every, single person.
Every, single person.
That's what binds us together. Our brokenness.
If we would swallow hook, line, and sinker what people's social media posts proffer as real-life, we should then believe that we are the only ones with sordid, complicated pasts and equally-complicated and distressing presents. But that's not true.
Each of our lives are a prism of varying degrees shameful actions, complicated family dynamics, hurt-filled situations, abuse, neglect, and straight-up turmoil. It is what it means to be human and live in a sin-filled, broken world with sin-filled, broken people. No one is getting out of this unscathed.
And this is the exact place in which my daughter is struggling right now. She is lamenting some bad choices and the impact of the consequences. She is comparing herself to others and coming up woefully short in her own eyes. She sees herself as a particularly heinous failure. . .as do many in life.
But the fact is that we are all heinous failures in one way or another, at one time or another (and sometimes, many times in one day!)
It is most certainly one thing that we have in common.
That said, we all have the same choice to make as well. "It is not what happens to you that matters; but how you react to it that matters" Epictetus
The decision we need to make is will we let the past define us, or will we allow the past to refine us?
It's a cliched phrase, but everything happens for a reason. God has assured us that "random" and "coincidence" are not in His vocabulary. We were placed into our families and in community with others by Divine Design. The sinful experiences we encountered or chose reflect the broken world in which we live; however, God, in His supreme wisdom knew about and allowed each one to happen. It was no surprise to Him. God is never surprised.
It grieved (s) Him to watch us endure painful, heartbreaking situations, but He allows it because He never wastes a hurt. Each experience (bad or good) is a stepping stone to something better and greater that He wants and plans for us.
Each experience shapes us into the person He created us to be - wants us to be - wanted us to be from the very beginning.
I think about this often when I consider the various experiences I have had in life - both those imposed upon me by others and their actions (like my dad and realistically, previous generations) and those I have done myself or to myself. When I sit and contemplate the pivotal experiences of my life, I am in awe of how God has used them to shape me into the person (community member, teacher, friend, etc) that I am today.
Therefore, the choice is ours. We can be stymied by the roadblocks, disappointments, and heartaches of life. We can curl up in a ball and hide when we make a ginorous mess of our lives. . or saddest of all, when we find ourselves on the receiving end of deeply-hurtful situation which we didn't cause, ask for, or deserve.
Or, we grab onto the only Truth there is in this screwed-up world. Psalm 91:4 "He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection." Under His wings, we find safety, belonging, direction, protection, peace, and purpose to navigate through the misery and confusion we encounter.
I trust my Father. I am His Heir. The impact of His spiritual DNA is the only thing that matters to me.
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