It was a sunny winter day in the Pacific Northwest, and I had my Miele vacuum cleaner in hand. The endless days of gray hide the dust and scattered debris. But once the sun shines, I become a cleaning dervish! I hate dust. I hate clutter. I hate busy rooms with items not in their place. I find peace only after cleaning and de-cluttering. I was Marie Kondo before she was born! As a child, I found peace in organizing every drawer in our home. My husband is at “home” with dust, chaos, and clutter because he creates most of it. Once I am sure that I don’t need to keep something, I love driving to Goodwill and bequeathing items to someone else. Dan fears that one day I will deposit him in the big yellow container; it is possible, but not likely.
I recently joined a book club, and we are reading Redeeming Heartache: How Past Suffering Reveals Our True Calling, co-authored by my husband Dan and Cathy Loerzel. The authors use six archetypes.The first three—orphan, stranger, and widow—help us understand our wounding and how it affects us. The second three—priest, prophet, and king/queen—help us see our glory: how suffering has grown us into who we are meant to become.
In the beginning of the book, they draw attention to the experience of being orphaned. Their premise is that whether we have parents or not, we can’t escape being an orphan, as well as a widow or a stranger. It got me thinking about my habits and what brings me comfort.
My grandparents were all born in the late 1800’s. One of my great-grandmothers drove a covered wagon from Kentucky to Delaware, Ohio, after her second husband died! A gracious congregation allowed her to live in the church basement with her six children. They all worked hard to eventually find a place to live. My ten-year-old grandfather was hired by a widow to do “a grown man’s work.” On days she didn’t need him, he borrowed her horse and went to school.
My parents were born in 1922, and they, too, lived through perilous times: The Great Depression and World War II. They both lost a parent to cancer when they were too young to bear the grief. This meant that my mother and my father were each home, alone, caring for the home, while their remaining parent worked every day. My dad, Paul, had before- and after-school newspaper routes. He would be home alone three days at a time because his father was a railroad engineer. My mother begged her way out of an orphanage after two weeks, but her younger brothers remained in Knights of Pythian home for years. My mother was the one cooking, cleaning, and taking care of her mother, who was barely able to take care of anything.
Growing up in my family left me feeling guilty for having food to eat and two living parents.
Discipline was swift. Belts or branches from hedges marked my body. I was parented by two orphans, and I learned to ask for little and want only what I could provide for myself.
I then married a driven man who feared the alienation he suffered as a “stranger.”
We both feared destitution and divided marital chores accordingly. We both could live with very, very little. I would see his schedule and mark the calendar three months out when I thought there would be time for me to bring a complaint or problem to light. The “orphan” in me kept order and knew how to wait, or just never ask.
Dan and I have survived and been driven by the orphan parts of ourselves. But change is afoot. Often it has taken us the awkward period after a book has been written to read it and walk into what we both know is true, but too easily are able to escape. My heart is freer to ask and to predict the chess match of how we often defend ourselves against what we fear. I am not only reading his book, but using it to invite the author to return to what I know is the goodness of God.
Orphans are seldom free enough to be playful and tease, or to be sufficiently extravagant to let the play be mutual and surprising. I still clean as soon as the sun shines, but order is not my default control as a terrified orphan. Instead, I am more apt to remind him, when we pass the large yellow Goodwill container, that it looks a lot like his future home.
Becky Allender lives on Bainbridge Island with her loving, wild husband of 42 years. A mother and grandmother, she is quite fond of sunshine, yoga, Hawaiian quilting, and creating 17th Century reproduction samplers. A community of praying women, loving Jesus, and the art of gratitude fill her life with goodness. She wonders what she got herself into with Red Tent Living! b
Becky – There is so much I could write about this piece. I loved it! Your history and mine are eerily similar. My great grandparents came to America as immigrants and spent their first winter in Michigan under a covered wagon dug into a hill. They raised eight children to work hard and to serve their communities and their country. My grandfather served in WWI and survived the Spanish flu Pandemic – barely. My father, due to my grandfather’s war injuries, was hitched behind a team of horses at the age of four – his picture was in the local paper. I am convinced we are shaped by our history recent or not. Being raised by stern, hard-working, no time for emotions, Dutch farmers was not easy for my father – and he passed his history on to his children and we, in turn, at least to some degree, inadvertently or purposely, passed it on to ours. Thank you for writing this, Becky. Your honesty and insight are both precious and refreshing. I hope Dan can make peace with his future home. It is painted such a cheery color!
Barbara–what a profound reply to Becky’s article. Thank you. As I consider the cheery color of the container I fear I may inhabit, I will be reminded of your great grandparents living in the cruel Michigan winter in a covered wagon dug into a hill and bless your courage to honor your heritage while also not being bound to the heartache of their trauma.
Thank you! I’ve often related to Becky’s writings and this one was no exception. How fun to get a reply from her other half. I love it that you two are navigating life together and that your books and research are affecting your marriage, on purpose or not. Funny how life works.
At times I think back to my great grandparents living in that tipped over wagon dug into a hillside and wonder at their tenacity and determination to make a better life for themselves in their new country. And they did! They owned acreage and had a lovely farmhouse and barn and passed their farming skills and grit onto their children – who in turn passed it on to theirs – and on and on it went. It is fun and humbling to ponder our heritage.
For your sake, I do hope the yellow container home has some nice amenities such as a window or two!
Thanks for clearly illustrating how the parts and defensive structures “bump” into each other in relationships and giving so much hope for freedom and play. I will be rereading this piece.
Yes, so glad to help with that. Our younger parts/selves are still inside of us and abide in us. We are created to remember and to feel and, thank Jesus, to heal.
I read this to my husband as we drove to an event this evening. I laughed out loud at the thought of you taking Dan to the Goodwill…yet, I am sure you would buy him back! 😊 I love reading your words and hearing your stories. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you Kandace for your kind words…and your laughter. What would we do without laughter! Especially in our marriages!!!!
Becky, thank you for sharing this story. It has provoked some good curiosity for me, especially your words about play.
“Orphans are seldom free enough to be playful and tease, or to be sufficiently extravagant to let the play be mutual and surprising.”
I’ve known the orphan is a significant part of my story, and I’ve also known that play is difficult for me. It has been sweet to reconnect with some of my younger parts that displayed moments of mischief and playfulness alongside the more ever-present fear. Today I am pondering the challenges of mutual play with my husband, and your words are an invitation to be curious how both of our stories affect that ability. Your word “extravagant” feels accurate, and is a powerful motivator for me today.
Janet….I sure do miss you and Chris. Oh my goodness….I think I will be “working” on playing within my marriage until one of us dies. Kindness is a magic elixir that keeps rusty parts of us “oiled.” May our laughter always reflect love, joy, and kindness.