I. Love. Gatlinburg.
I've been at least twenty times in the almost twenty-five (eep!) years I've been alive, and I still get a thrill when we round the bend to enter this perfect, touristy town nestled in the heart of the Smoky Mountains.
What do I love so much about it?
The fresh mountain air when stepping out of the car. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks during an early morning walk down River Road. The taste of tangy apple butter and chocolatey brown bears. The hilarious catcalls of rowdy country boys in their massive trucks as they drive down the strip looking for a date.
But what I love most about Gatlinburg are the memories.
When I was a kid, our trip to the mountains was a sweet family affair--my grandparents (Nanny and Papa, as we called them) would accompany us. They often gave me and my sister money to do a little something "special" while we there, which usually resulted in an exciting ride up the Sky Lift or a trip up the Space Needle.
"Now," as Nanny would say, "when you get to the top of the Space Needle, you call out for me and Papa, okay?" She'd settle in her orange balcony chair outside of her motel room. "I'll be right here listening."
I did as she asked and sent the two of them a giant "HELLOOOOOOO!!!" when we'd reached the top, and when I'd get back down and ask her if she'd heard, she'd always assure me that she heard it loud and clear.
They didn't go with us for many years when Papa got sick. A few years after he passed away, Nanny began joining us again.
As we got older, instead of sending me and my sister out to do something fun, she'd spend an afternoon with us taking us anywhere we wanted, followed by a scrumptious lunch at Waldo Pepper's--a burger joint with (get this) fries in the shape of airplanes.
We usually picked to go to a local tourist trap, like a museum. I'll never forget the first time I got to go to Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum. There's a million exhibits and weird facts along their two or three floors, but one of the most memorable parts was where they showed a video of people who could roll their tongues in a myriad of shapes. At the end of the video, the commentator invites you to look in a nearby mirror and "try it for yourself!" There we stood, attempting to morph our faces into the crazy shapes we had seen onscreen (to no avail, of course). Eventually, we grew tired of it and moved along through the rest of the museum.
And then at the end, passing through a narrow corridor to the exit, you see it.
A window. But it's not a window. It's the other side of a two-way mirror. The mirror you look into as you distort your face like a lunatic.
Feeling ridiculous, we blushed and smacked our foreheads, then paused to chuckle at the poor, clueless saps who were desperately trying to twist their tongues.
As we stood there watching, a couple of mischievous boys sidled up to us to make the same discovery. Between guffaws, the boys decided to knock on the glass. Immediately, the color drained from the face of the current ignorant face-distorter. Another tap, and we watched as he literally ran off around the corner. This furthered the boys' side-splitting laughter (and mine, to be honest), especially when the frightened museum-goer peeked back around the corner for another look, only to be scared off by another tap on the glass.
As I mused over the concept of this two-way mirror this week, it sparked a thought about how sometimes we find that a situation has an alternate, surprising perspective. And when we move from the "raw end of the deal" to one that is less vulnerable, how do we handle it?
Do we empathize? Or do we tap on the glass?
When I was going through the worst part of my grief last year, I found it most difficult to be around pregnant women. Not necessarily women who were already mothers; sure, I'd long for the coos and giggles they so heartily received from their little ones, but they weren't the most difficult ones to be around. It was the expectant women that stung worse.
Everyone is different in how they cope, respond, or view things. Perhaps I felt this way because I'd never had a newborn--the tangible thing I had lost was a pregnancy. So it wasn't the babies that necessarily got me down. It was the beach ball bellies and the promise of new life that made my heart yearn.
I promised myself that if I ever got and stayed pregnant, I would remember what it felt like to be on that end of it, especially when interacting with those who still happened to be on that end of it.
It was important to me that I didn't forget. Not one little bit.
And since September, I've found my way to the other side of the two-way mirror.
Unfortunately, I've had to watch a number of friends remain on the "raw end of the deal." Infertility. Miscarriages. Hurts. Whys. Tears. Pain.
But now that I'm on the other side, I refuse to let my mindset be, "Whew! I'm glad I'm not over there anymore!"
And you know what? This perspective is harder than I thought it would be. Sure, it's relieving to be in a less vulnerable position. But it kills me to have to watch others remain on the other side and to know that there's really not much I can do to help.
I remember. Oh, how I remember being on the other side of the mirror.
When everybody else seems to magically "know" that at some point, it will happen for you.
When it hurts to smile.
When it hurts to congratulate.
When it hurts to get a hug from a beach ball belly.
When you wonder if it's always going to be this hard.
I haven't forgotten.
I can remember feeling a lost connection to "infertile" or "struggling-to-stay-pregnant" friends when they became pregnant successfully. They were no longer next to me, feeling my pain, but opposite me. She is one of "them" now, I would think.
I may be one of "them," but I'm still one of you.
There are times when I wish my pregnancy was a suit that I could take off so that I could be a better support to those who are hurting. I want you to hear my heart. Please know that--whether we know each other or not--if you're going through a difficult time with this pregnancy and baby stuff, drop me a message, and I will be there for you. To pray. To listen. To do whatever it is that I can to help.
And if you're someone who's also made it to the other side of the mirror, I encourage you to look through and remember what it was like to stand on the vulnerable side. Don't take advantage of the fact that you're no longer there. Don't stare and point as though it's something entertaining for you to view.
Don't forget. Don't forget.
And for heaven's sake, don't tap on the glass.
"Share each other's burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ." ~ Galatians 6:2
