The Full Ripened Grain: A Memoir of Healing and Hope

Copyright © 2018 Benay Nordby.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1112-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-1113-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018910441

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/14/2018

This book is dedicated to my mother, Wanda Florene

Willingham, and my father, Blake Hudson, whose

legacy is love. And to my husband Lynn, and my

children Evan, Eden, and Kirk, who share it.

Contents

Introduction

A Pumpkin In December

A Pebble In My Shoe

How Can I Keep From Singing?

Home Is Where The Hurt Is

Graduation USA

Dateline: Enumclaw

Missing Mom

Mother Moments

Beverly’s Gift

Eating Grief

Practical Matters

Waking From The American Dream

Mom’s Farewell

March Reruns

The Tuna Rebellion

Changes

An Anniversary In May

Ghosts Of Snowater

Acknowledgements

Introduction

When I have fears that I may cease to be

before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain;

before high piled books, in charactry,

hold like rich garners the full ripened grain…

– John Keats

Everyone has a colorful life. You just have to get out your crayons.

I began this project well into my second half of life, the day I arranged a collection of my journals on the top of my bed. Gazing at the collection, I marveled at the materials, colors, and sizes of the books spread before me. They were leather, paper, and fabric-covered receptacles of life planned and life altered, love made and love betrayed. The pattern of the plaid bedspread divided book from book, year from year. Some of the journals were gifts I had filled with dreams and teenaged angst. I chose the others as sturdy keepers of personal truths: simple, daily truths and complex, life-altering acceptance of human truths and God’s truths. Inside them were handwritten accounts of events in my life and the lives of my father, mother, sisters, husband, and children. I used information imparted by my parents, in confidence, as the basis for descriptions of events prior to my birth and of my early childhood.

Because I was the baby of the family, my sisters filled me in later in life about many aspects of our parents’ lives. Also because I was the youngest, I thought I had weathered our private storm of social issues and life decisions more successfully than my sisters. That was not true.

From childhood friends, I learned that my family seemed to have something special: personality, talent, humor, leadership, wit, and savvy. My own share of these traits blossomed in school, work, marriage, motherhood, community service, and a maturing religious faith. My Baby Boomer friends and I thought we could have it all and reached for it. At midlife, I faltered, feeling mentally ill with no explanation as to why my otherwise idyllic life had produced such utter sadness. I was compelled to look for answers.

A graceful hand, my Aunt Faye used to say about my penmanship. But graceful recollections? No. They were grace filled.

Although the journals were written chronologically, I decided I had a story to tell that was not chronological. Connecting past to present seemed the only way to write it.

I got out my crayons and began.

A Pumpkin In December

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face from me?

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts

And every day have sorrow in my heart?

How long will my enemy triumph over me?

Look on me and answer, O Lord my God.

Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death;

My enemy will say, I have overcome him,

And my foes will rejoice when I fall.

But I trust in your unfailing love;

My heart rejoices in your salvation.

I will sing to the Lord,

For he has been good to me.

– Psalm 13

Pumpkins have always been on the A-list of autumn for me. In late August, the vines unfurl in the Pacific Northwest, promising plans for September with the ripening squashes and the weatherman’s cliché the frost is on the pumpkin. By October, the markets in our town are bricked in by walls of orange pumpkins. It is a cheerful sight. There are petite sugar pumpkins piled high, while the mammoth ones stand ready for Halloween mayhem. I always buy a couple, one for a table centerpiece and a big one for the front porch. Kept cool and unmarred, they last in harmony with the season until Thanksgiving Day.

But the season changes abruptly. Colors clash. The pumpkin that sat center stage looks out of place with the glitzy red ribbons of December. Finally relocated to the rain-soaked deck or the back of the refrigerator, it waits in exile. There is nothing sadder than a pumpkin in December.

When my own sense of harmony began to clash with my surroundings in midlife, I entered a time of personal exile. Maybe what happened to me was predictable. Maybe it was the agonizing twenty-year vigil I kept while my mother lay in a vegetative state, the victim of medical malpractice. Maybe it was the long-delayed diagnosis of lifelong Tourette syndrome tics. Maybe it was the unacknowledged anger and childhood grief withheld over my parents’ divorce and my father’s secret life. Maybe it was the unexpected pregnancy in my late thirties and a postpartum hormone problem. Maybe it was living in a fishbowl in a small city and the high expectations of church and community. Maybe it was the pressure of responsibility serving as the trustee of a college while taking care of the needs of husband, home and three young children. As a new century approached with all its hopefulness, I became sadder than a pumpkin in December.

Depression assaulted me and spoiled my joy. It took me away emotionally from the things that gave life its sweetness. As much as my family and community asked of me—demanded of me—I pulled away harder and harder, resenting every effort I felt forced to make. I was filled with anger and anguish and sadness. Anger at God for what was happening to me and anguish that I could not seem to snap out of it. I knew my life was filled with many good things. Why was I so sad?

I thought that these feelings would go away if I had enough faith. I prayed meekly for help, then raised my furious fist to God, trudging the two blocks to our Lutheran church, on call for yet another committee meeting in His service.

A vague perception of personal slights—real and imagined—fueled emotional ammunition against the well-meaning people around me. While I was standing at the sink washing dishes, my rage would boil over in an imagined argument. I felt as if I were trapped underwater, kicking upward with all my strength. Occasionally, I would surface with enough breath to call out for help.

I signed up for an exercise class. It was one of a long line of popular aerobic dance classes I tried, filled with young women staving off the effects childbirth and approaching age milestones, whether thirty or forty. My toddler went to the nursery willingly, making it easy on me. But my overweight figure in the mirror disappointed me despite the strenuous aerobics. On my hands and knees, lifting my legs alternately, stretching and pulling muscles, my tears dropped to the floor. A church friend was in the class so one day I invited her over to my home, just ten minutes away. Rushing home, I straightened up the kitchen, made fresh coffee, and got my son ready for his nap. What a pleasure it was, looking forward to company and girl talk without baby interruptions. But more than an hour passed before she finally arrived. She had seen a mutual friend downtown and had coffee at the bakery. I was puzzled and my feelings were hurt. Hadn’t I made myself clear? Why didn’t she say she was invited to my house? Both of them were welcome. But they didn’t come. I fumed inwardly like a fourth grader whose best friend had chosen to play with someone else at recess. My baby son woke up and cried.

With hindsight, the symptoms seem clear. But at the time, I was unable to recognize the symptoms of depression. Today, television commercials list the symptoms while advertising medications. For many people, these meds bring normalcy and joy back to their lives.

But in the midst of my depression and my ignorance, I reeled with the daily struggle just to keep up with the laundry and feed my family. In reality, these times were filled with endearing moments, but I was hardly aware enough to notice them. My healthy baby boy grinned at me and compelled me to smile back, compelled me to get out of bed to care for him and his older brother and sister. Even our pet beagle tried her best to comfort me, staying close. But I usually interpreted that as being constantly underfoot.

The holiday season became a nightmare of pressure to buy, perform, serve, decorate, cook, and clean, both at home and at church. I had hoped never to burden my children with a Scrooge-like mother. Could my children sense my dread?

Once, past the push to Christmas Eve, there was a blessed moment of peace. After a candlelight service, it was nearly midnight. I sang my solo upstairs in the choir loft and crept quietly downstairs and out the church door. I paused, knowing my husband, Lynn, was home wrapping gifts, having tucked in the children after an earlier service.

The big Norman oak doors of the church thudded softly behind me, muffling the sound of the last hymn. Alone in the clear winter night, I reveled in the moonlit shadows on the sparkling, snow-crusted steps. I felt peaceful. Reassured. I knew I would make it through the busy day to come. But as the year wound down, my feelings continued to spiral downward with it.

For weeks, there were hushed, desperate moments of conversation with my bewildered husband trying to understand my anxiety, my gloom, the feeling there was no future for me. Urgently, I explained how it felt as if I was standing with my nose pressed against a brick wall, unable to see over it or around it. Emotionally stranded, this dear man never blamed, never accused, never shamed, never criticized me. The vow to love me in sickness and in