Time Keeps Ticking Through Crisis

By: Kristi Tisor Ambriz

The hardest part of recovery is the time it takes to travel through.

My marriage of 18 years as we all knew it ended the day I discovered that my husband had been unfaithful.

The kids and I had been betrayed.  We felt rejected.  Abandoned.  Lost.

Getting through the pain, processing what everything would mean for us, for my marriage, and for our family, and then living with the fallout was the closest to impossible I've ever been.  My family spiraled into the darkest 4 years of our lives.  The result was divorce.  Broken children.  Broken relationships.  Tattered souls.

I had a list longer than my arm detailing each area within myself personally that needed to be worked on, and then another list of things I needed to tackle in my kids' lives before it would be too late.  They were still developing mentally, physically, spiritually.  Into what, or whom would they develop?  It was a critical race, the clock was ticking, and while running I had to capture each priority, tackle it, cross it off the list, and then go on to the next item on the list.

It was like trying to run a race in deep mud, with weights chained to my legs as I tried to advance--as I tried to set my family free.  Or, at least, this is how I saw things at the time.

I was so powerless.

It's hard to know which happened first.  Did it finally click that I needed to release the burden and let healing happen, or did healing begin to happen, enabling me to finally start to feel the burden lift?  It's hard to know.

But, I continued on my way toward recovery, through the mud, toward climbing out of our deep, dark pit and climbing upward, and upward still until we could see the other side, and then it seemed that at once we were able to soar freely.  The hard work paid off, and the darkness lifted.

It had so much to do with the things I had learned during that time.  I learned how to keep my eyes open and my head out of denial.  Likewise, I learned that every problem out there isn't mine to fix.  That I have to submit to something or Someone Higher who can take, carry, and correct the many wrongs in life.

But, I learned something else that rocked me to my core.  I learned that the journey itself is a huge part of life.  In the 4 years that were the darkest for my family and me, Lee went from a 1 year-old to a 5 year-old.  Abi went from a 2nd grader, to a 6th grader.  You can really see the hands of a clock move when you view it through the lens of a child's life.

So, to say that those years were our darkest is to say that a huge chunk of my kids' childhood is a blur.  And to be completely honest, I remember very little.  I don't remember Abi learning her multiplication tables, or what her favorite childhood television show was.  It seems she went from loving Clifford the Big Red Dog one day, to The Jonas Brothers the next.  What was in-between?  I have little to no memory.

One of the biggest reasons why I am so passionate about Crisis Recovery is because there are countless families who are so engulfed in the pain of their moment, that they can't see clearly through that moment to being able to see what's before them in the moment.

Pain numbs and if it doesn't numb, we oftentimes find ways to numb it.  It could be through chemical addiction.  Over eating.  Under eating.  Seeking romantic relationships.  Work.

In my case it was work...I had to work 6-7 days to stay afloat financially.  I used that need to work as an escape--to numb me from the overstimulating pain of my family crisis.  But, the downside of that plan is that now that I am on the Other Side, I look back on 4 years of my kids' lives with limited memories.  I missed a lot.  They missed a lot.

Our Wings Like Eagles team offers content for our readers to read in hopes that we might uplift, encourage, and show that there is life on the Other Side of Crisis.  Because if you know that there is life on the other side, you might find the strength to endure your current place of pain to the point of not missing out on any of the important stuff.

Because left on our own, it's too easy to stay numb, live in denial, and succumb to habits we are powerless to control on our own.

Sizing Up Complex Matters--One Size Doesn't Always Fit All

By Kristi Tisor Ambriz

Jeans shopping.

I gave those two words their own paragraph for dramatic appeal.  If they made you shiver, you get me.

Two of my daughters and I took advantage of the after-Christmas sales.  I was looking for new boots, a new purse...and jeans.  Suffice it to say, the boot and purse shopping part of this plan was beautiful, and wonderful, and pleasant, and very easy for me to dive into.  The jeans part, not so much.

There are few things I hate worse than looking for, and especially trying on, new jeans.  Just ask my closet, and the very old, very worn jeans limply draped over their hangers, needing replacement.

I just never know for sure what size to grab off the rack.  I know what size I wear...but that means little, when it comes to jeans, I find.

So, I don't shop in the Juniors Department--I don't have the body of a 14 year-old.  I shop in the department that houses sensible cuts.  Curvy cuts.  Cuts that work on bodies who have had babies--two of whom weighed over 10-pounds at birth.  So, seriously.  What's with the straight cut in my department?  Straight from the waist, down to the ankle?  I passed that rack, and all of the other racks holding that cut.  I was zeroing in on the jeans with the woven-in springy fabric that will bounce back to my suck in position when I stand up, after being stretched out in the exhale and let it out position when I'm sitting.

I get it that trying them on is necessary.  We have to make sure we enhance what we want enhanced, and hide what we want hidden.  Every pair of jeans is different that way.  But, what gets me is how the sizes are so inconsistent.  If I wear a size 4 (I don't), I should be able to grab several size 4s and try them on for size, or better said, for fit.  But it just isn't that easy.  I have to get 2s, 4s, and 6s.  And I could go home with any one of those sizes, or none of them.

In my mind, my size is my size.  I wear what I wear, and I categorize myself as that size.  My name is Kristi, and I'm (not) a size 4.  Simple, right?  If only.

Makes me think of real life.  I'm a dedicated mom, and am passionate about raising my children right, so a mom should look, and behave, and be a certain way to accomplish the mission of child rearing well.  But if in my mind being a good mom means that the mom stays home full-time and takes care of her home and family, how do I process the other moms out there who work outside the home?  Wonderful, capable moms who love their families and homes no less, and balance it all so well?  Women like my own mom.  Nobody is more efficient--the woman's a machine.  Or my friend Kelly--she is an attorney, and has 2 of the cutest, well-rounded and accomplished little boys on the planet, has a beautiful home, and a wonderful life.

What about being a divorcee?  Isn't that one size fits all?  Am I not I supposed to hate my ex-husband, talk to him through gritted teeth, and smh at everything he says and does?  If so, I blew that size out of the closet.  We get along great.  It's taken no small amount of working through past pain, huge amounts of willful forgiveness, and a legitimate effort in truly understanding him--and all of that hard work is paying off.  Imagine how cool it was for Lee, at his 8th birthday party, to have his dad in our house mingling with friends and family, and serving the cakes and cookies he specially prepared for the event.

What about faith?  Isn't the practice of Christianity a black and white affair?  Hardly.  We believe strongly in baptism by full immersion, or we believe strongly that it is to be accomplished by the sprinkling of water on the head.  We believe the pastor is to wear a long, stiff robe, or we believe the pastor should wear an untucked shirt, jeans and flip flops.  Hymns or praise songs, organ or drums.  Each side is sure that their side is right.

Life is sticky sometimes.  And it's in the middle of my own sticky life that I continue to redefine who I am, what my family looks like, and how I worship at church.  My personal life turned completely upside down, and fully inside out.  I once lived in a place where my neighbor introduced himself while on horseback as he checked his bulls that he kept in the corral on the 640 acres we lived on.  I now live in Los Angeles County, have a view of palm trees out of every window, and I get myself to Downtown LA every chance I get for theatre, art shows, or music.

Same me.  Different size.

No, different me.  My internal outlook is as different as my physical outlook.  On the outside I don't see the Nebraska Prairie anymore--I see the Downtown LA skyline.  And on the inside I experience grace, and compassion, and balance...all of which were challenged in my life before.  Especially when it came to my view of others who were different.  A different size, so to speak.  Not literally, of course, but sized differently from what I knew to be right.

My view before included stupid things like:  Drug Addicts are losers.  Alcoholics are losers.  Divorced couples are losers.  Kids who act out, have parents who are losers.  If they aren't like me, they're those people.  Losers.

I have spent so much of my life comparing myself to others and feeling self-righteous.  Likewise, I've spent a lot of my life comparing myself to others and hoping for something that they have--something better.  Thinking that I don't measure up because I don't have or do A, B or C, while looking at the lives of other people with X, Y or Z, shaking my head, and thinking that they just didn't get it right.

It took dramatic courses of events to shake me out of my mindset.  To open my eyes, and give me a real view of people, and life.  For this reason alone, I am forever grateful for every bad thing I endured in my heartbreak, if it brought me to a better place.  I get it now, and I am so thankful.

Our lives are as individually sized as those jeans in my fitting room.  Confusing?  Of course.  But accepting it, paying attention to it, and making the effort to really get it, is worth the work.  The result is peace.  Peace within myself, and peace with others.  True peace I can comfortably ease into, like a good pair of well-fitting jeans.

So which jeans did I end up with?  None.  I got a purse.  One size fits all.  Sometimes I have to balance simplicity with all of the complexities of life.  But, I won't shy away from the hard work forever.  I need new jeans, badly.  But, maybe after I work off the See's Candy.

Tragedy in CT: Grieving Together

Joelle Deyo holds a degree in Fine Arts from Cal Poly, Pomona and is an artist residing in Glendora, California.

Joelle knows the pain of marital infidelity, betrayal and divorce, and she is a survivor of addiction, childhood sexual abuse, and Anorexia.

She brings a wealth of experience to Wings Like Eagles, and is willing to be transparent and real so that our readers who have traveled similar paths will have someone with whom they can relate.

She is an advocate for the recovery process, and is a firm believer that there is hope, and a fulfilling life on the other side of Crisis.

It is Joelle's hope is that her experiences, past and present, will bring perspective and encouragement to those who are in the middle of their own life battles and who have been stuck in the pit, just like her.

By:  Joelle Deyo

I am deeply grieved by the events that transpired in Connecticut this morning. Twenty-seven precious lives taken in yet another mass shooting this year.  I just don't know how to wrap my head around that.

To be honest, I am angry that I live in a world where I even have to try to make sense of such a thing.  Sadness, outrage, disgust.  I know I'm not the only one cycling through these emotions.  I grieve with millions today. 

It is not just the families of the slain who must now pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and try to find a path forward in the wake of terrible losses.  As a nation, we are once again left searching for comfort and hope, wondering if we will ever see peace in our time.

Those of us who have children are burdened with the difficult task of trying to explain an act of violence to which we would not have them exposed. We feel a loss of surety in the safety of our little ones as we send them out into the world to learn and grow. We cannot imagine losing one of our own. 

Those of us who do not have children are left to question the state of affairs in our nation and ask, “What has happened?”  We wonder if the cruelty will ever end and fear that it may only be the beginning of a trend of increasingly brutal acts against the innocent.  I look at what I see around me and all I can say is, yes, this is just the beginning, unless... Unless, we open our eyes, wake up, stand up, and move toward transformation as a body. 

In times like these, in our grief, we often cry out to our leaders, “How are you going to fix this?  How are you going to stop this from happening again, and again, and again?”  But, I wonder…what are we going to do?

I've read a lot of things in the news today. I've listened to the voices of pundits speaking from their national platforms on everything from gun control to increased security in schools.  But, I’ve heard absolutely nothing about individuals and families stepping up and taking on the role as healers of their own communities.  No one talked about looking for a cure that heals the disease holistically and from the inside out.

I do not feel equipped to give voice to the political issues at hand.  I do feel highly equipped, however, being a trauma survivor, a victim of violence, and a human of good conscience, to speak to the very real need for proactive grieving. 

It is not enough that we feel sorrow. It is imperative that we go to the source of the violence we see growing around us and get honest about it. 

We live in a society permeated with aggression and fear.  Our youth are more exposed to their effects, and exhibit more anti-social behaviors than at any other point in our history. Our rates of divorce, addiction, crime, unemployment, debt, and mental illness are at all-time highs. Far too many of us are enraged, depressed, afraid, and hopeless.  In spite of all of this, we are encouraged to remain in a constant state of consumerism, distraction, denial, and desensitization -- to turn a blind eye to the very real threat we are becoming to ourselves.

There has NEVER been a more crucial moment for us to step into the light, and admit the truth. There is too much at stake.

Something has to change. It is time for mothers and fathers to pay attention.  It is time for classmates and friends to look around them.  It is time for families to acknowledge the seeds of violence and despair taking root in their homes, and it is time for individuals at every level of social standing to reach up and reach out.

We are not alone, nor are we islands unto ourselves.  We cannot live as though our behavior does not touch others.

We cannot continue forward, hoping for peace without reconstructing certain values from the ground up.

No law will take every gun out of every hand. That's a hard reality. Just as hard, is the reality that not every individual, if given the choices, opportunities and resources, will choose The Good.

We grieve, in part, because we know this to be true. Bad things will happen to good people sometimes.  But, I firmly believe that stanching the flow of violence is within our grasp, and as we feel our sadness and anger, we also need to consider together what we can do to bring harmony into our homes, our schools, and our cities. 

Is it time to turn off the violent images and games? Is it time to learn to communicate as a family? Is it time to get help for an illness or addiction? Is it time to stop the cycle of rage and abuse in your life? Is it time to be a friend instead of a bully? Or to offer support to someone who seems to be hurting? Is it time to become an advocate for peace?  

Only you know how to answer those questions for yourself. What I know is that that you and I have more power to effect change than we realize.

As we grieve with the families in Connecticut on this awful day, we need to take hold of that power, to take responsibility, and haul our lives and the lives of our loved ones back from the brink. That is the heart of all crisis recovery, no matter the scale or the degree of tragedy. Healing starts in the heart, and in the home.

Whoever you are, wherever you are; if you have been hurt, if you are angry, if you are broken hearted, if you can’t understand, if you’ve had enough, and seen too much… step into the light.

I encourage those of you struggling with the news today to reach out for support. Have conversations. Say I love yous, give hugs, and cry if you need to. Consider whether it is time to change negative patterns in your life or that of your family. Find out how you can show care and support to those who lost children today. We need one another.

The Tinman

By: Kristi Tisor Ambriz

Hugo and I have been reorganizing the garage.

Today, I put the last two charted and labeled storage boxes in the storage area above the garage.  The freedom is amazing.

I can be an organize-freak just as well as the next OCD sufferer.  But, anyone who has known me in the last, say, 7-8 years, would be scratching their heads at that one.  Because when it comes to my stuff, I have been anything but orderly.

Prior to 3 weeks ago, I saw my garage as little more than a time capsule holding difficult, painful memories.

It's been about 2 years since my ex-husband brought some of our stuff back from Nebraska, where it had been since the kids and I left for California in the summer of 2006.  Of course, once they were here, I was excited to unpack the boxes and, as Maureen O'Hara says in The Quiet Man, "Have my things about me."

The first box I opened was one of the last ones I had packed from my kids' Nebraska playroom, and it was one of the last boxes I packed before we left.  It was a hodge-podge of Lee's baby toys, video games, some of Abi's Barbie toys, board game pieces, and other miscellaneous toys that once belonged to a 14 year-old girl, a 12 year-old boy, an 8 year-old little girl, and a 20 month-old baby boy.  I remember the sorrow, as I packed it 6 years ago.  When I opened the box in my California garage, the kids were 19, 16, 12, and 5.  Most everything inside the box was obsolete, and my heart broke over the playtime that was lost in their lives.  In our lives.  I wept bitterly, went through a few other boxes, then finding myself overcome with emotion, I left the project to sit.  For 2 years.

In many ways, I sat too.  Frozen by my pain.  Rusted by my tears.  Just like the Tinman, in the Wizard of Oz.

He didn't intend to stand immobile in the field of poppies.  The field was so beautiful, with so much hope in the horizon.  He didn't want to have his fear and sorrow leave him frozen somewhere, unproductive, and without a voice.  He didn't want to be helpless.  Yet he was.

All it took was a little oil from his friends.

It sucks to be independent, yet desperately in need of help.  It sucks to make all the moves to travel forward and upward in my healing, only to find a newly discovered vulnerable spot deep within that stops me, and leaves me frozen and therefore exposed.

But, the rewards of having someone, (and in my life it's more like people), who offer me strength and encouragement to work through the pain and continue on in my journey, is incredible.  

Hugo is the main holder of my oil can.  He offers me support but doesn't let bad habits, even ones brought on by grief, fester and grow.  He mentioned the disorganized garage from time to time, not wanting to let me never go back because of the pain it caused to unpack whatever might be under the lids.

So, 3 weeks ago, I decided it was time.  I took the plunge, and I got busy.  And, as it turned out, the pain just wasn't as bad anymore.  In its place resided sweet nostalgia.  Accomplishment.  Fulfillment.  Freedom.  Strength.

After spending an entire day out there, we ran out of time and weren't able to revisit the project until last Saturday.  That day happened to be more difficult.  I unpacked boxes that took me back to our former  kitchen. My ex-husband's coffee mugs.  My coffee mug.  So many of my favorite serving dishes that I've missed all these years.  Glimpses of our life before, with all the grief of what was lost.

It was interesting.  Riding the pain, as horrible an experience as it was, led me to a good place.  A new place.  A place of freedom, closure, and peace.  I awoke Sunday morning feeling blissfully light, and free.  Cleansed from my tears, rather than rusted by them.  And I have to wonder whether having the incredible support system I have now, had much to do with my accomplishment, and subsequent freedom.  I am stronger because I'm not alone.

Being disorganized and stashed isn't my norm, but it was me for many years.  It was where I ended up  due to the tears: the wet ones on my cheeks, and the ripped ones in my heart.  My pain left me frozen.  Yet, Hugo held my oil can.  And now I can move, and even run forward.

And it is with unpacked joy that I can live, with my OCD tendencies tickled, and my Organized Girl Within alive and kicking!  With my wonderful things about me.

One of those Wonderful Things happens to be my beloved cedar chest made by my Uncle Tom when I was 18.  It was damaged in the move.  Hugo restored it, and it is now in my bedroom.  Home.

Thankful for the Healing Heart

I am pretty sure that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

When we lived in Nebraska we enjoyed having family come from out of state to celebrate this holiday with us every year.  It was a fabulous tradition.  They would bring the best ham, pecan pies, homemade cookies and beef jerkey in all of America, and I would make the rest of the Thanksgiving meal.  Our holiday began when they pulled in--usually the day before the turkey went into the oven, and stretched well into the weekend.  It was an annual highlight of our year.

As things would turn out, Thanksgiving would be our last happy memory as an in-tact family.  The Tuesday after Thanksgiving I would discover that my husband of 18 years had been having an affair, and the kids and I would leave him two days later.

For years, I felt the blemish on this holiday from the remembered pain I associated with it.  I wondered whether I would ever be able to retrieve the joy I once experienced, and seriously doubted I ever could.

Time doesn't change history, and time doesn't hold any magic healing pills, but when you pursue recovery aggressively, over the course of time you discover changes along the way.

I can sit here and see that last Thanksgiving in the Nebraska countryside, as if it was yesterday.  I can feel the warmth of my country kitchen, the crisp, autumn air, I can see our Thanksgiving table set up through the center of the house so that we could fit everybody, and I can hear the laughter of my family.  Those memories would cause tears for many years, but now they bring a smile.

Our life is so different now, but our life is so good.

I remarried.  We live a life that has been devoted to getting healthy, being healthy, and staying healthy and it is a life that is reaping the benefits.

Our Thanksgiving looks like this now:  Pack up the kids in the morning and head to my sister's house for dinner, dessert, and gingerbread house decorating.  Then, we say our good-byes in the late afternoon, re-pack the kids and head to Hugo's parent's house for more dinner, more dessert, and more fun.  It's like we get double the fun, double the food, and double the joy.  I'd say we have made off pretty well.

This year the fun began yesterday.  My dad brought my 6 year-old nephew Troy over to spend the night, and he took Abi back to my sister's house so that she could spend the night with my 13 year-old niece, Brienna.  My mom made Thanksgiving pies with Abi, Brienna, and my nephew Elijah.

We have found joy in thanksgiving once again, and I have found yet something new for which I can be thankful.  I am thankful for recovery, and for the hope of a new life on the other side of sorrow.

May this Thanksgiving bring you great joy, and new beginnings rich in a healthy outlook and lifestyle.

Thanksgiving Eve Shopping with the Rest of Southern California.  Note the Shorts.

Grammie Showing Abi and Bri the Art of Pie Baking

Elijah is a Natural!

Hmmm...Tarts?  Looking Good!

Abi and Bri Baking Pies

Packed Lunches for 2 Little Boys

Picnic Thanksgiving Eve Lunch on the Trampoline

Lee and Troy Played, and Played, and Played...

Happy Thanksgiving from my family to yours!

Dreadful, Pitiful Time

A friend of mine came over one day this week, and together we baked scones.

Our kids did homework at the table, and played in my family room and backyard.  The house was electric with energy, but even with all the chaos and noise it was miraculously peaceful.  Laughter filled the space, and that magical din of children's noises was absorbed into the walls of my house, but not more than the filling it gave my soul.

It was a good moment.

But, like many good moments, my thoughts drifted back to another time, and another place where Christmas baking was involved, and it was only 2 weeks after I left my husband.

That moment was not as good.

It had all the foundations of wonderful:  A long-standing tradition between my mom and sisters that I always had to miss, since I lived in Nebraska, and they live in California.  But, since the kids and I were staying with my mom after we left my husband, we would be available to participate in the joy and the fun.

My spirit longed for joy.  For 2 weeks it had felt ripped apart, with jagged, raw edges cutting away any attempt for happy moments.  But, how could the depths of my sorrow possibly interfere with the joy of mixing family cookie recipes with some of my favorite ladies in the world?

Yet as I measured, as I mixed, and as I baked I found that I couldn't shake the numbness of my soul.  The sugar, and even the chocolate couldn't penetrate my sorrow, as I found my mind going to literal places of pain.  Deep, agonizing pain.

I remembered all the years I had baked these very cookies.  For my family.  For my husband.  I remembered little aprons tied behind the little backs of my happy little kids as we worked together in our kitchen at home, our home, cutting out our sugar cookies, and frosting them.  I remembered my pretty Christmas platters, and my kitchen table.  I remembered the smell of the freshly cut cedar tree from the pasture, and how I hated it initially, compared to the pine Christmas trees I was accustomed to before living in the country, but oh, how I longed for that pungent cedar smell.  And the house it filled.

I longed for simpler times.  For happier times.  For my life to be back again.  Restored.  Healthy.  Whole.

Brought back to the present, I saw my mom, and my sisters in the kitchen, and my nephews and niece playing outside with my kids.  My kids had their cousins.  I looked at my mom.  I had my mom's hands.  The very hands I'd cry for and miss when I was 1,300 miles away.  I was finally able to be a part of this Holiday baking tradition--something I had always wanted to experience, after hearing about it from my sisters and my mom for so many years.

Could I not ever be happy again?  Would I always feel so melancholy during moments that needed to be preserved and precious?

It would take time.  Dreadful, pitiful time, but yes.  I would be happy again.

Not quickly, and not according to the timeline set by my friends and family who agonized over seeing my pain.  And not even according to my own timeline and attempts to seek and find happiness.  Not through romance, or a new job, or a new house, or a fresh start.

I would find happiness the hard way.  One day at a time, applying the things I would learn along the way that would make me strong.  The things that would change my thinking, and even my habits.  I had to be renewed.  Restored.  Refreshed.

And it took time.  Dreadful time.

Step by step we climb out.  One foot in front of the other, one up stretched reach after another, a grasp of rock and then another, and a pull upward.  Up, up, up, higher, higher, higher until after persistent, arduous work we find ourselves at the top, soaring.

With a view.  With the view of an eagle.  On Wings Like Eagles.

And we see.

From Mourning to Comfort

One of the many things I love about Wings Like Eagles is that the writers of this blog aren't sitting in a corner, wallowing in the despondency of our situations.  Instead, we come from a healthy place.  A place that is on the other side of their Crisis.  We reflect back on our own days of darkness, and we share our stories.  The story of what led us to darkness, the story of what life looked like in darkness, and the story of how we climbed out.

If we were sitting in a pit of mud, crying about how bad life is, we wouldn't be getting anywhere.  We wouldn't be reaching out to the people who are receiving our words and coming back to us with feedback that at times stops us in our tracks, leaving us shocked that there are so many who can relate.  Rather, we would be sharing our pity party, and we would quickly chase our readers away.  Because let's be real here--nobody has the time or energy to invest in a pity party.

Yet each of us has had periods of intense darkness.  Crisis infiltrating every fiber of our beings, leaving us battered and exhausted.  That horrible time when we saw how our life had turned out, and we wished so desperately that this life we were seeing wasn't ours.  We grieved what we had, and we grieved what we didn't have.

So, how do we go from a healthy and natural mourning period, without allowing ourselves to turn into a pathetic, and depressed soul stuck in a pool of self pity?

When we stop, and allow ourselves to say out loud that we are heartbroken, that our lives have gone every way but the way we would have wanted, when we seek people we can trust, and we tell them our disappointments, then we will get somewhere in our grief recovery.

When we say it out loud, we find ourselves naturally taking that critical step that leads us to a healthy place...we step out of denial.  We say out loud that we were hurt by our spouse.  Or that we were the one who hurt our family.  Or that our life is unmanageable.  Or that our kids' lives are on a fast track toward destruction.  Or that we don't see ourselves getting better.  That we want out.  That we need help.

Sometimes, just saying it out loud to a trusted friend or group of friends is enough.  It shocks us into a state of action, when we hear our own voice say the things we had kept hidden deeply within our spirits.  We see clearly the action we need to take to change, and we boldly take the steps needed to climb on out, from muck to freedom.

Sometimes, it isn't that easy, and we realize that we may need more.  Maybe we need to talk things out with a trained professional with an assortment of tools and plans to lead us to a better life.  

Sometimes we find that our situation accompanies the need for medical intervention.  So often, even if we aren't predisposed to clinical depression, Crisis affects us so aggressively that it prevents the ability of our brain to function properly, and it needs a little jump start by an antidepressant to get things moving again.  Sometimes Crisis was violent, and we suffer from PTSD so severely that we need medication to help us heal from the scars that were engraved in our brains. 

Sometimes our situation was so encompassing that we need help from many sources.  Our kids need tutoring, we need career counseling, we need financial counseling, we need a place to stay.  We know we are in a bad place, we have the desire to get out, but we just don't know how.

But by saying out loud that our life has spiraled out of control, and that we want our life to have meaning, it is then and only then that we can do what we need to do to move on and out, to a better life.

Mourning allows this.  Seriously mourning the losses that have devastated us.  And not mourning alone, but with others.  So that we can allow God to do His thing through other people, and give us the comfort He is longing to give.

Wasn't it Senator Hillary Clinton who said it takes a village?  What wisdom.  She was talking about simply raising a family, but it also applies to our life when we are in Crisis.  But to add to that wisdom, I'd have to say that it is critical that the village we seek be a group of people who are healthy, who are themselves seeking productive lives, and who encourage us to take steps to a better place.

This is what we are offering at Wings Like Eagles.  Our goal and purpose is to offer Hope that there is Life on the other side of Crisis.

I personally remember all too well that feeling of evaluating my life, feeling completely overwhelmed by it, and wishing with everything in me that I could trade places with people in my world who seemed to be in a far better place than my kids and me.  But, looking at my life now, I see how far we have come, and I can honestly say that I wouldn't want any other life than the one we have.  Even the lives I used to envy pale in comparison.  We have come through so much, yes, but we gained so much more along the way.

To me, this defines the possibility of mourning being a blessed time.  Because the comfort we receive is incredible, when we look from the other side, and see the good work made beautiful along the way.

Avoid the Soul Robbers

Yesterday, I had coffee with Joelle Deyo.  We were talking about the shame we sometimes feel over the mistakes we have made as we have lived life in Crisis.

We were also talking about how, in a paradoxical sort of way, we embrace our mistakes.  They allow us to understand the mistakes of others.  Particularly, as we work closely with people in Crisis Recovery.

It is rewarding to visit with a woman who is in a compromising relationship after suffering through an abusive marriage, and know that she doesn't feel judged by me when I share my story, and the things I've learned through the mistakes I've made.  Seeing the perspective my life lessons provide?  Priceless.

For eighteen years I was in a marriage that was anything but conducive to my healthy self esteem.

As a young bride with a pre-baby body, I was regularly criticized by my husband for wearing clothing that revealed too much of my figure.  I was similarly criticized for wearing make-up.  For wanting to spend any amount of time primping, or shining.  I was conditioned that doing so wasn't godly.  That it was vain.  Wrong.

As the babies came along, and even a shower was a luxury, I fell into the t-shirt and sweats routine, wearing only what was easy to slip on, and run with in my day.

If I felt particularly needful of femininity, I would wear a jumper-style dress over a t-shirt or turtleneck (it was the 90s...don't judge me).  It's easy to "hide" growing booties under a dress.

I kept my hair very long, and wore French braids a lot.

I had a minor vision issue, but yet wore my glasses 100% of the time, in spite of the fact that my eye doctor said I didn't have to.

So, in my mid-thirties, I was a 165 pound frumpy woman in a 5'3" frame, wearing sweats, a t-shirt, a French braid, and glasses I didn't need.  I was plain, and to my husband plain was equal to being a good, and godly woman.  My conditioning was such that I had to be plain to get the very approval from my husband I so desperately craved.

In the meantime however, he had an addiction to pornography.  He kept his addiction a heavily guarded secret for the whole of our marriage.  Passwords.  Not teaching me how to operate a computer beyond using the Internet, because it would be too hard for me to learn.  He did whatever he could to keep me away from his secret.

All the way down to making sure that the mother of his children looked nothing like the women he watched in the pornographic movies and still images.

I now know that when a man is caught in a sex addiction that is contrary to his own moral compass, it is very important for him to keep a clear line of distinction between the sexual objects he lusts after and fantasizes about, and the woman he has at home, raising the children.

His behavior was very common.

Within a year of separating, I lost weight and was down from a size 14 to a size 6.  I stopped wearing my glasses.  I wore pants with a waist band, and blouses with buttons.

I worked at a country club, then a restaurant.  For the first time in years I had men around, giving me lots of attention.  Flattering attention.  Attention I was hungry for.  Starving for.  For the first time in years, I felt like a sexual creature, and although I'd like to think that I was giving off a virtuous vibe, I had to have been at least giving off a scent, or something known only to forward men on the prowl.

Sad thing is, I took the attention seriously.  Well, not all of it.  I have a girlfriend I used to work with at one of the restaurants, and all these years later, we still call each other dollface after a mutual venting session about men who insist on demeaning women with little object tags like that.  Little Lady, my friends and I would like another round.  Thanks a lot, Sweetheart.  Makes my skin crawl.

My heart was wanting love.  My self esteem was wanting a defibrillator.  But, my soul needed rest.

When I look back at those years, I wish I would have allowed myself the pain of loneliness.  I wish that on the weekends that my ex-husband had the kids, I would have simply stayed true to my worth, my commitment to my family, and even my morals, and simply stayed home.  Because, rather than keeping my head in the game of Crisis, I ran from it allowing the high and exhilaration of romance, or at least what I perceived to be romance, sway me away and lull me into a state that dulled my senses.

My ex-husband's behavior as a sex addict was just as predictable as my behavior post-separation.  Both behaviors came from a place of brokenness within each of us, and it's only after I have personally experienced such things, that I have been able to truly understand the reactions in pain so many people fall victim to.  Yes, we must take responsibility for our actions and do whatever we can to guard ourselves from falling prey to destructive behaviors, but likewise, those of us with people in our lives who are recovering from Crisis have a responsibility as well.  A responsibility to understand those who are hurting, and when needed, lovingly guide them back to a healthy way of living that won't leave them with a robbed soul.

I take this responsibility seriously, as do Joelle, Mike, John, Tracey, and Rossy.  We are here for our readers, happy to share our mistakes and our triumphs, if doing so will help you climb out of Crisis, to Life on the other side.  From here, the view is sweet.  And we want you to join us.  With your soul in tact.

Celebrating Divorce, Not Cool. Celebrating Recovery. Very Cool.

Our wounds are to be embraced.  They are an essential and necessary part of our journey.

One of the joys of my life is to be given the opportunity to stand alongside people who are hurting, and walk with them on their journey to the other side of Family Crisis.  To the Been Through It, and No Longer In It side.  There is nothing more satisfying than to see a dysfunctional family transform, become functional, and find their way and purpose in the world.

But, every family I walk alongside on this journey is a family in Crisis, and there is no joy there.

I received a call from a friend who told me that she made the decision to leave her husband of 10+ years because of his alcoholism.  His inability to kick his habit, in spite of rehab, recovery programs, and counseling, made her life just as unmanageable as his.  They have young children in the home.  But my friend knew that hers was a life lived in insanity, that her kids' lives were lives lived in insanity, and in order to be able to step outside the daily affects of alcohol abuse, she needed to break free from it once and for all.  

She told me that reading Wings Like Eagles has helped her open her eyes to her denial, and find the courage to take a stand against her husband's behavior.  As much as I feel that this was a good decision for my friend, I have to admit that my heart has been heavy with grief over the loss of their marriage.

Divorce is wrong.  It isn't how things are supposed to be.

As I do my work in Crisis Recovery, I come upon this all the time.  Holding the hand of a spouse who has been abandoned for addiction, who has been abused, and kept in dysfunction, and then see them come to the gut-wrenching realization that divorce is their only way to freedom from the insanity, is never an easy pill to swallow.  It is never celebrated, or taken lightly.

Quite honestly, that first step taken out of the insanity of a dysfunctional and troubled marriage is like taking a step off a cliff, and down into an abyss.  It takes so much energy to finally wake up and make the move to divorce, but our energy level soon plummets, as the reality sets in.

Subtle realities, often times.  Going out to eat with the kids as a family, but without your former spouse. Filling out school, or medical forms, and having to check the Divorced box for your marital status.  Recreating holiday traditions.  Learning how to live as a single-parent.

I have a friend who has been a housewife and at-home mom for all the years that she has been married. Now, she is divorced, and still feels strangely foreign in this life that used to be well defined for her.  She was a housewife before.  Even though she was awarded alimony and financial support so that she could continue to be an at-home mom, she isn't a housewife anymore.  This is devastating for her, as she happened to like her job title.

My ex-husband couldn't afford to support me financially so that I could stay home with the kids after we divorced.  (I have to be totally honest and admit that my independence and pride wouldn't have wanted him to, even if he could afford it.)  So, I had to change my whole status entirely, and become a working mom who had to miss birthday parties, holidays, and precious time with my kids--everything I cherished.

So, basically, I took that much-needed step into divorce, and down I fell.  Depression.  Discouragement.  Financial struggles.  Loss.  Emotional pain for not only myself, but all of my kids that needed to be worked through.  Kids' failure in school.  Evidence everywhere that life wasn't OK.

But, as bad as it all was, and it was bad, I knew that that step into divorce, even if it led me down into the pit, was the step I absolutely had to take, in order to raise my children in an environment free of anger, control, and abuse.  It was a step I had to take so that I could be free to develop the parts of me that were created for a purpose greater than covering up the bad behavior of my husband, and expending all of my energy convincing the kids that their dad was a great man, even though his actions showed them otherwise.

Falling into that pit was painful and dirty.  Climbing out of the pit was exhausting, and defeating at times.  But the climb developed muscles I would never had known I had, had I stayed in the chaos and insanity.  And as horrifying as it was to see what my children went through, when I work with adults who never had the opportunity to step outside the power of a dysfunctional family, I know that every bit of pain and hard work was well worth it, as my kids grow into healthy, functional individuals.

My daughter was with a friend recently who got into a horrible verbal assault with their family while my daughter visited.  Profanity flew from child to parent, verbal assaults flew from enraged parent to child, and the entire episode was played out in the presence of my daughter who was caught in it, unable to escape.  She was shaken, because the moment reminded her of years past, when her dad would verbally rage, and attack.

She was affected by the verbal violence, but rather than just stay quiet and out of the way, she spoke up after they calmed down, and she shared with them (including the adults) how wrong their behavior was.  She handled herself respectfully, but assertively.  She was well-muscled from her climb out of her own pit.

We are who we are, as life takes us from one thing to another.  Or as we take ourselves from one thing to another.  And the vast majority of us (OK, every last one of us) have been hurt, or have gone through a time in our life we didn't like, or want, but we journeyed through it, and if we did our work right, and climbed upward, we gained strength.

With that strength, we are able to see almost with super-hero eyes, others who are on a similar journey as our own.  So we reach out to them.  We extend them a hand.  We do our part in tooling them so that they can climb out as well, and join us on the other side.

"Our wounds are to be embraced.  They are an essential and necessary part of our journey."

This statement was made by Teresa McBean, Executive Director of the National Association for Christian Recovery.  It's an awesomely true statement.

I am thankful for my wounds.  They help me understand others who are around me who are hurting, and they allow me to feel a compassion for that pain that speaks to them, calms them, and gives them an ability to look to someone who knows their pit.  And knows the way out.

Divorce will happen, whether Mike, Tracey, or I write about our experiences, or not.  But, Mike, Tracey, and I have been in unique, but all too common places that are very familiar to many people out there.  So, we share, we advise, and we show how wonderful it is to be on the other side of Crisis.  And we bring as many over to our side, as we are given the opportunity.  Because there is more to life than living in a dysfunctional nightmare, and teaching our children that Family Crisis is normal.

Crisis Gypsies

When we moved back to California after living in Nebraska for 12 years, the kids and I moved in with my parents for 10 months.

In anticipation of our move, my mom and sisters bought beds and dressers, and as though they were putting a puzzle together, they somehow set up my parents' guest room to accommodate the kids and me.

I remember how excited they were to be able to have it all ready for us.  The room was so pretty.  So sweet, with so much love poured into it.

I was so grateful.  Overwhelmed with gratitude, really.  So I was left somewhat bewildered when my feelings at the time didn't reflect the thankfulness in my soul.  Instead, I felt numb.  Like I had to work to make my face smile in response to the joy their faces all showed.

It was one of the first of many moments where I would catch myself stuck.  Stuck somewhere between happiness and sorrow.  A paradox of emotions.

I had left my husband  A separation for the sake of reconciliation.  My hope being that with a separation, counseling, and restructuring of how our lives had been before, we could later reconcile and raise a happy, healthy family.

We lived separated in Nebraska for a few months.  I needed to move the kids and me out of our country home, and into a house of my own in town.  I feared the seclusion of the country, paired with my husband's behavior.

I had always been an at-home mom, but I had to get a part-time job at the hospital in town, so that I could support the kids and myself.  I worked as a cook's assistant.

The older kids were too aware of our circumstances, and too hurt and broken to properly care for the younger ones while I worked.  The balancing act I had to perform by working outside the home with a hurting14 year-old,  12 year-old, 8 year-old, and 20 month-old left my side of the family here in California feeling that the kids and I would be better off closer to them, so that we could heal, and benefit from the support of family.

So we left Nebraska, the only home my children knew.  The state Adam, Abi, and Lee were born in.

The kids were excited about the move to California.  About being with their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  It was nice to see them excited.  So when we went to bed that first night, my conflicting emotions melted as I cuddled my baby Lee, resting in my parents' house.  We were safe.  We were going to be OK.

Maybe it's because I'm a firstborn, maybe it is my genetic make-up, but whatever it is, I am very independent.  The sense of being a burden nagged at me as time passed.  It got more intense with each passing month.  Though I enjoyed the time with my parents and my kids, working on their emotional hurts while I worked on mine, I knew I needed to find a way to support the kids and myself, so that we could move out of my parents' home, and on with our life.  This was my obsession.  All I thought about.

And I think, as I look back with a clear head and that it was my feeble attempt at establishing a deep need of normalcy, or to at least create a new normal for us.  With hindsight, I see that what we needed was more time to heal.  But in the midst of it, with all of the Topsy-turvey ranges of emotions, I was left short-sighted.  All I could see was that need to support my children, and give them a home of our own.

After living with my parents for ten months, we moved to a beautiful little townhouse a few miles away that I was able to rent.  I had gotten a job at a local country club working as a server.  I was getting great hours, and doing very well with tips.  It was enough to cover our monthly expenses.

At that point, we had lived in California for almost a year.  My husband decided to join us in California,  so he moved from Nebraska.  At first he stayed with his relatives, but our year apart, as well as extensive counseling, proved fruitful for my husband.  He was different from before.  More nice.  More happy.  To make life as close to normal as we could for the kids, I asked him to move in with us.  We lived in separate bedrooms like roommates, but the kids had both parents under one roof.  It was looking like we would be able to reconcile.

But, as time passed, his anger started to show itself again.

He wanted for us to move back to Nebraska.  Many of our family and friends advised us against it, or at least they advised us to continue to pursue a more complete recovery from our old habits before we moved away.  My husband had extreme control and anger issues, and I had been very codependent.  He had betrayed us by being unfaithful, and I still needed to know that I could trust him.  The advice of those who loved us was that we continue to grow before moving away, so that we wouldn't revert back to how we had been before.

This advice brought a level of anger and resentment from my husband that was so great, it started affecting the children.  I had one of the kids cry to me and say that Daddy was angry again.  She was afraid of it, but at the same time was also afraid that we would have to leave him again, and she didn't want to face what that would inevitably mean.  The dysfunction of codependency and enabling behaviors were rearing their ugly head in the behaviors of my daughter.

I would not raise my children in this kind of dysfunction and fear.  I told my husband that I was going to file for divorce.

We had been living in the beautiful townhouse for only one year.  But, my hours had been cut at the country club, and I wasn't making enough to cover the $2,050 per month rent.  Even with my second job as a server at a Hawaiian restaurant.

So, we moved.   We moved into a 4 bedroom house around the corner from my parents' house.  My husband and Adam moved out a few months later.

I got a new job as an office manager for an engineering firm.  With this job, I would make enough to support my children and myself.  I quit my job at the country club, but kept the second job so that I could make extra money to pay off debt.

After 2 months at the engineering firm, I was laid off.  My boss couldn't make payroll.  It was the Friday before Christmas.

I picked-up as many hours as I could at the Hawaiian restaurant.  I got another part-time job working as a promotional model a weekend or two a month.  It still wasn't enough.

After a year in the house around the corner from my parents, I found a tiny 2-bedroom condo I could afford.  Rent was just over $1,000 per month.  Our next door neighbor was an L.A. gang leader.

LET'S RECAP, SHALL WE?

We moved from our country house in Nebraska, to a house in town in early 2006, to my parents' guest room in California in the summer of 2006.  We moved to the beautiful townhouse in the spring of 2007.  We moved to the 4-bedroom house around the corner from my parents in the spring of 2008.  And we moved to the tiny 2-bedroom condo in the spring of 2009.

That's 5 different homes in 3 years.

Hugo and I started dating in the fall of 2009.  We married on Valentine's Day in 2010.  It was a fast courtship, and a quick engagement.  Not what the professionals would advise, but it worked for us.  Yes, we have had to put in some extra work on the already-married end as the result of our speedy pre-married relationship, but it has been work that has been well worth the effort, leaving us strong and healthy.

Challenges aren't always all bad.

Lee is very insecure about moving.  To him, it is normal to move every year.  We moved to my parents' house when he was 1, to the beautiful townhouse when he was 2, to the house around the corner from my parents' when he was 3, to the tiny condo in the ghetto when he was 4, and to Glendora when he was 5.

He will be 8 in December.  We're still here.

But, he asks if we will have to move, even still.  He asked this last weekend while we were driving.  Wanted to make Hugo and me promise that we will live in this house until we die.  When we're old.

He then asked when we will be done paying for our house.  We told him that we would be done when he is thirty-five.  He stared blankly out the car window.  So did we, I think.  Yikes.

Hugo and I can't seriously promise Lee that we will stay in our house until we are old.  Who can say for sure where life is going to lead?  But when I remember that drive I had to give my kids security, a home, and a healthy life, I realize just how far God has brought us.

He brought me back home to my family in California.  My children to their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  He brought us Hugo.  And more grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a soon-to-be cousin.

He brought us to Glendora.  And He brought us to this house we won't have paid off until 2040, but we are so very happy we have.

Hugo and I are raising a happy, healthy family.  The hope I had from the start.  At the time I didn't realize that it would take divorce and the remarriage to a man up for the job to bring it, but since when do I have to know exactly how God will bring a prayer and hope to reality?  He saw my deepest desires for my family met, and He did it His way.  His perfect way.

What Kind of a Childhood are You Giving Your Kids?

Yesterday was my dad's 75th birthday.

As a surprise, we thought it would be fun to take him to The Greek Theatre to see his all-time favorite showman and singer, Neil Diamond.  The fact that he was playing locally on my dad's birthday was unbelievable.  We planned the night for months, excited.

Hugo, Kristi, Misti, Mom, Dad, Lori, Aunt Liz, Uncle Tom and Not Pictured, But With Us in Spirit: Gregg, Uncle Ernie, and Aunt Donna

It wouldn't be the first time he would get to see The Solitary Man in concert.  Last night was his 3rd time to see him at The Greek, and there have been at least 2 other times at other venues.

In my childhood home, we all grew up listening to Neil Diamond.  I can remember when the Hot August Night album came out forty years ago, and my dad played it on our stereo.  I can remember sitting on the living room floor holding the album sleeve, looking at the cover picture, and back at my dad, in total disbelief that this is what Neil Diamond really looked like.  And that my dad liked someone who liked like that.

My dad was more of a Rat Pack kind of guy.  Very short haircut, ties, polished shoes, suave attitude.  Crisp.  A defiantly proud non-member of the hippie-revolution.

The music of Neil Diamond spoke to his soul.  In spite of Mr. Diamond's long hair, rivets, and fringe.

Whenever my sisters, brother, or I hear a Neil Diamond song, we're transported in time to our childhood.  Camping on the Kern River.  Cleaning out the garage, or washing the cars.  Going fishing in the mountains.  Christmas, especially if a new album had been released.  Neil Diamond was there, and every one of us kids knew the songs, just as well as our dad.

Neil Diamond started promptly at 8:15, with no headliner.  His band of 35 years started playing, he appeared on stage, and I cried like a baby.

It was no wonder.  I tear-up when I hear a Neil Diamond song come on at the grocery store.  I'm taken back to my childhood.  My happy, happy childhood.

It was surreal.

I took in the music, the moment, and my spirit was flooded with appreciation for the beautiful childhood our parents gave us.

OK.  So, with Family Crisis Recovery dwelling so prominently in the doorway of my soul, I find that lately, I can't let anything in, without measuring it against the things I now know in life.

Let me explain.

How about the many families who suffer by accepting various forms of dysfunction as normal?  Physical abuse.  Alcoholism.  Drug abuse.  Neglect.  Sexual abuse.  Infidelity.

And what about the dysfunctions that aren't as obvious, but are just as damaging?  Control.  Anger.  Verbal abuse.  Mental abuse.  Spiritual abuse.  Co-dependency.  Selfishness.

So, with tears streaming, and gratitude over having had such a beautiful childhood, I caught myself thinking about my own children.  And then I got a little sad.  Would they ever have such a moment as this when they're forty-five?  Would they ever look back on their childhood with reflective joy?

When I first separated from my ex-husband, I had a lot of support.  But, I also endured sharp criticism from some for taking a stand against my ex-husband's behavior by actually leaving him.  I was told that as a Christian wife, it was my duty to stand by my man, even though he was hurting the kids and me.  Even though his dad hurt his wife and kids.  And his grandfather hurt his wife and kids.

All I could do was look at my kids, and want more for them.  I didn't want them to continue to be subjected to his control and abuse, but even more, I didn't want the pattern to continue.  So I left.

Now that I know more clearly about the things my denial didn't allow me to fully get when I was still with him, I know that had we stayed, my children would have had more pain to process in their adulthood.  And gauging by the amount of time it has taken them to work through the stuff they did endure, I know that my decision to leave was the right one, in spite of the difficulty, challenge, and even the criticism.

My childhood, as great as it was, wasn't perfect.  Theirs hasn't been either, obviously.  But I do hope that as they reflect upon the sad or difficult memories, they can also reflect upon the happy ones, as well.  And I hope that as they're reflecting, they will dwell on the empowering confidence we all have knowing that we, as a family, took a stand against things that weren't right, for the better of not only our lives, but for future generations as well.  I hope that they can look back and see that, as they look forward to a positive future for our family.

We don't have to accept and live with dysfunction.  We don't have to stick with it for the sake of the children.  Because, in truth, the children end up not only hurt from it, but as they grow, they tend to repeat it.  There is no sense I can make from that.

It's hard to be faced with the decision of whether or not you should demand change, or even leave your spouse if he or she is bringing Crisis to your family.  I know.  But your child's childhood will only be lived once, and in that one shot, they will learn what they learn from you, and they will take the things you teach them into their adulthood, and straight to their own family.  As their parent, what would you like for them to take?

I thank my parents.  Because, truth be told, this is what they did for us.  Both my mom and my dad had challenging childhoods.  They took stands against what they had been subjected to, and as a result, my brother, sisters and I benefited greatly.  Our parents sacrificed tremendously, so that we could have what they couldn't have.

Are you in a relationship you know deep down isn't right?  Is your spouse or partner engaging in behaviors that jeopardize healthy living?  Are you scared?  I know the fear.  I lived it.  I'm here for you, and I will be more than happy to guide you.  If you act now, there is a greater chance of your relationship surviving with help.  A greater chance of your children having less pain to have to process.

Call me.  Message me.  Friend Request me on Facebook, and I will accept.  We can communicate privately.  Kristi Tisor Ambriz.  I will hold our conversation in confidence.  I give you my word.

I wish you well.  I wish your children well.  I wish their memories well.