Conflict Un-resolution – Part 2: The Lesson

This is a story about a situation that went really wrong with a friend and employee. If you haven’t read part 1, please read that first. In part 2 I will bring you through the conflict resolution process we followed and what came of it.

The Un-resolution

The Bible is very clear with step-by-step instructions on how to deal with conflict within the Christian community. We took this very seriously and made sure to heed His word through prayer and deed.

The following steps need to be done in order, otherwise only gossip will prevail.

Conflict Un-Resolution – Part 1: The Fall

The Rise

A good friend. A loving church community. So many memories shared. Like all good friendships, as time went on, the relationship bond grew stronger. This is a habit I get myself into. Again. And again.

Some people have lots and lots of friends but don’t get particularly close to any one friend. Just a good group of community. This works for some people. I’m the kind of friend that, when I make a friend, I’m all in. Unconditional. BFFs. Except that I’ve had a poor track record of keeping it that way. Sometimes I’m to blame for being too codependent. Other times I just get completely taken at no fault of my own. For better or worse, I trust too quickly and too deeply. The latter friendship breakup is the hardest.

I’m learning how to not make excuses. Friendships die. The hard part is when that death of a relationship brings you down with it. Healing is possible, but it’s a journey only God can bring you through.

Hearing God

I sat in the pew feeling proud because my grandma was proud. It was a rite of passage in my family to be confirmed in the church. Just like the expectation to be baptized as an infant. Just like the expectation to take your first communion in second grade. Confirmation was what every good Lutheran kid did when they turned fourteen. After two years of boring dreaded catechism classes, I was finally becoming a member of the church.

The rote prayers and call and response rhythms subsided and the pastor did something unusual. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of the confirmands to deliver the sermon directly to us. However, my mind wandered to a different word of Truth.

The Battle Between Mental Illness and Physical Fitness

They say that exercise is important in maintaining mental health. Therefore, those with mental illness should be diligent about maintaining their physical fitness. As a former competitive runner and a graduate of a bachelor’s degree in physical education, I agree cognitively. However, as someone who has suffered severely from mental illness, I will tell you that being physically fit while mentally ill is a paradox.

In my deepest darkest days of mental illness (I’m talking about the pleading with God to end my life days. I’m talking about the, “I can’t take this anymore, how can I end my life?” days.) telling me to go out and be physically active was like telling me to just brush it off and buck up.

Is She Really A Strong Woman?

From 2017 to 2019 I have been dealt one crisis after another in quick succession. It destroyed me – the final crisis being a major flare up of a mental illness that I didn’t know I had. Now, not only were all of these nightmarish circumstances destroying me; I was destroying myself and my relationships. I wouldn’t wish those three years on my worst enemy.

Throughout each of these crises (and I’m not using “crisis” lightly), people have told me, “Wow, you are so strong!”

I understand why they’re saying it. They wouldn’t wish to be in that hard place. They didn’t know if they could handle it if they were in my place. I was in a hard place but I kept going because I had something to live for. I kept going even when I was completely destroyed. But honestly, my ability to keep going was just my ability to barely keep my nose sticking out of a rough sea so as to catch a breath every once in a while. I spent three years in desperate survival mode. Survival.

The Big Crazy Audacious Prayer

It was my 27th birthday. I had been “talking” with this cute guy from church. He would walk me to my car and we would stand in the parking lot talking for hours.

I had no birthday plans. I was working late and on my dinner break I noticed there was a message on my phone. His quiet soothing voice said, “Hi, Bethany. I wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. Would you be interested in some pasta and salad when you get out of work? I know it will be late and it won’t be anything fancy.”

I called him back immediately.

“Sure, that sounds nice. I probably won’t be there until about 11:00 pm.”

“That’s ok. I will see you then.”

We sat in his basically empty house at a fold out table. Penne pasta with sauce from the jar and salad from a bag. A baguette from the grocery store. We talked about many things. Our hopes and dreams. Our faith. Our families. Then he said something that made my heart fall to the floor.

The Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 3: Fight to Get Home

It finally came, I was discharged.

My nearly month-old son was there. My in-laws were there. My sister-in-law and my brother-in-law-in-law (what I call her husband) had just gotten to town. My youngest sister-in-law was there, too.

I dressed painfully in the outfit I was wearing when I arrived at the hospital. They had washed it.

My Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 2: Intensive Care Unit

The ER entrance seemed like the secret back door of the hospital. Bump. Bump. Moan. Pain. They rolled me straight to triage. The EMTs spouted some sort of medical information to the receiving medical team. Vitals again. Hushed voices again…or maybe they weren’t hushed. But urgent. They were urgent.

“Where’s my husband?”

“He’s on his way, honey,” a stressed voice sounded, “he’s just parking the car.”

I don’t remember him walking into the room, but he was there. Holding my hand. He was there.

As I write. As I remember. I want him here, now. I want that strong hand. That, “It’s going to be ok. The doctors and nurses know what they’re doing.” I finally remember, but it’s painful to go back. To re-engage. To sit with myself in that ambulance, that room, that hallway. Cold. Bright. Sterile.

My Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 1: The Ambulance

I haven’t told my story – the story that continually haunts me. I haven’t told my story. Not to me. Not to anyone. Not completely. Little snippets here and there, but not in its entirety. It took me a long time to gather the memories. Many of them were blacked out.

I haven’t told my story, but in order to completely heal. In order to move on. In the case that someone else has a similar unique story, I need to tell my story. I need to tell my story. For me. For other women out there who have felt so alone in their postpartum journey.

When The Mountain Will Not Break You

The little train rumbled over the tracks. She was a happy little train. Her cars were filled with toy animals… There were dolls and the funniest little toy clown you ever saw. But that was not all. Some cars were filled with good things for boys and girls to eat – and lollipops for after meal treats. The little train was carrying all these wonderful things to the little boys and girls on the other side of the mountain.

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead.

Who was this man? What brought him from Jerusalem to Jericho?