Bounce: Rock Your Comebacks

By Michelle Rooney

Everyone has setbacks. In the middle of life's ups and downs, we can find ourselves at some critically low points that are much harder to find our way out of than expected. But we are able to increase our odds of fully coming back from those setbacks by acquiring a few key characteristics that can help us turn bad situations around every time and benefit from the hard lessons. Bouncing back from hard times is a skill that can be learned and cultivated and, through a selection of personal life experiences, inspirational tips for bouncing back successfully, and Scripture references that lead you to God's promises regarding your situation, the author guides you through how to experience the ultimate comeback. With your acquired skill set and personal ambition combined with faithful reliance on God and His consistent promises, you can rebound from any setback life can deliver. You can come back more faithful and stronger than ever. bOuNcE will help you do that every. single. time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543970265

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Michelle Rooney

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

ISBN 978-1-54397-025-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-54397-026-5 (ebook)

The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the author’s ability with regard for protection of the privacy of those mentioned therein.

Published by Michelle Rooney

www.michellerooney.org

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to my favorite people:

my phenomenal sons, Jack and Colin Rooney,

and my very best friend & husband,

Shawn Rooney.

I love you all more than I could ever say.

I love you with all my heart and am deeply thankful for each of you.

Thank you for who you are.

Thank you for all you’ve done for me, each other, and our family.

Thank you for making the days magical and the years so very meaningful.

Thank you for everything.

You are my heart and my soul.

I’m so thankful that we’re family forever.

"Success is how high you bOuNcE when you hit bottom."

George S. Patton

contents

introduction

reality bites

sun valley sucker punch

maybe baby

model behavior

miracles everywhere

free fallin’

churchianity

ministry of make-up

solitary confinement

to serve and entrap

broken-hearted

whose are you?

the art of the bOuNcE

the gift of the bOuNcE

about the author

introduction

To me, resilience simply means to bounce back higher and stronger after each setback; it becomes a character strength when we form the habit of bouncing back.

Dr. Paul T.P. Wong

bounce

(verb)

1. to spring back from a surface in a lively manner; to rebound; to have resilience

When I first embarked on this writing project, one of the primary bits of advice I heard over and over again was, Write about what you know. I mulled that over for awhile, as I had many book ideas floating around in my head that I couldn’t wait to get out. But I wanted to write about something that I knew well, something about which I felt I could offer legitimate insight, and that would be relevant for others right out of the gate. Good, bad, or otherwise, bouncing back from life’s hard situations is something in which I’ve had an advanced level of on-the-job training. We’ve really been through it, friends, and I know so many of you have, too. I never say that from a victim’s standpoint; I don’t consider myself a victim at all. Quite the contrary. But our family has definitely been on the receiving end of an inordinate amount of life’s knock-out punches, so I decided to share some of them. That’s how bOuNcE was born.

You see, after getting kicked around pretty hard in life’s first few rounds and just sitting there, shell shocked, waiting for something to change, I learned pretty quickly that if I wanted to get back up and make something better happen, I was going to have to do that myself. I was going to have to make myself get up, wipe my own brow, and go in for the next round a little smarter from what I had experienced. The responsibility was on me to either sit out the rest of the fight or find a way to get back up and finish strong. I figured out early on that bouncing back didn’t necessarily always come naturally, but that I could learn how to do it. I could cultivate that skill. So can you. I call that "the art of the bounce."

The other component to strong comebacks after painful setbacks is the role of God in our lives. God, through Jesus, has provided us with promises in His Word for every single form of setback we could ever have or imagine. And He is faithful to keep His promises. There are some situations that, no matter how strong we are or how much effort we put forth, we just can’t do much about on our own. We need God. And we need to be diligent about seeking Him and inviting His presence into all of our circumstances, as we will never make a complete comeback without Him. He provides us with faithful, supernatural outcomes that we could never contrive or pay back. I call His role in our rough spots "the gift of the bounce."

Although I could never share every hard thing our family has experienced in this book—there wouldn’t be time, space, or energy for it and some of it is just too personal—I have shared a select collection of true tales from our lives with you. I’ve chosen scenarios relating to health, finances, relationships, identity, career, and more hoping that most people will be able to relate to at least some of these events. Many details, the emotions, the hardships, what we’ve learned, and what we did to come back from them are all here. I’ve been as transparent and candid as can be as I’ve recounted this collection of memories and I hope you’re able to connect with some of them and glean something meaningful from reading about our experiences.

The final two chapters of the book are a bit different from the others in that, rather than relaying additional experiences, I’ve shared chapters called the art of the bounce and the gift of the bounce that expound upon our roles in bouncing back and God’s role in our bounce-backs. Those chapters are where the overarching message of the book, the meaning of the tales, and the practical application of the principles of bouncing back are all brought together.

I hope you find this book to be encouraging. It was a pleasure to write knowing that it will, hopefully, help someone else in the midst of hard places to experience strong comebacks without having to re-invent the wheel. My prayer is that you will come to realize, if you haven’t already, that you’re not alone in your setbacks, that you can learn how to bounce back because bouncing back is not a matter of luck or chance, and that God is so overwhelmingly for you and a very present help at every step of the way.

Enjoy the journey, my friend! Your comeback is but a bOuNcE away!

"I have told you these things, so that in me

you may have peace.

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart!

I have overcome the world."

John 16:33

reality bites

People at war with themselves will always cause collateral damage in the lives of those around them.

John Mark Green

He left when I was a girl. I don’t recall ever meeting him, although I know that, based on stories relayed by my family, he was around until I was about two years old or so. I never had a real relationship with my father, although I lived out a relationship with him in my head over the years. All of those things daddies do with their little girls...tossing them atop their shoulders for a ride, dancing with their little feet on top of their bigger feet, playing games, going for ice cream, protecting them from all things evil, telling them they’re beautiful...those are all things I lived out in my mind. Doing so was both beneficial and detrimental. On one hand, the dream of my father was magical. It lived frozen in both affection and perfection that could never be tarnished or taken. On the other hand, it wasn’t real. And it could never, by any mortal man, ever be lived up to.

Being well aware that there was a father-shaped hole in my life, my family would periodically ask me if I ever thought about him; it seemed to come up on a semi-regular basis growing up. Depending on the tenor of the room at the time, I’d sometimes reply, Yes, but I don’t really want to talk about it. Or I’d say something like, No! Uhh. Stop asking me! I think, looking back, that I could tell that there were a lot of unspokens behind that question. I could sense that my family was attempting many things with that line of questioning, some of which were intended to help me, some to help themselves. By asking me about my father once in awhile, even if I never wanted to talk about him, they could absolve themselves from guilty feelings about not discussing or handling the situation more openly. They could feel like they tried to handle it, even if I rejected the offer, and the blame would then be shifted off of their shoulders. I do believe that they were trying to give me an opportunity to talk about not knowing my father once in awhile because they were aware that it was something that could have huge repercussions down the line. I applaud them for that.

Whatever the case, we never really talked about him. Barely. We’d touch on it, I’d uncomfortably decline, they’d move along seeming to feel freed up. They would, though, occasionally blurt, You know, your father said that if you ever wanted to contact him when you were older that he’d be open to that. We don’t really know where he is now, but he mentioned that, so... And off it would trail, sort of like a comment about the weather or someone’s outfit.

To them, I’m sure it seemed like a glib comment, something to say in passing to fill the space and relieve a little tension with regard to the situation. To me, mentioning that my father may want to hear from me someday was monumental. It was a game-changer. It depicted him in a way that implied that he was pining for me somewhere. That he sat out there somewhere thinking of his girl and wondered what I was doing, much like I did him. It created the impression in my young mind that he cared about me, about the details of my life, and longed for me in the same way I longed for him. It was uplifting and sustaining to think that he could want to see me.

And so I thought a lot about what life would be like with him. What if I lived at his house? What are his people like? My other grandparents? Aunts, uncles, cousins? Do I have any siblings on his side? I began to create him according to my heart’s desires. He wanted me, but was just unable to get to me for some noble reason. That’s what I told myself. Surely if he could be with me, he would. Of course, I would think, there was some sort of reasonable, meaningful explanation as to what has kept us apart all this time. And so, from the time I was very young...maybe six or seven years old...I began to secretly check the mailbox around my birthday each year to see if he had sent me something. Beginning the whole week before and extending to several days afterwards, I’d peek in the box and rifle through the mail hoping to find even just a simple card from my father. Something...anything...that would prove my hypothesis that I mattered to him and that my birthday must be up there on his list of important days. Each year, there was nothing.

Looking back, I should’ve maybe been a little quicker on the draw than I was with regard to the birthday card situation. I should’ve caught on to the fact that he was staying away on purpose. But in the mind and heart of a child, hope reigns. The impossible is always doable, people are always good-hearted, and the wildest of dreams can come true at any moment. All it takes is a wish and your will, much like a wish on birthday candles, a letter to Santa Claus, or the fairytale ending of a favorite book or film. My child’s heart wanted it to be true, so I believed it. The whole situation would continue to be a source of contention and confusion for me throughout much of my young life.

Fast forward to college. I had been dating my boyfriend off and on since our freshman year of high school. Within our last year or so of college, we became engaged. As any bride-to-be does, I began planning all of the details of our coming nuptials as much according to my vision for our day as would fit the budget. Also as any bride-to-be does, I began to think through the logistics of our complex family relationships, how to incorporate family members into the wedding, and who needed to be handled in what ways so that the day’s events would go as smoothly as possible.

As I made preparations, it dawned on me that the long-envisioned walk down the aisle could be complicated for me since I didn’t have my father in my life and wasn’t sure whom to ask to do the job. Keep in mind that even by that more grown-up point in my life, I was still being told regularly about my father wanting to hear from me someday. And so throughout a winding course of musings and reflection during our wedding planning season, I began to think that perhaps I should look my father up and tell him that I was getting married. I had thought many times over the years about tracking him down and getting in touch with him, but I never had the nerve to do so. I’d get close to moving forward with it and then stop, thinking that my pleasant but fictitious relationship with him was better than a real-life let down of one. Little did I know what was on the horizon. I would’ve prepared my already trepidatious heart.

One benefit of growing up in an environment that is sometimes unpredictable is that you learn to be flexible. Moving again? Okay. Another new school? Sure. You also learn to be resourceful. If I wanted something badly enough, I’d figure out a way to get it. I’d paint and sell rocks door-to-door or ask my grandmother or neighbors to do chores or babysit for a little extra cash. I’d find a way to obtain information or resources needed to complete an assignment, make money necessary for something special, or get the ear of the right person to facilitate a desired outcome for school events or work-related responsibilities. I used brains and sheer will power to figure out what needed to be done and do it. And so began the search for my father. I was getting married. Wouldn’t he want to know? Maybe he wouldn’t, but I needed to find out and was ready to take that chance.

Remember that this was all taking place in 1992 before average people had internet connection at home. Or even before computers graced most homes. Before smart phones. Before Google. In order to find someone, you had to use phone books, maps with area codes from around the country, and call directory assistance in whichever area code you thought the person may live and start asking for listings that matched the name. Finding someone about whom you had little information was a real long shot. It was a tedious process with very little certainty.

I got my hands on a map from the back pages of an old address book that included long dotted lines vertically printed on the page that divided the United States up into sections by time zones and area codes. And I had heard...I didn’t even remember from whom or how by then...that my father had moved to northern Minnesota and owned some rental cabins on a lake there after having moved away from Chicago where he had helped to run his father’s business. I also remembered that he had some family in upstate New York, so those were some starting points from which to begin my search.

I just started calling. I’d call directory assistance for various sections of Minnesota and ask for listings under his name. There were a few, so I jotted them all down to add to my call list. I got a hold of some numbers in Chicago and New York as well. Added them to my list. I spent a few hours calling and asking and jotting just to collect potential phone numbers for the man who was my dad. I then compiled a list of the numbers I thought were most likely to be him by process of elimination.

Once complete, I stared at the list of numbers for awhile. Several things ran through my mind. Sad, I thought, that all I had of one of my parents was a list of possible phone numbers that I tracked down myself based on almost nothing. I scrutinized the list some more. One of those numbers likely held the voice of my father on the other end of the line and could change everything. He could be kind and emotional, asking why it took me so long to come to him. Or he could be a self-centered degenerate who was angry that the jig was up. Or I could reach a new wife or another child of his who could inform me that he was dead. It was up for grabs. But once I called, there was no going back. I weighed my options against my childhood longings. How badly did I want to know? Turns out I wanted to know in the worst way.

As expected, it took many phone calls that were dead ends before I finally got in touch with him. Some people were friendly and wished me luck, some were understandably confused, some were irritated, some hung up on me. It was awkward, to say the least. How does one go about instigating those conversations? Hello...ummm...I’m so & so. Are you so & so? I think you may be my father... Not a popular nor well-received phone call for most.

And then it happened. I narrowed all of those random phone numbers down after calling for what felt like days but was really probably only a couple of hours or so. I honed in on the final number on my list, the one that was most likely to be my father’s line. I grew unexpectedly anxious. Normal, I’m sure, but for all the other calls, I wasn’t particularly afraid. For this one, probably because I knew it was likely to be him, I began to breathe harder. To sweat a little. My mouth dried up. I picked up the phone, dialed the number, and waited. It rang several times and I was tempted to hang up and bail, but urged myself not to chicken out. I’d done so much to get to that point and needed to see it through.

A man’s voice picked up the line. It was a deep voice, very curt and pinched, Such & Such Resort... I swallowed hard. Ah, yes. I’m looking for so & so. Would that be you? Speaking, the voice boomed. Okay, well. This is a little awkward, but I’ve been trying to reach you and my name is Michelle ______, formerly Michelle ______ and I believe you’re likely to be my father. Hardest sentence I’d spoken in my life up to that point.

I barely got it all the way out when he interrupted, Yeah. That’s me. I heard you were calling around. What do you want? Well... I continued, My family has always told me that you mentioned that when I got older, if I wanted to contact you, that you’d be interested... Your family doesn’t always speak the truth! was his response as he talked over me. You have no idea what happened back then and I’m not interested in a relationship with you. Have a nice life. He hung up.

The silence was heavy as I sat on my bed and held the disconnected phone in my hand. I could hear my pulse strong in my head. I wasn’t really sure what to do. I thought I had prepared myself for all outcomes, but I couldn’t have possibly prepared for the actual, real-life magnitude of that short conversation. Have a nice life? That’s it? My body made involuntary, breathy sounds. I realized I felt a little light-headed as short sobs burst forth from my throat. I dropped the phone on the bed and wept. I’m not really sure how long I sat there crying, but the phone started to make the loud, alarmish sound that land lines used to make when disconnected for awhile. I picked up the phone, placed it back on the cradle, and got up off my bed. I felt weak, exhausted. Like I had just run dozens of miles. I went into the bathroom to splash water on my face. I kept thinking, Pull yourself together. You didn’t even know the man. How can this hurt so badly? I looked in the mirror, face reddish-purple, puffy eyes, splotchy skin, and began to splash the cool water on my cheeks, over my forehead, press it onto my eyes to soothe them. Now what? I started to feel panicky again, like I couldn’t breathe. I was home alone and became suddenly aware that I wasn’t completely okay, that the shock and anxiety were temporarily taking over. I really needed to talk to someone, so I decided to drive to a relative’s house who lived close by. I had always been close to her and was hoping she’d have some kind of suggestion that would help me feel more connected to reality in that moment. Or maybe less connected to reality...I didn’t really know.

The drive over was a blur. I cried off and on, gasping and gagging as I tried to catch my breath, and I tried to formulate a plan as to what I was going to say when I got to her door. She had no knowledge of this entire situation, so she’d be alarmed and concerned when she saw my distress. When I got there, though, she was home and, thank God, she answered the door right away and invited me in to talk. I told her the quick version of