wishful thinking

The Shadow of Guilt

2011-07-12T10:53:00.000-04:00

I don’t recycle. I used to recycle when I lived in Florida and the nice recycling truck came to pick up my large blue bin and deal with its contents. However, since moving to North Carolina I do not recycle. There are not any nice recycling trucks here. There is a dump and one must take their recycling there, sort it out, and apportion it to the appropriate bins. I tried this when we first moved. In the garage we diligently sorted out paper, plastic, and glass; but that is where it stayed. The trip to the dump was hard to fit into our schedule. That may sound odd, but honestly, taking a trip to the grocery store (which is more important) seems difficult to fit into our schedule. I do not enjoy taking children grocery shopping. The whole experience has to be a lesser level of Hell, right below the level reserved for Chuckie Cheese. So, one of us grocery shops while the other watches children. The event takes some choreography. On the few occasions when I’ve had to take all four children with me to the grocery store, the rest of the day has been reserved for recovery. In a given week we have at least one grocery store run, church, small group, and driving to the barn to feed chickens. That isn’t even figuring in other errands, playdates, library trips, doctors visits, exercise at the gym, and the occasional dinner out because I ran out of time to cook dinner. To simplify our lives I try to cut out as much as possible. The kids really do much better when they aren’t being carted all over town. I am a saner and happier mother when I have enough time at home. And, actually being home means I can do the laundry, which is always a good thing, if not always pleasant.

All this to say, I still feel guilty for not recycling. I really do. I imagine it all piling up somewhere and stinking. I hate it. I get the same feeling when I use disposable diapers. It’s terrible. I still use them, because there are things (like simplicity) I value more than biodegradability; but I use cloth diapers as much as I can. There are days when the waves of guilt about all the things I’m NOT doing are particularly strong and I have this conversation with myself: “Self, why are you wasting emotional energy on these things! There are much more important issues to feel guilty about. For instance, you haven’t read to your kids today. Remember when you used to read to your firstborn every day? You even timed it to make sure it was a minimum of fifteen minutes. Remember when you baked your own bread? And how about the dirty diaper you found under the car seat that had been there for days? You really should be more on top of things.” Such is the way guilt casts her long shadow. If I stay hidden in that shadow for too long, I wilt for lack of sun. I become something other than myself.

When I was younger, in my twenties, I actually thought guilt was a decent motivator. I wondered how I would ever get things done if I didn’t feel guilty about not doing them. I rushed to complete my tasks so that I could move out from under the shadow and relax. It felt good to do so. I was the master of my fate. This principle was true for me in my spiritual life as well. Whenever I felt guilty for not measuring up I confused this with “conviction” and quickly worked to straighten myself out. And I must say that it seemed to work. I was making real headway. Consequently, I didn’t have much understanding for those among us who seem “stuck”. I simply concluded that they weren’t trying. Such is the deceptive nature of guilt. In the shadows things are blurry and what seems like truth at the time, turns out to be pride in the sunlight. My system began to falter when I looked honestly at myself and realized that, if I was being authentic, the number of “issues” I was able to control paled in comparison to the number I couldn’t see. It was like juggling. I was an expert juggler when there were three or four balls in the air but more balls kept being added and I was losing track. I learned that another characteristic of guilt is her devastating ability to exhaust you. Absolute and total exhaustion. After a while this turns into paralysis.

I learned this in a practical sense after becoming a mother. I stopped being able to finish all my tasks around the house. Yes, I might be able to keep up with the laundry, nurse the baby, get the baby to sleep, and make dinner, but the dishes simply didn’t make the cut. Or my own shower or bath for that matter. As I added more children to the mix (which has been totally worth it by the way) more things dropped off the list. Now, with four little ones in the house, we are on a rotating schedule with household tasks. It’s rare that the dishes are ever all the way cleaned and put away, but we have enough clean dishes in order to eat the next meal. Laundry is the same. My laundry room might be free of dirty clothes needing to be washed or clean clothes ready to be put away for a maximum of ten minutes every other month. I take what I can get though. Those ten minutes are golden. The wooden floors in our house have a sandy texture so I wear socks and sweep when I can. There are boogers on my son’s shirt sleeve, weeds in my garden, freezer burned veggies for dinner, dust on my picture frames, tangles in my girls’ hair, and stains on my jeans. We are a beautiful example of imperfection. And it is beautiful, and good, and honestly, just a season of time anyway. I want to enjoy this season and live it in the bright light of the sun. No shadows welcome here. But, lets be honest, there are times when I’m overwhelmed and completely paralyzed by the weight of all the things not getting accomplished. I throw my hands up, tears ensue, children get fussed at with reckless abandon, husbands get nagged, and I dislike myself. Guilt pours in and here we go again...

And the same is true with my inner life, my spiritual walk with God. I lose track, I mess up, I end up in the same places I’ve been before, and it’s not for lack of trying. Oh how I try. But that’s the problem in a nutshell. When I try so hard and have minor success, it fuels my pride to try again. Of course I always give the glory to God (don’t you love that phrase). I mean, it’s by His Grace alone that I can enjoy such victories. Ew. I’m making myself feel ill just putting that into words. How arrogant. How vile. How debased is that self-aggrandizing behavior, all disguised in spirituality to make myself “feel” humble. God doesn’t need me to give Him any glory. And I haven’t won any victories. My only role is to receive. Just receive. It’s all been done for me. I have nothing to bring to the table here. My best efforts are just that, efforts. I think there’s a road going somewhere paved with good intentions but I don’t want to be on that road. I long for peace and stillness and the rest that is mine in Christ Jesus. And when I accept that, I find that there are storehouses of love waiting for me. I have bright light shining on my face. I can see the next step before me. Instead of juggling, I’m walking forward...never forgetting what I’ve left behind or the places I haven’t been. Just walking forward. Rather than paralyzed, I’m energized to take the next step. Rather than exhausted, I’m rested and secure. I truly believe that this posture is a large part of what Jesus meant when He said we must enter the Kingdom of God as a child. Children are so easy to love, and all they can do is receive and love you back. They can’t really earn their keep. They aren’t emotionally mature enough to navigate tough issues. They are dependent. And, they are joyfully happy to be so. They simply receive and rest.

I spent most of my growing up years around other Christians. Once, while in college, I tried to think of one friend who wasn’t a Christian. I couldn’t. Over time that changed, and then I began to wonder why I actually preferred the honest, unvarnished, “realness” of my unchurched friends. I found them refreshing. I admired the way they were comfortable in their own skin, in their frailty, and in their humanity. My non-churchy friends aren’t trying to pretend that they are doing a good job juggling. They aren’t even trying to juggle at all. They know they can’t. They have accepted their frailty. I have come to believe that authenticity is sadly lacking among Christian folks, sometimes myself included. There isn’t any way to match the strength of our efforts to the pile of trash we can produce just by being human. Oh the relief to know that we don’t have to attempt such a feat, and in fact, shouldn’t. Our sanctification isn’t meant to be in our hands anyway.

We aren’t designed to hang out in the shadows. We were made for the light and there is an unrivaled sweetness in that place. It's humbling to know I'm not a good juggler. But it's the truth and that's all I really want anyway.

Jackson

2011-07-06T09:10:00.000-04:00

Last night we had a wonderful time of prayer and thanking the Lord for the life of our son. Jackson Henry was born, almost three weeks early, on May 17th. He weighed in at 5 pounds and 15 ounces. Labor was fast and smooth. Our transition to a family of six has been, mostly, peaceful and sweet. I have been continually filled with wonder when I look at Jackson and also look back over my life, especially my life within the last three years. I am simply in awe. Yet, there is nothing simple about such grace and healing. There isn’t any reason for it or understanding of its workings...there is just acceptance and peace. While we were talking as a family last night I noted that I didn’t even realize how tumultuous my inner life was until it wasn’t anymore. Last year, when Jonathan and I were married, I began a journey toward rest rather than turmoil. How fitting that the past year would culminate with the birth of our son. He is perfect. And he fills our hearts with peace and joy. By being those things he can only be a gift from God. He doesn’t carry the weight on his tiny shoulders of making us happy. He is a sweet, no strings attached, gift from the God of Love.

Samuel, Sasha, and Sylvia love their baby brother so much. Samuel especially dotes on him. I can say with complete honesty that when I look at my children they are happy. They are full of normality. They have survived and are in fact, thriving. I don’t think I realized how terrified I was for them until after I knew I didn’t need to be. The journey toward healing isn’t about a destination but about the process itself, and I know the process will continue. I am confident of this.

I have noticed, while on this journey, that people tend to classify things exclusively, at least here in America. In other words, someone is either evil or good; healed or broken; happy or sad; right or wrong. I confess that there were years of my life when I thought in just such a way. In some sense this line of thinking is comforting. There is the illusion of control in a neatly classified system. Yet, after pretending for a while that everything fits into categories, there is the jolting realization that in all honesty nothing fits neatly at all. Confusion sets in. If nothing fits neatly, then what is true? The answer, often times, is both. I have had so many people tell me how happy they are that I am happy now. I understand what they are saying and, in a sense, they are right. But part of what they are implying is that I have closed the door on my sadness, grief, pain, anger, hurt, and suffering. I don’t have to look at it anymore because now I have peace and happiness. So what is the answer to this? Do I assert that, in fact, all those painful realities are still very much real? If I did that I’m afraid I would be discrediting the peace and happiness that I do enjoy. So, do I tell everyone I’m happy all the time and so glad all the other parts are “over”? That too would be a lie. There have been so many occasions in which I have felt simply confused...not wanting to devalue either extreme and unsure how to live my life emotionally honestly.

I do know that it is right and good for me to be vibrantly happy and unashamed to live in that space. I occupy that space often and I am deeply grateful. Yet, I do believe that such peace and joy can only be fully experienced after being singed by Hellish pain. Am I saying that those who haven’t suffered much aren’t capable of experiencing all the depths of joy? Actually, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. One is colored by the other. There is, always, the tension of pain and joy; and neither to the exclusion of the other.

Just before Jackson was born I was, as you can imagine, in extreme amounts of pain. I honestly felt like I didn’t have the energy to deliver him. Yet, to remain in the state of agony brought on by each contraction was equally unthinkable. So, I pushed. And he was born. We have a photo of the moment Jackson was placed in my arms. My expression is one of complete, euphoric joy. He was born of pain, but he is, completely, joy to my heart.

33

2011-05-11T13:25:00.000-04:00

I wonder how you would have been

At 33.

Would we have had presents,

Peach pie,

Banners scribbled with so much love

And so little precision,

A day off to stretch in the sunshine,

Simple joys,

Soothing rhythms of ordinary days?

Instead there are strangers who know your name.

Judges who quote your life.

Children who don’t remember what they miss.

Friends whose hearts carry you.

And I.

I wander at times

Through dark rooms.

I’m glad I never had to see

The goodness in you

Disappear.

I’m glad you left when you were

Untouched.

Kind.

Smooth as a mirror glass pool.

I said to you, after you were gone,

My last words to your

Absent face,

“Rest now. Please. Just rest.”

I know that you listened.

The bitterness has eased,

My anger has quieted,

But oh the loss of you,

The loss of you,

Is sometimes so piercing

And terrible

And shockingly cold.

Strange how the warmth of tears urges me

Back to life.

And the taste of them, salty,

Reminds me to live.

Samuel is Seven

2011-04-21T10:56:00.000-04:00

Dear Samuel,

You will be turning seven in about ten days! I can’t believe you are getting so grown up. When you were born I was overwhelmed by how much I loved you, instantly, when you had nothing to give in return. I learned so much about love in those early weeks with you. In the end I learned that the way I love you creates in me a helplessness because I am imperfect. I don’t always make the right decisions. I don’t always choose selflessness. Sometimes I am distracted and completely miss what you are trying to tell me. Sometimes I brush aside your needs because I’ve needed you to be stronger than you ought to have been. I’ve needed you to carry me when you never even knew you could. And all of these things make me feel helpless to convey how very much I love you and have loved you from the start. But I will always, always, try to help you understand how very much you are loved. Always. And I am grateful that you are loved and sustained and carried by One greater than I could ever be.

You are smart and silly. You have a precision about you that is wholly original and yet must be inherited from your father. I find things in your desk lined up in rows and labeled...rocks that you are studying and small scraps of paper with secret messages. There are ways you stack your books that bring you comfort and order. Yet, I have to remind you three times to remember to put your shoes on. These precious things remind me of your Dad in heaven. He used to spend hours reorganizing his books. After he died I went through his box of keepsakes and found his varied collections and scraps of papers. He saved things I never knew he saved and treasured small bits of things too.

I wish you could have known him, really known him. I know that you will learn all about him, but that is different from understanding the feel of someone. I wish you might be able to walk into a store or hear about a book and think, “Dad would love that.” You’ll never know him that well. You won’t know all the millions of tiny ways that you are just like him and the millions of other ways that you are so different. You won’t be able to look at his hands and see your own turning into his as you age. You won’t be able to notice how your lips get chapped in the same exact places, like a little line running down the middle of your bottom lip.

And this, son, is what breaks my heart continually. In a very real way you will always be fatherless. There is simply no way I can ever mend that brokenness. There are things that soothe and bring healing. There are people who have come into our lives who love you and protect you. You are not alone. Yet, I can’t fix it.

You have a new Dad. You have embraced him and brought him into your heart in ways that amaze me and make me proud. In so many ways I can rest for you now because you are fathered and you have settled into being a son again. There is beauty from ashes. There is strength instead of fear. And still sometimes I watch you falter. You don’t have a mirror that reflects back who you are and could be. Your mirror is gone. Now you have the grace and love of someone different, which is a blessing beyond what I imagined. One day you will understand the sacrifices he has made to be that person for you. You will understand the way that he loves you and loves me and you will admire him for all the times he has chosen to embrace what wasn’t our choice and didn’t have to be his. You will respect him for choosing us and all that comes with us, day after day, moment to moment. But for many years you won’t see these things. You will see your own grief and loss. You will come to understand that you live with a sadness that many people don’t grasp. And then one day your perspective will shift and you will be grateful in the midst of these things.

On Easter Sunday you will be getting baptised, by your new Grandaddy. My Father was baptised by Grandaddy’s Father. How incredible and strange how things come full circle. I know that you are ready to make this symbolic step in your growing faith in Jesus. I have seen the ways that you seek the Lord and the way that your heart is turned toward truth. I pray that somehow these precious seeds inside of you will be protected so that you can continue to grow and become a man of integrity.

Finally, my sweet son, I want you to understand that I am and will be just fine. You have been consistently so worried for me. You have been my little warrior. You have protected me in ways that have been so important for you. Yet, sometimes that tendency in you makes me ache with sadness. I want you to be free, to explore, to be joyfully irresponsible at times. I want you, in brief, to be just a boy. It won’t be long before you won’t have the opportunity to embrace your childhood. And all of this brings me back to my state of helplessly loving you, watching you grow, and simply being so privileged that, for a while, you were mine.

Always,

Mom

Peace

2011-04-12T22:52:00.000-04:00

Here in Western North Carolina, wild onions are plentiful in Spring. My children love to collect these by the handful and eat them. They will spend hours outside only to come inside with terrible breath and happy smiles. Of course, later the same evening they will pick every cooked onion out of the meal I’ve prepared. I don’t understand this. I generally attribute it to the mysterious workings of fresh air and Spring and let it be.

The other night we had a terrible storm. I barely slept and Jonathan was out most of the night on emergency calls. One that hit particularly close to our hearts was a first responder call for a tree that had fallen on a house trapping the occupants inside. Thankfully they were able to make it out before emergency crews ever arrived. The wife was seven months pregnant. However, aside from some downed trees and power lines, people in this area seem to be fine.

Our cat might be pregnant. I watch her stretch out in the sun and point her expanding belly toward the warmth. It’s sort of sweet and annoying all at the same time. I’m sure the children will want to keep the kittens if they do end up being an actuality. We cannot keep kittens. The whole process is beautiful though. New life. Babies. Nature and the whole unending course of things.

We have two small greenhouses filled with sprouting seedlings. In about a month we will be able to plant these in the ground and, hopefully, have plentiful fresh vegetables. I will be canning and preserving and loving every minute. It’s hard to believe that I will also be tending a sweet baby boy when our vegetables are ripening in the sun. Summertime is the perfect time to welcome a child. He will be warmed by the earth and accustomed to fresh breezes.

We have eight chickens. They are about 7 weeks old. We were raising them in a water trough in our mud room because as babies they needed constant care. They are no longer babies and Jonathan is building a coop this week. I need them out of my house. They stink now and are not the brightest of birds. Yet I love them. I love that they will lay eggs for us this Fall. I love that they make sense. I look at them and know that they will make a mess and require work; they will entertain the children and need protection; and in the end they will provide us food and satisfaction. In that way they make sense...so much more sense then the sterile way we are removed from the life of our food by just buying a cardboard box of eggs every week at the grocery store.

These vignettes are the rhythms of my life right now. They are beautiful and I am blessed.

Every area of the world has it’s own culture, small scale or large scale. The area where we live, Appalachia, prides itself on self sufficiency, among other things. It’s a cultural trait that can be admired and very educational. I don’t think self sufficiency or pride in being independent are bad things completely in themselves or in moderation. However, we as humans tend to take a harmless thing, even a good thing, and distort it to profane levels. There are some in these mountains, for instance, whose pride and self sufficiency has mutated into fear.

I love the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible. To me it’s a book about all the rhythms in life. Some of these rhythms aren’t pleasant and we want to run from them; we suffer under them. Yet, soon enough another rhythm will come and we will undoubtedly rejoice. I don’t mean to imply that we are simply victims of all the things that “happen” to us. Sometimes we are victims, sometimes we bring such things upon ourselves by our own choices, sometimes we are rewarded or blessed for the state of our heart, but life is usually a combination of all these variables. Even in that there is a rhythm. A time for every season under heaven. And we can be comforted by the words in this ancient book of Scripture, the repeating refrain, “There is nothing new under the sun.”

I used to abhor the thought that there really was nothing new under the sun. Every generation wants to believe that theirs is the one who will change things. Sameness doesn’t comfort some, but rather discourages. Growing up in the church I always heard things from a certain segment of adults claiming that we were in the midst of the “end times”. They cited all sorts of world events as proof. It seemed so plainly true to me when I was young! I merely prayed the world wouldn’t end before I had a chance to get married and have a few babies (life seemed worthless without love and babies)!

And then there was Y2K. Oh my. By that time I was in college and cynical. I remember wondering if those building their bunkers were going to go underground when the first time zone hit midnight or if they would wait. Maybe time zones didn’t figure into their apocalyptic scheme. I mean, if the world is going to end at a certain time, which time are we talking?

I believe that there are Biblical passages about persecution and end times so that we will remember that awful tragedies and natural disasters are a part of life. We are always to be ready in the sense that the things we own here don’t hold our hearts. We are to rightly categorize material possessions as trivial in comparison to people, compassion, service, and love. So that if a tornado destroys our life we can retain peace at the core of our hearts and know that there is nothing God cannot redeem.

Not so that we can spew diatribes about the punishing hand of God upon the wicked when disaster strikes. Not so that we can hide away underground and live five years longer than anyone else. Not so that we can imagine ourselves to be important enough to welcome the apocalypse.

I am thankful that for the most part my parents remained serene in the face of such nonsense. They understood that just about every generation has imagined they were living in the “end times”. I looked to my parents when I was young and absorbed their peace. They have continued to embrace and been comforted by the truth that our illusion of control and affecting change is most often just that, illusion. One of the only things we can do, and the most powerful, is love people. Just about every other thing is out of our hands anyway and there truly is nothing new under the sun.

So, if the world ends tomorrow or in hundreds of years, I can rest. The older I get the more I want to rest. Just rest and be at peace. Jesus talks over and over about peace. I think he knew that it’s what most people crave at the center of their heart. When all the running and striving is done, when the plans fall apart, when hope is crushed, when there is a gnawing regret or belief that there is something more than this, all we really want is rest and peace. Jesus said, “My peace I give to you.”

A peaceful person, a person at rest, will bubble up with joy. Someone who knows peace will draw people to them like flies to honey. At some of the worst times in my life I have simply wanted to be near someone who has peace. Just near them. As though my entire being knew what I needed even if I didn’t know how to find it. I want to be a peaceful person. I want to exude rest and bubble up with joy. Yet, I know that wanting that isn’t enough. I have to choose some things too. I have to carve out priorities that are humbling, and let me tell you that some days it feels all too well like I’m carving with a very dull knife. But there is another verse I love that says, “Seek peace and pursue it.” Sometimes peace is a pursuit. And all the while I know that I am sustained and lifted up by the God of all peace. He has given me such priceless gifts and He will not fail to give peace to any heart that yearns for rest.

Nests

2011-03-31T17:51:00.000-04:00

There’s a Wren or a Finch (I’m not a bird expert) making a nest in the window box in front of my kitchen window. I recently installed the window box and planted it with pansies so that I could look at them while doing dishes. Now I get the fascinating bonus of watching a tiny bird build a nest right in front of me. She doesn’t know I’m there. She flies in an out of her growing pile of leaves and debris and darts her tiny head from side to side searching for danger. She doesn’t see me. She can’t see past the reflection of the window pane. I’m not sure why that makes me a bit sad, but it does. I think maybe because it’s such a simple reminder that we do all that we can do as mothers, as people, to protect what is dear to us, to protect our children, but really we can’t control much. Sometimes bad things happen. We operate in all the wisdom that we have, but sometimes there are things much bigger than us and we can’t see past our own reflection. Which is why I pray for my little ones and for the things I cannot see. But even prayer is an act of surrender, or should be. I don’t pray because I’m worried or terrified or grasping for control. I pray because I am aware of my blindness.

Watching my little bird also brings me quietness and stillness. Once when I was a little girl I found a nest of blue eggs. What kind of bird lays baby blue eggs? I’m not sure. Maybe Blue Jays. I thought they were so beautiful. I took each egg out and rolled them softly in my hands. Then I put them all back. The next day the nest was turned over and the eggs were cracked on the ground. I went to my mother in tears and she explained that momma birds abandon their eggs if they smell like people. She explained that the mother bird was just protecting her babies and that she would go on to lay more eggs again another time. I was so sad that my admiration had ruined those beautiful eggs. So, I’ve already told the kids not to go near the window box. I want to see this life cycle play out. I let the children climb on a step stool to peer at the nest through the kitchen window. They don’t seem nearly as fascinated as I am, but oh well. It’s like a small gift to me. A wonder.

I’ve taken a break from blogging. I’ve wanted to examine some things, in quietness. I feel myself preparing for this new life growing inside me. I have ten weeks until my due date and I have been savoring solitude. I was talking to Jonathan one night and he said the most interesting thing. He said, “It’s the drowning person who makes the most splashes in the water.” I thought about this for a long time. I’m still thinking about it. For so long I was drowning. I made a lot of noise. I splashed a lot. I didn’t want to slip silently beneath the waves. Some of this blog was about that for me. I desperately needed someone, anyone, to see, to know what I was feeling. I didn’t want anyone to have just a vague idea of my struggle. I wanted to capture it in words, pin it down long enough to name it. I think there were times when I did, but words always fall short. Words are never enough. The greatest griefs are silent. So I felt that I needed a period of re-examining the motivation for my words. I needed a period of stillness. And I haven’t forgotten my book review. I still plan to continue with Chapter 2. Soon.

And I’m not drowning anymore. There are wonderful things in my life: beautiful beginnings, love, people to treasure, new life, old memories, and familiar loss. It’s all blended up together in an exquisite tangle. I will sit with it all for a while and familiarize myself, like turning a rubber band ball over in my hands.

Chapter One, Bearing Fruit Through Meditation

2011-01-14T10:12:00.001-05:00

The verse accompanying this chapter is Luke 8:15. This verse is part of the explanation portion of the Parable of the Sower: “As for that in the good soil, they are those who, when they hear the word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patient endurance.” (NRSV)

If you are anything like me, when I’ve read the Parable of the Sower in the past I’ve sort of assumed, with relief, that I am a seed in good soil. Whew. I made it. I’m in. I’ve skipped over some key words in this verse dealing with the seeds in the good soil. Over the past week these key words struck me as vitally important: honest, good, and patient endurance. The seeds in the good soil didn’t just happen to fall in the right place. The soil, or the heart, was honest and good. But even honesty and goodness necessitates patient endurance in order to bear fruit.

In Chapter One, the author says, “ Memorizing the Word is like ingesting food, while mediating is digesting the food.” I don’t want to be just a consumer. I want to digest what I read, mull it over, take the time I need to absorb the things that are specific to my life and my journey. That requires patience. And often endurance.

I don’t often hear from people that they wish there was a way they could be more busy and tackle more challenges. Most of the time I hear people say they wish they could slow down, simplify, spend more time doing the things that are important to them. I’m no exception to this. Often I think my greatest weakness is my tendency to commit to more than is right. There are so many “good” things that draw me. But just because something is “good” doesn’t mean it is right for me or for my family. I truly want to cultivate stillness. How else can I hear the stillest and smallest voice? Cultivating stillness is a patient act, and largely unseen.

When I was visiting my parents over Christmas, my Dad gave me an article to read titled “Contemplative Activism” written by: Phileena Heurtz. One of my favorite quotes from the article is this: “In the broadest sense of the word, contemplation means creating sacred space to be still, to rest in God, to reflect, to look inward, to attend to the inner life and simply to be with God in solitude, silence, and stillness.”

I want my home to be a sacred space to be still, to reflect, to cultivate honest and good soil.

By Heart

2011-01-12T10:18:00.001-05:00

For some time now I have been thinking about what it means to hide God’s word in my heart. Within the first few hours after learning that Andy was gone, the Beatitudes were playing in a steady stream through my heart. “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted, Blessed are the pure in heart...etc.” I remember telling someone that I wanted to read that passage but I couldn’t remember where it was in the Bible. Honestly, everything was so confusing and numbing during those hours, even weeks, that I don’t remember many things I said or did. If someone would have attempted to comfort me with those words from Scripture, it would not have mattered to me at that point. In fact, I don’t remember much in the way of comforting words at all. I remember actions and deeds. I remember that people mowed my lawn and changed diapers. I remember that strangers held my hands and became my friends. And all the while, for a long time, the Beatitudes streamed throughout my heart. The reason, I think, that I was comforted by Scripture is because it was already there, hidden in my heart. I didn’t have to plant seeds of Scripture during such a tumultuous time. The words were already there, and during the chaos those seeds bore fruit.

It was many months before I could read much of the Bible at all, and when I did I had to read simple passages like Psalms and Proverbs. I could not handle complexity. Now, looking back, I am so grateful that I had a foundation to stand on, however shakily. There were distinct times when all I could do was cling to a certain verse or passage of Scripture and wait to catch a breath. Still, I was so weak. So fragile. I have come to believe the very practical truth that the time to build a solid foundation is not when the worst is upon you; the time to build is when things are sunny and still. I am so grateful to my parents for speaking Scripture into my life when I was a child and living by the principles within God’s word. I’m thankful for all those naive years I spent earnestly misunderstanding Scripture, because as I tripped over passages and so zealously made a mash of things, I was tucking truth away in my brain. When there is honesty and earnestness, things seem to come right in the end. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not celebrating my own immaturity. I’m just thankful that nothing was wasted.

So, as I have been thinking about all of these things, I took a closer look at this book:

Scripture By Heart: Devotional Practices for Memorizing God's Word Written by: Joshua Choonmin King. Thus far, it’s a wonderful read. I’ve spent the last week on chapter one and tomorrow I will begin chapter two. One of my favorite quotes from the forward, written by Dallas Willard, is, “The human mind is quite small and limited in terms of what can consciously occupy it, but we have some choice as to what is present there. We must choose well.”

I find that as this New Year is before me, I want to be still. I want to limit all the busyness that I inflict upon myself and call it “necessary”. I want to create a haven in my home and in my family life of peace and rest. It is simply impossible to instill the values of contentment and peace within my children if I am not actively choosing to value such things myself. For me, this means saying no to more things, staying home and being still, being quiet when I might chatter on, and so forth and so on.

This little book, with just 30 devotional readings, is a perfect companion to my life right now. I plan to read one chapter a week and take my time and reflect on the words. Each chapter begins with a suggested verse to memorize. I’m not going to be legalistic about it all, but I am comforted by the practice and I know the results will be far beyond what I might even see with my eyes.

To focus my writing and also help me ingest what I am reading, I plan to blog about the chapters as I read them. I will begin later this week with my reflections on Chapter One.

As usually happens with me, regular writing practice leads to a more natural flow of writing. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if I feel like blogging even more! I’m looking forward to this series and all that this new year will bring.

Forgiveness

2010-12-13T10:39:00.000-05:00

I don’t know everything about forgiveness or moving forward, whatever that means, but I do feel that I’ve learned a little. It hurts every time I read a story or hear from someone about the grief they’ve suffered at the hands of another person. Sometimes there is release within that person and they simply grieve, which can be violent in itself. Other times, most times actually, there is so much anger and so much bitterness that spills over and poisons their words and lives. This must be frightening to themselves and others who love them, but I think they feel stuck and immobilized in their pain. I understand this. I don’t judge that place. But it hurts to see anyone there. It is pain upon pain.

These two reactions have almost nothing to do with whether or not the perpetrator is living or dead. There is not a greater release within those who have the very slight relief of knowing that the person to blame is no longer in this world. The greater, more painful, reality is that the victim, their loved one, is gone or scarred beyond repair. And let me tell you that redemption, which I firmly believe in, isn’t repair. There are places that simply stay broken. There is not a time-turner we can use to gain wholeness. I believe in Jesus and the amazing healing He brings to hearts. He does redeem, that is, in fact, His business. Yet, I would disagree with anyone who might imply that His healing reverses the effects of loss. Redemption is not repair. That misses the point entirely, in fact. Redemption is the truth that even when everything is broken and shattered, there is a light that shines forth warmly. When there is so much loss within a person that they might very well sink in among themselves and become a black hole, sucking life within inky depths, instead there is light. And the light is Love. And I really don’t know how I could love without Jesus. We are supposed to be broken jars of clay. We are meant to have cracks. Some of us have holes. Some of us are shattered pieces and don’t even resemble jars at all, but the only thing that really matters is the light inside our hearts.

So, here are the very few things I know to be true about forgiveness and redemption...

To withold forgiveness is to embrace darkness. I understand that there is a soothing nature to darkness. It seems protective and hidden. I remember, while struggling to forgive, the deceptive thought that formed in my heart. It went like this, “No one needs to know that I feel this way but me. This is MY pain. I don’t have to forgive, I can’t forgive. It will be my secret.” Only, every one who loves you sees what you don’t want them to see anyway. And, after a while, when you hold onto unforgiveness, even people who don’t love you will see what you think is so secret. It poisons you. It colors everything and all those around you. Given enough time, unforgiveness will become the central point of your inner life.

Forgiveness is not related to approval. They aren’t even distant cousins. And forgiveness does not always call for mercy, though sometimes mercy is a natural result. There is not even a remote chance that I would ever give my stamp of approval, either emotionally or verbally, to Andy’s murder. I vehemently disagree with those who say July 18, 2008 was some part of a greater plan. I do not approve. I do not condone. I will not accept such nonsense. I think there are things that happen, every day, that are not in any way a part of God’s plan. He does not approve either. I simply believe that there is nothing, nothing, that cannot be reworked to fit into a grander vision, one that I cannot see. The ending to the story is written, but there are a million and one different ways to get there. The Light will always repel the Darkness. There will always, no matter what, be redemption, but we are not puppets. We actively participate in this story with our choices, and we are actively victimized by the choices of others. Honestly, we can control very few variables, they are important ones, but they seem so small sometimes.

Unforgiveness has everything to do with the illusion of control. When we withold forgiveness, we imagine that we are bringing justice; we imagine that we have some say in at least this one area. And we do have a choice, but it’s not the one we think we are making. We think that when we fail to forgive we are making a stand against evil on some level; we think that if we do forgive we somehow condone or accept our victimization. But these are choices that were already made for us, beyond our control. The truth is, you were victimized. Evil reached out and touched you and hurt you deeply. You lost so much, and holding on to unforgiveness doesn’t change any of those truths. The truth is that we have very little control over what happens to us. We simply don’t. There are really only two choices in light of such a fact: we either accept and surrender ourselves to our vulnerability, or we fight and rage and grasp for darkness. My dad puts it this way, you either choose life or death. So this is our choice really, one of the very few we have, and it’s a hugely important one, but it’s also pretty simple to understand. Not so simple to do.

Lastly, forgiveness influences the way you love people, and it even influences the way you love the person you lost. Forgiveness brings freedom. It brings the ability to love without restraint or expectations. Forgiveness softens the pain when you remember all that you lost. And when that happens, there are tears, but they are warm and liquid, and not salty and bitter. For me, I ran after forgiveness for the sake of my children who had been poisoned by so much darkness already that I couldn’t bear to bring any more into their lives. I ran after forgiveness because I wanted to embrace the memories I carry of Andy and his bright light. I ran, and it was a marathon, and I feel sometimes like I’m still making the same choice over and over again, but it’s so worth it. There is Light and Love here. And surrender.

Gratitude

2010-11-22T09:25:00.000-05:00

Gratitude. Sometimes that can be such a tricky thing for me. I have so much to be grateful for, but I also have my set of eternal sadnesses. I don’t know how to balance these two sets all that well. Lately I’ve been searching, grasping, for something or someone to take the blame of sorts. Mostly, when I feel the general itch of sadness, I just want to think of someone, as the culprit. It’s certainly not fair, or just, but it’s a real struggle for me. I think this is because I have wished for a target for a long time. I have looked and looked for someone to hold some sort of blame for my tragedy, but there isn’t anyone that fits that bill. Honestly, those people mostly to blame are gone. It’s hard for me to maintain anger towards dead people. I don’t even want to. I don’t even like feeling anger, it makes me feel physically sick. Yet, sometimes there is this ball of emotion and anger and every possible feeling I can describe and it sits inside of me, unfocused and unreasoned. And when I discover that this sneaky ball, hard and unyielding, has taken up residence within me again, I wonder how often I’ll come back to this place.

My dear friend said the other day that forgiveness has layers. I suppose that all of this mess, these tangled emotions, are just the discovery of another layer. I have to remember that the discovery of another layer, the ability to be honest with myself about myself, is not an indication of failure. Rather, if I ever get to the place of contentment with my own personalized mess, that would be the moment of failure. I’m not content. I’m humbled. I’m feeling mostly like I should shut up and sit down.

My children are always the best mirrors. We’ve been having this problem with Samuel lately: nothing is quite good enough. For instance, he will have a wonderful day playing in the leaves outside and digging in dirt and playing games, but by the end of the day he’s complaining about how all he really wanted to do was sword fight. He’s been seeking, almost searching, for the one thing that has disappointed him. He’s struggling and I haven’t really understood why. I’ve gotten angry in fact and quite impatient with him. I’ve said things, classic mother things, like, “If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything at all.” Yet, honestly, when I look at the state of my own heart in recent days, I’ve been in the same place. I have focused my unreasonable ball of emotions on anything that’s missing...and there will always be something missing. Always. Gratitude has nothing to do with a perfect state of affairs and everything to do with an attitude of the heart. Oh how it hurts to see my six year old pitching a fit and know that I am doing the same thing.

When I come to the realization that everything I’m feeling: anger, sadness, confusion, hurt, wistful, lost, etc...when I realize that all of these things simply ARE and have no focus on anyone or anything, I can begin to let them go. I melt. I fall into myself like a puddle on the floor. I release those I love from owing me anything at all.

I know that part of the current layer I’m sifting through is just the Holidays. The hardest part of every year for me, for the past two years, has been the stretch from Sasha’s birthday at the end of October to the New Year. I can honestly say that this year it feels so good to be happy about Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am excited to decorate. I’m looking forward to new things. Yet, somehow there is so much else too. There is just so much. I don’t know what to do sometimes or what to feel.

I long for a heart of gratitude this week. I know that my Father in Heaven is faithfully waiting to help me get to that place. And I believe that I will...because I can already feel myself melting.

Hidden Things

2010-11-14T09:53:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago we were walking out of church on a Sunday morning and Samuel was telling people as he walked past them, “I put money in the box today!” He was genuinely excited to donate his pennies and nickels. Everyone he shared his news with was quite encouraging, stopping to pat him on the back or tell him that was great. I let this go on a few times and then I stopped him and said, “Son, it’s really not wise to tell people when you do something good. It’s best to just be silent and let your actions speak for themselves. In fact, it’s the people who do wonderful things in secret that I admire most. God sees everything and that’s the only thing that matters.”

I know, I know, I’m such a killjoy mother. And, honestly, I don’t lecture the child regularly for simply being a six year old. However, I do firmly believe that some habits which are so cute in a child are ever so troubling in an adult. I try to focus on the end result as much as possible.

After this little conversation I started thinking about the adults I do admire and the ones I don’t. Sometimes, for me, I find it hard to put my finger on why I am troubled by someone or the way they come across. Often this is, without a doubt, my issue and something I just need to deal with. Yet, there are consistent things about some individuals that strike me as wrong, on a recurring basis. I think it is often the need that some people have to point out that they are living their lives so neatly and making great choices...it’s this weird syndrome of fighting for morals and standards and a certain way of living that should fit everyone and every situation like a glove; like we are all supposed to be cookie cutter images of each other (if we are good) and that life is about trimming away any excess pieces of cookie dough that are outside the mould.

I’ve come to distrust things that appear so straightforward. It seems to me that the hidden things are the most important.

Everyone knows the story from the Bible of the Prodigal Son. The youngest son squanders his inheritance in debauchery and returns home in shame. The father welcomes him with tears and open arms. The often missed figure of the story, the one that is actually the central figure to me, is the older brother. He is angry that he has worked so hard and towed the line and, in his estimation, received nothing. That’s the whole point. The older brother might have lived a life of responsible and right choices but the hidden things were missing. He had a corrupt and jealous heart and in the end it was revealed. There is so system of “getting what you deserve”. There simply isn’t any fairness. Not this side of eternity. And, if you’re doing things the “right” way because you hope for blessing or security, you’re missing out on what you already have.

So I’ve started referring to these types of people as the “older brothers”. That helps me because I think in stories anyway.

Which brings me to Jonathan. One of the things I admire most about my husband is that he is full of hidden things. Even when I was a girl and I’d visit his house I knew that he was overshadowed at times. Overlooked. I knew there was more there. When I visited and we were both teenagers I was angry with him because he was pushing all those hidden things away, at least it seemed to me. I think that’s what teenagers do though: they don’t allow a sign of weakness, and hidden things often look like weakness to some. When we started dating and got married earlier this year I was thrilled to see all those things were still there and had been all along. He’s full of treasures. He doesn’t often tell people the things he does for others. He is content to grow in secret. He is at peace with not being noticed. He genuinely rejoices at other’s happiness and prosperity whether he enjoys those privileges or not. He thinks and reasons things out but he doesn’t hammer his opinions into other people, though he did go through a phase of that. He looks for the good in another person’s heart and gives them room to take the shape they need to take. No cookie cutters in our house. He’s not perfect at all. He’s done things he shouldn’t and he’s torn down fences he should have been building, but I would have been distrustful of a perfect man. He is full of all the hidden things; the things that mean the most. And even if, at times, no one else sees him, I do.

She is Four

2010-10-21T09:53:00.000-04:00

These days it’s been all about survival. When I wake up in the morning my goal is to make it through my cup of coffee without throwing up. Then, once that is under my belt, my goal becomes basic housework and child tending...again, without throwing up. This requires lots of sit down moments in chairs placed strategically around my house, and as few trips to the refrigerator as possible since the sight and smell of food, especially leftovers, tends to erase all progress I’ve made in the nausea area.

All in all the house is unpacked and we are settled in. That feels good and right, even though my favorite place is still under the warm covers of our bed.

Last night as I was putting the kids to bed I had an all too typical mothering moment. I asked the girls to clean up the room they share before bedtime. Sylvia finds it hilarious to wait until Sasha has cleaned a pile of toys and then come behind her and dump them out all over the floor again. Once she’s punished for such actions (which are terrible and simultaneously hilarious), Sylvia resorts to laying on the floor and singing songs while Sasha furiously cleans. It doesn’t take long before Sasha realizes that she is the only one cleaning and sits down on her bed in a huff, refusing to do the work alone. Needless to say, while the girls are cleaning I usually have to supervise, correct, and keep them on track. It’s mostly Sylvia. She’s two and acting like three and every single issue is an issue. Yet, her noxious behaviors bring out Sasha’s and it’s a vicious cycle. So, I end up teaching Sasha that she must work and clean with a happy heart even if things seem unjust (oh thank Heaven for Cinderella’s example at this point). I tell her that she must give me room to mete out justice in the situation and not take matters into her own hands. I tell her that when she reacts to her sister I end up having to punish them both instead of just Sylvia, which hardly seems fair but is in fact right.

I don’t even need to point out the way this scenario humbles me. There have been countless times when I’ve shaken my fist at the sky and argued with God about the injustice confronting me. It’s only later that I’ve realized I’ve gotten in the way and slowed down the whole process. Just another parenting moment that catches my breath and transforms the mundane.

But last night something else happened too. I was noticing, as I watched the girl’s clean, that Sasha was reacting to her sister’s feistiness with an undue level of frustration. Beyond the typical, that is. Instead of huffing and puffing she went straight to full out throwing herself on the floor and crying buckets of tears. It’s in moments like these that I thank God for His little whispers of insight. I certainly don't have those insights on my own! Oh how many times I’ve completely lost it when confronted with such a scene. I have given full leash to my anger, spanked both girls, put them to bed, and abandoned their room to deal with the mess later. But last night, completely contrary to my own depleted reserves of energy, I felt that something was different. I watched my beautiful little girl writhe on the floor in tears and knew there was more to this.

So, I gathered her up in my arms, all gangly legs and snotty nose, and put my face close to hers. I told her I’m sad when she’s sad. I told her I needed her to talk to me because I love her and she’s an important part of our family. And she melted. She pulled herself up in a ball on my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck and talked. And I was amazed.

She said she wanted to go back to our white house and never leave because then her Daddy wouldn’t have walked down the street and died.

She said she wanted to move back to Florida to be close to her Mammaw. (They have a bond that is undoubtedly strong).

She said it’s hard to be good when she’s sad.

She said she wanted her Daddy and couldn’t find him anymore.

The true miracles in my life are that I make it through these moments intact. Only by the Grace of God. I’ve had several of these conversations with Samuel but very few with Sasha, and none before this one that was so direct. So poignant. Which of course makes sense. She is turning four in a few days and I learned early on in this journey that children process and reprocess their grief as they approach developmental milestones. This simply means that I have to answer the same questions cyclically with my children. I can usually expect such things as birthdays approach or when they learn something hugely new...like when Samuel learned how to read and we had to go over the story again. And it is a story. Children need narratives and honestly I need one too. Yet it never gets easier to tell the story. It just never gets easier to see my children’s heartbreak or hear their honest grief and loss. It’s something I can never fix or heal. That truth is so devastating at times as a parent. I want to fix it for them. I don’t enjoy seeing something broken. I cling to the promise that we are jars of clay and the best light shines out of the jars with cracks and chips. My children are chipped and cracked already with a lifetime before them of more events and decisions and hurts that will fracture them even more. And all I can think is that they have the potential to be the brightest shining jars I’ve ever seen. I have to think that way.

After getting all of her words out Sasha relaxed and I was able to love on her. I told her that her Daddy in heaven was so proud of her and loved her still. I told her that he loves the sound of her voice because when she was very little her Daddy used to worry that she wouldn’t be able to talk well...and now she talks all the time with the sweetest and most precious voice. I told her that I am sorry. For everything. I rocked my long and lean and beautiful baby girl who is almost four and I loved her so much in that moment that it seemed my heart would shatter. There are things that are too much for words.

I tucked my sweet girl into bed and the others followed suit. I took a bath and prayed and settled things within myself. And then I got to do something new for me...I talked to my husband about it all. We stayed up late and ate pizza rolls and learned. I’m deeply grateful. Yesterday someone told me, after hearing the story of my recent marriage, that they love a happy ending. I understand what they mean...but it’s a wrong assessment. There will never be a happy ending. There is just healing and understanding and somehow a way forward that isn’t alone.

The Butterfly

2010-10-11T08:11:00.000-04:00

There is a pumpkin cake baking in the oven and I woke up to the fireplace crackling away. Things feel, overall, peaceful and warm. I feel the relief of reasonable distance. I know that some of the reminders I left behind needed to be left. This place is good for me and good for my children.

The last week I was in Florida I found out that I am pregnant. Happy news. Joyful beginnings. I’m sure this will be the subject of many blogs to come, but for now, this time, I want to focus on this new place.

The house is bigger than I remembered. I feel like I could get lost here, in the best possible way. I set up a writing desk by the fireplace and I want it to be here that my book is finished. First though, I have some more to unpack.

There was frost on the windshield of my van within the first few mornings after we arrived. I’ve missed this cool weather. I love the way Fall, and especially Winter, force you inside, nestled and warm. It’s insulated and cozy in a home and my heart turns toward quieter arts like knitting and writing and reading. I left perpetual Summer and I find myself soothed to return to the rhythm of seasons.

The kids love it here...though Samuel is worried about some of his friends: he doesn’t want them to miss him too much. My heart ties itself in knots when I tuck him in bed at night and he asks me to pray that he can make some new friends in North Carolina. I do pray that for him. I hope that I’ve made the right decision by my children to take them to this place so foreign to them. Time will tell the tale.

I am tired. Deeply tired. With that tiredness is peace, and also sadness. I’ve come to believe that this sadness is acceptable and is not to the exclusion of joy. The moving process always leaves me with new discoveries. Often I am troubled by my accumulation of junk, but it’s also a time for me to take an inventory of the things that I have, and this time whilst moving I went through some of my old writings.

After Andy and I had dated for one year I wrote him a story. I wrote it about him and me. I made it into a little book and wrote the words on cut up brown lunch bag paper. Like all my college age writings, it’s obscure and emotional and ineffective. Yet, there is a seed of something within the story that speaks to me still. I want to share it with you. So, here is The Butterfly:

He was a little boy who was always running. He ran in the wind as his hair flew behind him. He was the little boy whose little hands were brown with sun and dirt and residue of explorations. His soft eyes held soft things and sights of a world too big to be conquered in one lifetime.

Yet something sparked within his little boy heart. He wanted to do what no one else had done and conquer the world and he knew just how he would do it: he would let the world flow through him, like the wind through his hair.

He would let this world and its people slip through his fingers and stain them like the dirt in his sandbox. It would burn into him as the sun burned freckles on his nose. But his soft eyes he resolved to keep.

He caught the dragonflies as they flew past him and placed them in a book, cataloguing each capture with crayons. His grin was sweet and long as it spread to the corners of his mouth and crooked around his small, white, teeth.

Shadows flicked in his browned, almond eyes as they whisked across his vision and hid themselves behind trees, but he would chase the shadows too and drive them away and record their genus in a book of the things he learned from.

His soft eyes searched keenly for new discoveries. He was always running. He ran to catch the world and let the world catch him. And it did catch him as it flowed around him, enveloping him in its wind.

The wind burned him in its coldness and he started to understand why no one had conquered the world before: it hurt too much. Nevertheless, the boy ran because he had something inside him that warmed him and kept his eyes soft.

He ran through the fields by his house and felt the wind ruffle his hair and he wanted more. So he chased the wind like he had chased the dragonflies and the shadows. He chased it through the field and into a valley.

The wind was within his grasp. He wrapped his small fingers around the air before him and felt the rush of constricting pressure. He felt that if he just ran harder he could catch the wind and fly.

He grinned at a few people as he ran past them; that sweet, long, crooked grin. Each one was drawn to the little boy with soft eyes.

They felt as if they would remember him forever, or at least the eyes he looked through. He laughed his contented laugh and kept running, but he always seemed a little sad to leave them behind.

He ran on, past cliffs, through forests, and finally to a mountain. And the wind beckoned him on to a valley full of flowers.

The little boy filled his small grasping fingers with daisys and goldenrods and violets as he ran and ran through the valley. He was close now, just a few more bounding steps and he would soar on the wind, higher and higher, conquering the world.

A bright green shimmer of wings darted past him, breaking his concentration. It was a butterfly, flying beside him.

Out of corner of his eye he examined its structure. Its wings were green--that kind of green that seems translucent and full of glitter--with flecks of deep red. The butterfly’s body was outlined in black. It fluttered beside the boy, buffeted by the wind created from his running.

For the first time since he heard the wind calling him, the little boy was distracted. His pace slowed a bit, and the wind began to creep away from him.

He turned his almond eyes toward the green quivering creature beside him. He didn’t have any butterflies in his book and this one was an especially unusual breed. There was a struggle within his little boy heart. The wind was racing on, up and out of the valley.

A small green butterfly had done was dragonflies and shadows and smiling people could not do; the butterfly had drawn the little boy away from his wind.

The little boy with brown hands, and soft brown almond eyes, and a sweet and long crooked grin, stopped running.

The wind soared on, leaving the boy with the slap of a cool, crisp, gust.

He was not too sorry to say goodbye to the wind. He sat down on a rock to rest his legs. The little boy dropped the flowers he had been carrying and let his arms hang limply at his sides.

The butterfly danced near his nose. It was close and even more fascinating than the little boy had imagined. Green, glittering, with bold streaks of red, the butterfly caressed his cheeks with its gentle wings.

The little boy sighed, a warm breath, still and quiet. The butterfly settled on his knee slowing the beat of its wings to a steady soft rhythm. And as the little boy gazed through his soft eyes, he realized something....

He had not conquered the world, but he preferred the small, warm butterfly to the cold, biting rush of the wind.

So the little boy smiled a smile that was sweet and long as it spread to the corners of his mouth and crooked around his small white teeth.

These are Andy’s hands showing Sasha a moth. It had been unusually cold that morning (for Florida) and the moth had spent the night in our garage where it grew sluggish as the temperature dropped. It was beating its wings so slowly and crawling along the wall. Andy caught it and let Sasha and Samuel hold it in their tiny hands while I snapped pictures.

These have become some of my favorite photos. Now they remind me of the story I wrote so long ago. Of course, it’s a moth and not a butterfly, but Andy never lost his love of adventure. He left a lot of ambition behind when he fell in love with me, but it wasn’t something he regretted. He knew what he was leaving and he knew who he was loving. And when we added children to the mix, his heart was entwined like I never knew it could be. He loved fiercely and deeply and that became his adventure.

For months after his death I used to talk to Andy in my prayers. I would say the same thing, “We miss you, we love you, and we are going to be alright. Just rest.” And we are alright. We are loved and taken care of and our family looks different now. It’s even growing. Still, one of my favorite song lyrics says it best, “I will stumble there with you and you’ll be laughing close with me, trying not to make a scene...we’re gonna be alright. You can close your eyes tonight, ‘cause we’re gonna be alright...all that I can see is your eyes.” (Over the Rhine)

New Growth

2010-09-22T15:21:00.000-04:00

I’m moving. Out of the dream house and into a new house. I’m moving to North Carolina, which is amazing and great. Yet I’m moving away from people and places that have twined themselves around my heart. I never thought I’d move twice in one year, just as I never imagined I’d marry Jonathan.

I’m tired of moving. I’ve moved six times, counting this one, since Samuel was born. That’s an average of once a year and it hasn’t been pleasant. I like to settle in, make my mark on whatever house I’m in. Decorate. Stretch out and luxuriate. There hasn’t been much time for that and I miss it.

Yet, I know that this move is important for me. I know that it’s right. We need a quiet place to grow as a new family with some shelter from prevailing winds.

I haven’t blogged about the move because it’s hard for me to refine a consistent emotion attached to this time. I think I’ve felt everything I could possibly feel. I just keep coming back to the truth that I know this is right for us...and often times what is right is painful for a time.

There are so many things I can’t wait to experience again, like Fall leaves, and hot cider, and that smokey aroma in the air just before it snows. I’ve wanted to live in North Carolina for most of my life really. Andy and I met and went to college at a sleepy little Bible school about an hour from where I’ll be living now. I even have a few college friends still living in the area that I hope to reconnect with.

The new house is open and honest with a wrap around porch. We’ll have chickens. I’ll go to a farm stand regularly. There will be plenty of places to explore and trails to hike. Instead of vast ocean views I’ll have the tumbling sounds of streams and rivers.

I need this. There is a comfort to people knowing my story here in this town, but it’s a comfort that burns and stings more often than it soothes.

I know there is a brokenness inside me that will never heal perfectly or cleanly. Yet, I don’t think that’s the goal. I don’t want to be who I was because that would be denying the forceful events that have changed me so deeply. I don’t think the goal is reversal of all these effects. I want to remember my pain with peace and acceptance. I want to shine out of all these cracked and broken places a light that can’t be denied, though it’s light is gentle and never glaring. I want to grow with my husband and children and incorporate these experiences into our lives the way that a tree can incorporate a fire into it’s growth rings. In such trees there is a charred ring where the fire seared and blackened and laid waste, but you can also see clearly the rings of growth before and the rings of growth after.

I need some new earth, and I’m looking forward to years of new growth.

Crucifix

2010-09-15T10:37:00.000-04:00

I'm letting the kids watch old Pink Panther shows while I write this morning. That will only last so long. I've felt the need to write so often recently. I keep carving out moments to sort out my thoughts and write them all down, this time with the aid of that rascally panther.

I've been writing a lot about spiritual issues and I'm sure that's tiring for some, but it's the way my mind is wired. These things are important to me...not to the exclusion of everything else, but as a foundation.

So, today I've been thinking about wearing a crucifix on a necklace versus wearing a cross, the difference being that the crucifix depicts Jesus suffering, while a cross is empty. I heard often, while growing up in the church, that "we Protestants" don't wear crucifixes because we know that Jesus is risen. Whereas, presumably, the Catholics wear a crucifix because they aren't aware of that vital bit of information. I've heard pastor's say something to the effect of, "We don't keep our Jesus on the cross. We celebrate His victorious assent." It's really a silly debate. The problem of course is that such silly debates have monopolized so much of our time since Luther courageously nailed up his theses.

Personally, I prefer to wear a crucifix. It's just a preference and I have no problems with anyone wearing an empty cross on a chain. I just wanted to take a moment and explain my personal reasons for preferring a crucifix.

Sometimes, and this is the instigator in me, I like to wear my crucifix when I know I'm going to be around a certain crowd. I can almost promise that at some point someone will approach me and ask me if I'm aware that Jesus is still on the cross around my neck. It's in these spectacular moments that I feel free to give my explanation.

Of course I'm aware that Jesus is still on the cross around my neck. In fact, I prefer to periodically look down upon or run my fingers over His suffering form. I do this because there is nothing that is a better equalizer than the cross of Christ. We are, all of us, equal at his suffering feet. Wherever we are now, and that could be as varied as tangled threads, our salvation begins in the same place...at His feet, looking upon His sacrifice. Also, to remember that He suffered terrible things reminds me that suffering itself is one of the most unifying qualities of life. We, all of us, suffer. We all grieve. And there are common threads within grief that cross every boundary line I know...nation, language, culture, gender, religion, economic status, etc. If we can find each other within the commonality of our sufferings, we can truly connect. Grief and pain help us to look past our differences and know that the other person is real. In fact, they are as real as we are.

A dear friend of mine once pointed out that if you turn the crucifix over, the cross is empty on the other side. How profound that observation is to me! The empty cross is so powerful when you embrace the pain of the crucifix. How perfectly illogical and stunningly profound.

Conversations

2010-09-11T22:36:00.000-04:00

Since I recently posted a blog relating to parenting and instilling faith in my children, I thought I’d relate a few of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had with my kids on this topic (at least to date).

Once Samuel asked me if I believed that God created everything. Not being aware that I was being led into a most troubling discussion I said, “Yes, Samuel I do believe that.” He followed up with, “And God knows everything right?” “Yes son. He does.” Then came the kicker, Samuel asked, “Well then why did God create Satan if He knew he would make everything so horrible?” I thought about hedging. I thought about just flat out lying. But, I made a commitment at the very beginning of my parenting days to be entirely truthful to the best of my ability. So for this question I answered truthfully. Here’s what I said: “Samuel, I wondered that too for a very long time, especially when I was in college. I’m not sure I know the answer but here’s what I believe. I think God values freedom and He relates to us with that in mind. He wants us to choose to follow Him because we love Him. He doesn’t want us to be forced to love Him because we have no other option. So, Satan needed to be there so that we would be able, with complete freedom, to choose for God or against Him. But I also believe that even Satan had a choice, at one time, whether or not He would serve God. He didn’t choose wisely.”

As some of my more theologically savvy friends might have gathered by now...I’m not reformed. Actually, I don’t easily fit into any of those types of categories, at either end of the spectrum. I’m not too bothered by that fact.

As much as I value honesty as I relate to my kids, there was one time that I distinctly remember lying to Samuel. I don’t think there was any other way to approach the situation, but it bothered me at the time. About two weeks after Andy’s death I was tucking Samuel into bed. We had just said prayers when he wrapped his arms around my neck and whispered in my ear, “Mama, are you going to die like Papa did?” I was completely shell shocked by this question because I had been thinking for a few days, at the time, about how there was no way I could promise that my children wouldn’t be orphans. I could die in a car accident tomorrow. I could go to sleep and never wake up. I was completely and totally aware of the fragility of life and, frankly, I was terrified. I knew that I could not, in all honesty, promise my four year old that I wouldn’t leave him too. I knew that my own life was out of my hands...aware of this truth like I’d never been before. Yet, with that knowledge hammering away in my heart I looked into my son’s eyes and said, “I will never leave you. I’m not going to die.” Samuel relaxed and whispered again, “Promise you won’t die until I’m very very old.” I promised.

Such conversations about death and all its particulars became very normal around our house. I would sometimes laugh, knowing how absolutely horrified someone might be to overhear our conversations at times. But children have questions, just like we do, about death and they don’t feel awkward about asking those questions. At least, mine didn’t. Samuel especially, since he was the oldest and the most verbal at the time, would ask the most penetrating and insightful questions. One of my favorite conversations went like this:

Samuel: “If Papa’s body was burned up to ashes,” (I never told him anything but the truth about cremation) “How will I recognize him when I get to heaven?”

Me: “Well, our bodies, at least how they look now, won’t be in heaven. What goes to heaven when we die is what’s inside us, what’s in our hearts, who we really are.”

He was confused, so I elaborated.

“You know the parts about Papa that made him Papa, like the fact that his favorite color was brown and he hated it when his food touched on his plate...or that he loved to sword fight with you, and that he prayed for you and he loved to help people...all those parts will still be there and we’ll recognize him because no one else has that same set of things about them. We will know him and he will know us.”

Samuel thought about that for some time before he said something that continues to amaze me,

“Mama, you know when I’m mean to my sisters and I feel bad inside about being mean and I ask them to forgive me?”

Me: “Yes?”

Samuel: “I think that part inside of me that feels bad, and then feels happy when I’m kind to them...I think that same part is the part in me that will be in heaven. I think that’s the parts of us you mean.”

In a perfectly four year old way my son had described his inner life...his conscience and his spirit. I just wrapped my arms around him and said, “Yes son, that’s exactly the right parts.”

I have so many more stories, but these are some of my most memorable. I realize that they all involve Samuel, but Sasha didn’t even start stringing together sentences until five months after her father’s death. And Sylvia wasn’t even crawling at the time. I know the conversations with the girls will come. They’ve already started to some extent. Sasha prays now and earnestly wants to help everyone she sees. She recently prayed to ask Jesus to come live inside her heart, and her discussions are demonstrating real understanding and change in the deepest parts of her. Samuel tries to instruct her in all things and sometimes his theology is quite a bit skewed. I can’t help but laugh. They are learning and growing and somehow, miraculously, they feel secure. I only hope I can continue to enjoy these golden days of childhood when they are so sincere and curious. Most of all, I hope we can continue having conversations together about such important things. I know that someday the tables will turn and they’ll be teaching me things by the extraordinary way they live their lives.

Just a few things I know...

2010-09-09T21:25:00.000-04:00

My heart is full of so many thoughts and half-formed conclusions right now. I might have to post several blogs in the next few days just to get everything distilled and cohesive. But for now, this will have to do. Does it makes sense for me to say, "I need to hear myself write"? Because that's so often the case with me. I need to see and hear my own thoughts in writing echoing back at me. In this way I acknowledge that what I contribute is always a work in progress. I am growing and changing and learning every day. I know that the things I feel certain about today, might seem trivial in a few years. Perspective influences everything. Yet, my hope and prayer is that somehow, somewhere, the distillation of wisdom will occur and its result will seep out of my experiences and thoughts and fill my soul.

I was raised around some extremely conservative folks. Of the Christian variety. When it came to parenting, the models I witnessed were fairly simple. Respect and obedience were paramount. If a child didn't respect or obey (with a glad heart) then spankings ensued. I didn't analyze this model too closely as a child or young adult. I merely took it's truth for granted. In my own home, there was a lot more talking and a lot less spanking. Yet, almost mystically, my mother and father exuded authority. I remember honestly and earnestly wanting to be respectful and pleasing to them. In the security of my insulated bubble I felt certain that this was the way everyone was brought up. Yet, I knew that some of my friends seemed better behaved than I was, and they certainly got more spankings at home. I was never quite sure about these differences but at the same time I didn't care to analyze them too closely.

None of us remained children of course. We are all adults now. And it was with that perspective that I began to form some conclusions. It seemed that the best behaved among my childhood peers, did not actualize into well behaved adults. Some of my friends, held to the highest standards as children, in fact ended up becoming rather sneaky and dishonest. Yet, sometimes the system worked. There were those among us who actualized into humble and honest adults living life with integrity and purpose. So, I wondered, was it all just one big toss up? Was there a point to such hard parenting work if the results were all mixed? I wondered this for years, but it wasn't until I became a parent myself that these types of questions became important to me. I've read books about parenting. I've observed a lot of different family models. And I think (and I say this with much trembling) there are a very few things I know to be true.

The first true thing I know is that the heart attitude of my children is much more important than their behavior. If I can grab hold of their heart, their behavior will fall in line. And children's hearts are really so accessible. They don't have all the built in defenses that we adults do. This has been a tricky thing for me at times. I go through cycles where all I'm doing is addressing the fact that Samuel leaves his toys in the living room. It's exhausting for both of us. I tell him over and over and over. I spank. I punish, and still there are toys in the living room. Yet, if I can communicate to him, with much grace and often some consequences, that leaving his toys all over the house is selfish and inconsiderate toward me and everyone else in his world...if I can reach his heart, then something clicks. And I have a responsibility to grab my children's hearts while they're still accessible. I know that the home is a sacred place in so many ways and what they learn here will echo within them far into adulthood.

The second true thing I know is that perfect behavior should never be the indicator of holiness in my children. That is against the model I read in Scripture anyway. King David sinned up and down and all the way to Sunday and still God said he was a man after God's own heart. David's heart was one that was quick to repent. He listened to instruction. He sinned and suffered consequences, but he knew God. I never want to place the burden of perfect behavior on the shoulders of my children. I believe that's wrong. I ask that they obey. I show them consequences for disobedience. I want to raise future adults and that means they need to learn respect and manners and selflessness and other principles. However, I'm much more interested in their heart towards me and towards God than robotic responses and grade A behavior. I want to see honesty and quick repentance in my children. I want tender hearts toward others. I want servanthood and integrity.

The third thing I know to be true is that children are naturally legalistic. They don't understand that in between solid answers there are varied and multiple opinions and interpretations. They like it simple. If they were in politics they'd be Republicans. Ha! Total joke. I just HAD to throw that in. Seriously though, they like clear cut boundaries and definitions. No means no. Yes means yes. As much as my children are little power mongers, they really don't like power when they get it. They are happiest within a structured little world. Yet, I understand that it is a necessary phase, and also that this legalistic phase is one that they will grow out of. Their world will expand and they will grow up, and with each passing year they will understand that all they thought they understood before was a drop in the bucket in the expanse of the unknown. I didn't even begin to grow out of that legalistic phase until college. And honestly, it wasn't until I suffered Andy's death that I came to the end of myself and realized that there are sometimes simply no answers at all. There is mystery and grace and goodness, but there are not always answers.

This is probably why I'm distrustful of just about anyone, Christian or otherwise, who claims to have the answers sealed tight in a weather proof box. How perfectly appealing though. It reminds me of my childhood, a place I sometimes want to return to. How comforting it is to have every answer formed and labeled....but it's comforting because it's childish. I no longer want childish things. I want meat and not milk. I want to look at my faith and my parenting and be courageous enough to say, honestly, that I don't have it figured out and never will. I want to embrace the mystery, run with the truths I do know, and hold on to faith. Because another thing I know is that God is faithful and He delights in turning every paradigm on it's head. He delights in redeeming the un-redeemable.

The one last thing I know, even if I'm wrong about everything else, is that I love my children like there's no tomorrow.

Ceaseless

2010-08-20T17:16:00.000-04:00

Sylvia is two-and-a-half and she talks. Ceaselessly. There is a constant stream of stories and chatter flowing from her lips. For the past several days I’ve wanted to set up a recording device (my iphone has voice recording feature) and just capture her going on and on. And on. While I was starting dinner tonight she was telling me all about a kitty and how if she had a kitty she would train the kitty to go potty outside and then she would say, “Good job Kitty!” and then she would pet the kitty and it would climb in her lap and then she’d get it some juice and then she’d say, “Kitty, yous tired, it’s time for you to take a nap” and then the Kitty would say, “NO! I don’t like naps!” but she would tell her she had to take a nap......and I think you get the picture. I sort of zone out, I’m not even going to deny it. I just glaze over and skip over the details and murmur, “Mmmhmmm. Oh really?” and things of that nature. But tonight, as I was listening to the kitty’s many adventures, I thought...wait a second, where is the pause button...I need to remember this moment. This one. Right here.

Sylvia is my third, and probably not my last. I know that the things you think you’re going to remember, you don’t. I know that there are treasured things, things without words, that a mother stores in her heart and the impression is sharp but the details are fuzzy. I know I’ll wish for these days again...the days when it was all I could do to get a word in edgewise. I’ll wish for the sweet sound of her voice telling me all her stories. Just that sweetness and simplicity.

So often I learn things from my children. I can’t imagine a more humbling feat than parenthood. It’s exquisite and indescribable. And maybe this is why God uses children to speak to us...it’s sort of a sneak attack.

As Sylvia was babbling I was reminded of the verse telling me to pray without ceasing.

I sometimes have a difficult time with the concept of prayer. It bothers me when I hear people talk about how they were so glad they prayed for God’s protection before a road trip in which they narrowly missed collision. It bothers me when people tell stories about how they prayed for the Lord to bless them with children and a month later they were pregnant. These types of prayers bother me because I immediately think about the family who lost a child in an accident despite earnest prayers before their trip. Or I think about my dear friend who sincerely prays from the deepest parts of her that God would bless her with a child, and yet still she is barren. Is God any less good to these? The unacknowledged set of praying souls? I prayed for Andy’s safety every night he went to work and I know I wasn’t the only one. I know his mother and my mother prayed too. And I also know that God isn’t anything less than faithful and good...even though my husband never came home. It is my belief that a difficult set of circumstances, and our sometimes silly belief that we can manipulate the puppet strings, have little to do with the faithfulness and goodness of the Lord. He simply is those things. He proves it in a million different ways. And I believe that He is always redeeming and loving and we just need the eyes to see.

Of course, I prayed for Jonathan without knowing it would be him. And he is more than I thought possible. Yet, I don’t attribute his presence in my life to extra prayer. I’m just overwhelmingly grateful and humbled by the redemptive work of the Lord.

So, with that in mind, I’ve wondered at the seeming futility of prayer. Why do I pray? Sometimes all I’ve been able to muster is a weak, “Your will be done.” Yet, that seems to fall far short of the scriptural command to pray without ceasing.

Tonight, as I tried to memorize the sound of Sylvia’s voice, it struck me that, perhaps, God simply loves the sound of our voice, speaking to Him. Maybe He just wants us to talk and talk and never stop talking. Maybe he loves to know what’s going on in our hearts...not because we aren’t so transparent that He can’t see everything anyway, but because He WANTS to hear about it from us. Because that’s a relationship. Because He is our Father....funny how that’s the beginning of the prayer Jesus taught the disciples, “Our Father...”

Maybe God doesn’t just want those agenda driven prayers...the ones everyone gets so excited about, like when the cherries line up on the slot machine. Maybe He wants a dialogue, an ongoing discussion. Openness. Ceaseless chatter.

A Life

2010-08-09T17:18:00.000-04:00

When Samuel was just about one and a half years old, I miscarried. I was eleven weeks along and when I went to the doctor's ofﬁce they were unable to locate the baby's pulse. I later learned that the baby had ceased development at eight weeks and died, but my body had not yet recognized this fact. I endured what is called a missed miscarriage. My body literally missed the baby's death and I had to wait for it to catch up. I was sent home to rest and wait for nature to take her course. I was told it could be hours or it could be weeks before I would miscarry on my own. Still, I preferred this to surgery. So, I rested and took care of Samuel and cried and ate ice cream. Andy was on his way out of town to be the best man in a dear friends wedding and we both decided that he should still go. I thought I might make it until he returned from the weekend away before all the pain set in. As it turned out, everything happened pretty quickly and he was gone for the worst of it. This experience was my ﬁrst taste of the grief I would later come to know so well, but right then, in that moment of time when all my excitement was stolen away and I felt great sadness, it was all fresh and new and bitterly memorable.

I distinctly remember taking a long shower after the miscarriage was over, laying down under the hot spray of water, and having a conversation with God. I told Him that I didn't know how to praise Him when He takes things away. I told Him I didn't want to hope in ruin and plan a life meant for destruction. Actually, my conversation was pretty one sided. I cried until there weren't tears left in me. Then I started thinking about the story of Huckleberry Finn.

It's true. No lie. I started thinking about Huck Finn. I read Mark Twain's classic in high school and also in college but one thing stuck with me the most from my study of this novel: Huck Finn couldn't be trusted. For instance, he often talked about his father in the nicest of terms, but Twain made it clear that Huck's father was a drunken scoundrel. Huck's assessment of life and people and situations was unreliable. He was an unreliable narrator. It's a literary term that has continued to hold much fascination for me. I ﬁnd it a clever convention to require the reader to think for his/her self. My favorite author, Susan Howatch, uses this convention often.

But there in the shower, with my face pressed against the ﬁberglass tub and hot water beating on my shoulders, I thought about Huckleberry Finn, and how I too am an unreliable narrator...of my life. I claim to be wise and discern what is best for me but I often mess that up. I am often more led by my own desires than anything else. If God, in His inﬁnite mercy, is good; if He, in fact, deﬁnes love; if He is writing my story...shouldn't I trust that story? I got up from the ﬂoor of that shower with the assurance that despite all the things I would never understand, God was a better author of my life than I could ever be.

I realized that God is good. Very good. And instead of trying to deﬁne God's goodness by the things I received in my life, I wanted to allow God's goodness to deﬁne my life...whether I received anything at all.

That said, I grieved the loss of that life, just as I grieved the loss of Andy. Honest grief has a time and place. A season. And then there are the seasons of life and peace. Amidst them all there is the unchanging and mysterious truth of God's goodness, and His ceaseless machinations of redemption.

Mrs. Makinson

2010-08-06T09:25:00.000-04:00

We were married July 23, 2010 at six o’clock in the evening, outside, under the branches of a walnut tree. Jonathan wore a linen suit and I wore a simple, drapey, white dress. Samuel sported a bow tie and Sasha and Sylvia wore matching sun dresses adorned with birds. In fact, birds were a common theme. The cake was simply stunningly decorated with lovebirds piped in red icing. The gorgeous natural setting of the smokey mountains in western North Carolina provided the most beautiful atmosphere I could have imagined. Everything was relaxed and gently flowed from one event to the next. We enjoyed our family and ate lots of delicious food.

The Makinson and Rickards families have always gotten along well, so it was like one large reunion party. After the ceremony the children immediately wanted to explore Makinson mountain...which was perfectly fine with me. There was Samuel and his new cousin Evan climbing the sides of the bank in their dress clothes and having the time of their lives; I couldn’t have been happier.

Sasha got sick on the car ride up to the mountain for the ceremony and threw up all over her Grammy. Enough to derail any nervous bride, right? And for a moment I was terribly upset, but then I realized that I was in a safe place surrounded by all those who loved me and Sasha would be fine. She was. We cleaned her up, miraculously no throw up stained her dress, and let her rest in a cool room for a while. She bounced back and everything fell into place.

Andy’s parents came all the way from their vacation in Michigan to attend the ceremony and that meant so much to me. There were tears all around, but through the tears Marty, Andy’s mother, whispered to me, “You made the right choice. Jonathan is wonderful!”

In the days leading up to the wedding I thought I would be an absolute emotional wreck on my wedding day. I knew I was happy and making the right decision, but I assumed I would be overflowing with tears too. It is quite emotional to lose so much and then gain so much. Bittersweet seems a weak word. However, throughout my wedding day I was overwhelmingly, beamingly, joyful. I cried some tears during the vows...because I knew how deeply I meant everything I said...but the rest of the time I was peacefully tear free. And happy. Oh so very happy.

This may sound strange, but I prayed in the days leading up to my wedding that I would have the courage to embrace joy and new life. An attitude of gratefulness and happiness is not for the weak of heart. It is much easier and safer to be sad and bitter. It’s the path of least resistance and anyone can produce an indisputable list of grievances against life. I don’t want to live my life that way. For the sake of my children, for the sake of any legacy Andy has left behind, I want to embrace joy. It’s a choice really, one that I don’t always make, but one that I want to become habitual. For that day, our wedding day, I was happy and joyful with ease. I’m so grateful. I was hiding things away in my heart all day...like perfectly smooth, polished, stones that I could turn over and over again in my pocket and remember.

It seems that there are things I never knew I needed, and I see more than ever what an indescribable gift Jonathan is in my life, just as all God’s gifts are indescribably rich. This truly is abundantly more than I could have asked for or imagined. Jonathan is, deeply, a good man. I trust his heart, and all other talents he possesses are just bonuses to that truth. So often I want to be still when his arms are around me and just rest. I feel like I sometimes feel when I watch a deer grazing in a field, that I need to be still and quiet and wonder at a glimpse of wildness. I need that stillness. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to join my life with his.

Dreams

2010-07-18T08:29:00.000-04:00

I have a thing with dreams. I always have. They happen when I'm least expecting them but often carry some significance for me. When I was a child there was a lady in our church who was not stable. I used to dream about her as a child and she was chasing me around with a syringe. Needless to say I stayed away from her!

Two years ago today, at 2 am, Samuel woke up with a nightmare. I stumbled out of bed and went to comfort him. He was barely awake and he couldn't tell me what his dream was about, but I did what I always did--pat his back and pray with him. He soon went back to sleep and I crept off to bed. I remember looking at the clock. It was about 2:10 am at that point. I was awake and I figured that I'd need to nurse the baby soon anyway, so I picked up my phone to call Andy. I knew that his hardest hours at work were these dark and small ones. Yet, I was perpetually nervous that I would interrupt him on some important police call, so I put the phone back down and crawled back into bed. If I had called, Andy's phone would have rang and rang because he was already gone. He died at approximately 2:05 am. On that night, July 18 2008, it was my son's dream that had warned me and not my own. I was pleasantly dreamless. I've wondered if Andy brushed past us on his way out of this world as I was soothing our son and praying for peace.

About an hour and a half later I was startled awake by my doorbell. I knew before I ever opened the door. I knew because they sent five officers. I knew when I looked at their faces.

Immediately afterward, in the months to follow, I prayed for sleep so that I could dream about Andy...but I hardly ever did, maybe once or twice and they were non eventful dreams.

But, about a month ago I had a dream and it was amazing. Here's what I dreamed:

I was late for my own wedding and I knew I was marrying Jonathan. I ended up showing up at the wedding reception and searching frantically for him. I couldn't find Jonathan anywhere but finally I looked over to the dance floor. Instead of Jonathan, Andy was there...dancing with pure joy, in a little circle, with Sasha and Sylvia. In my dream my heart fell to the floor. I was convinced it was all a big mistake and that somehow I didn't know Andy was still alive. I needed to find Jonathan and tell him that I couldn't become a bigamist and it was all a misunderstanding. I couldn't understand why Andy was so happy and wasn't angry with me. So, I ran off to look for Jonathan again. Instead I found one of my dear friends. She put her hands on my shoulders and said, "Susanna, read Psalm 45:10. And stop worrying, Jonathan is right there." She turned me back to the dance floor and, in the same spot where Andy had been dancing moments before, there was Jonathan dancing with the girls.

I woke up crying. I knew that everything was going to be okay. You should read Psalm 45 sometime too because it all fits together. It's a wedding psalm.

I'm so thankful for that dream. It brought peace to my heart more than anyone's words could have. I knew that Andy was happy for me...beyond that, he was joyful.

The Unimaginable

2010-07-05T15:52:00.000-04:00

Almost a week ago now, two police officers in Tampa, Florida lost their lives. They were young. They left behind wives and children. They were on a traffic stop and the passenger in the stopped vehicle was already wanted in another murder. Of course, the officers didn't know this, and as they approached, the passenger shot them both. He was scared of being arrested I guess. Who knows really. That type of reasoning is unimaginable.

Of course, for me, it was a rough reminder. I immediately started praying for those wives left behind and for the children. Every part of me wanted to wrap my arms around them each individually and say, "Don't think about tomorrow or the endless expanse of tomorrows you have to face. Just do today. Just think about the next hour if that's what you need to do...but you will get through today. All you ever need to do is one day at a time. You're stronger than you ever imagined, and God is here. Right here." Or maybe I'd say nothing at all and just cry. Who knows really.

The passenger, Daunte Morris, was on the run for a few days and eventually turned himself into the authorities on Friday. I was relieved that the families didn't have to worry that he was on the street or that more lives might be lost during his arrest. However, I was terribly saddened to think about the arduous criminal trial the families will now have to endure.

The man who shot Andy, Abel Arrango, died the same night, on the same street, with Andy. He was shot and killed, ironically, by the officer who was next to Andy when he was killed. I remember asking one of the officers who came to my house to tell me the news, "What happened to the guy who shot Andy?" I remember vividly the chills down my spine and the immediate rage I felt for someone I'd never met. The officer said, "We got him. He's dead." And I said, "Good."

Oddly enough, for months afterward I wished that Abel Arrango had lived. I wanted him to be alive so that I could spit in his face, yell at him, ask him why. I was angry with a man who was dead and that made me all the more angry. I wanted someone, something, to bear the weight of all my rage. Yet, that was short lived. There was anger, but very quickly it lost its focus and became, for me, just another thing to be dealt with... like a dirty diaper. Then, over time and with prayer and honest grieving, I forgave him. I forgave him for me and my children. Sometimes we talk about Abel Arrango in our house. I tell my kids that he was a father too. I tell them that he made some terrible choices that night and that he killed their father. But I also tell them that only God can judge his heart and that is something we should never do. I tell them that he was probably sad, deep inside, and that there were people who loved him and miss him.

These are all processes we've had to go through as a family and they have little to do with whether or not Abel Arrango died that night. In other words, his death didn't ease my internal struggle. On that night, when I said, "Good", that was merely a natural reaction. It didn't make anything easier emotionally. I wasn't less angry. I still had to forgive. The only relief was mental...knowing I wouldn't have to endure a trial and, years later, appeals.

So, for the past few days I've been thinking about the criminal who lived, Daunte Morris. I've been asking myself unanswerable questions like, "Is it better for someone like that to die or live?"

I finally decided that I can't discern such a thing. I simply don't know. It's unimaginable to me. I don't want to wish for someone's death. Ever. I know that's simply bitterly wrong and it goes against everything I want my life to stand for. I know that forgiveness is a necessary journey for emotional health, and it's one I pray earnestly that the victims families can make as time goes on. Not for the sake of Daunte Morris, but for their own sake and the future of their children. Bitterness and rage can only pollute; they bring only the illusion of protection and justice.

A while ago, just before last Christmas, I had the privilege of meeting Abel Arrango's daughter. She is a precious and beautiful little girl and she looks just like her father. Seeing her and watching her play melted away any residue of anger that remained in my heart. When I looked at her I knew that once, a long time ago, her father had played on a playground too. He was a life.

Redemption is always an unimaginable feat, but it's one I'll never stop hoping for.

I'd Like to Introduce You...

2010-06-30T10:04:00.000-04:00

It's interesting when something creeps up on you...especially something so delightful and lovely and healing. I'm not sure how I didn't see this one coming, but I'm certainly glad I didn't. The whole situation reminds me of those verses in the Bible where God says that He has blinded the eyes of men until the proper time. I was blinded and then everything fell into place.

So, I'd like to introduce you to Jonathan. He's the guy I'm going to marry in about 23 days.

My father was a pastor for most of my life, even before I was born he preformed the wedding ceremony for some friends and my brother Mark was their ring bearer. They loved each other and after awhile they decided to have a baby. My mother was pregnant at the time too, with me. So, Cathy and my mama were pregnant together and when the time came, had their babies at Manatee General Hospital in Bradenton, FL about two months apart. My mother had me in December, and Cathy had Jonathan in February. These two friends nursed their babies together and watched them play.

Jonathan and his family moved away after a while to North Carolina, but we would still visit, just about every summer that I can remember. I played with Jonathan's sisters, Emily and Suzanne. He played in the woods. I have so many memories of his parent's house. It was always a happy and peaceful place.

In high school I had a crush on the boy. He drove his truck really well and he was this mix of thoughtful and feisty that completely hooked me. But that was one summer and I was too shy to do anything about it.

I went to college about an hour away from his parents house but I never had a car to travel and visit them. So, I met Andy and fell in love.

Fast forward through years of babies, moving, growing, changing, loving and learning.

When Andy died it was the Makinsons (Jonathan's parents) who, without question, came as fast as they could to just sit in the same room with my family and hold us up with years of love. During the funeral, Cathy loved my babies and watched them in the nursery because they didn't understand how to be quiet or why they didn't have a Dad anymore. During the Wake at the funeral home, Cathy rocked my Sylvia so I could stand for hours and greet masses of people I'd never met. The Makinsons cried and cleaned the kitchen and prayed. I can't tell you how many times my brothers and I said how grateful we were that they were simply there. They understood what so many people don't: in the face of grief there is no fixing, there is simply being and loving.

A year later, when I finally stopped running, I went to the Makinson's house in North Carolina for a little personal retreat. For those of you who've read my blog for a while, there is a post or maybe two from that time. Their house was a safe place to go and escape and breathe. While I was there I watched Jonathan cut down a tree. He helped me find directions to a fabric store. But our mothers had sworn him away from me then...as they should have. It was a terrible time for me.

Then, in March, when I had just finished remodeling my house, when I was stressed and about to move, I noticed that Jonathan was in town visiting his grandparents. I remembered that the summer before I had shown him pictures of my new house in complete disarray, before the remodel. I realized he might like to see the finished product. So, I sent him an email inviting him to tour the house and grab coffee. I also invited my mother along so that it wouldn't seem like anything other than old friends meeting for a visit.

When he walked in the house I was talking to a code inspector and Sasha and Sylvia were running all around the house getting into things. My mom was chasing them around and it wasn't the scene of blissful contentment. But he was cute with his JCrew t-shirt. And he handled the chaos well.

Of course my mom bailed on us and left to run an errand, so it ended up just being me and Jonathan, Sasha and Sylvia, getting donuts and coffee together. At one point one of my closest friends walked into the coffee shop and said hi. She whispered to me when he went to get some napkins, "I don't care if he is an old friend, don't let that one go." It was fun and friendly and I couldn't help but be a little sad that he seemed to be interested in another girl he had recently met.

We said goodbye and the texting began. The other girl faded away and pretty soon we were spending every available moment together. It was fast really. We already shared so much family history, so many similar values, that it was natural and quick. We both wondered at the timing, but like all wonderful things, the mystery is part of the beauty.

I've known for some years now that God is in the business of redemption. He always seeks to redeem. Always. I've known this and yet I'm often surprised when areas of my heart and life are redeemed. When I've felt entitled or demanding that God show His mercy and blessings, I've been taught instead the lessons of patience and humility. When I've come to a place of acceptance and gratitude, I find that healing comes and redemption too.

I'm glad ya'll know the story now. He's a gift.

The quiet years

2010-06-14T08:36:00.000-04:00

What is it about myself that resists quiet and stillness and peace? At the same time I crave such things. Even when I'm consciously trying to pursue a scaled down life, I inevitably end up agreeing to too much. It's like a disease. And I'm starting to think that, maybe, the rush of busyness is the most accomplished thief of all.

For one and a half years I didn't want to be in my own home. I flew all around and visited friends. I took my kids on day trips and dragged them around on countless errands. There were many afternoons filled with random and rushed trips to the beach or a friends house or my parents for dinner. I filled up the time and checked another day off the endlessly long calender. And, for a time, that was understandable and needful.

Now I'm watching the approach of the quiet years. It's certainly not quiet in my home. My children, ages 6, 3, and 2, are ever busy and still learning the meaning of an "inside" voice. My surroundings bustle and wiggle about me as they always have, but my heart is quiet. My heart is full and quiet and wants to rest. I need to rest, and I will. Jonathan is like a darkened room during a thunder storm. I'm listening to the rain, safe and warm, and drifting off to sleep. He is just what I need.

I don't want to allow anything to rob me of this time. It's precious and sweet.

There will be other seasons I'm sure. There will be hard work and tense teenage years and maybe even another crying baby or two. But, for now, it is quiet. I am quiet. And listening.

Pretty Things

2010-06-05T21:46:00.000-04:00

I'm creating lately.

I'm creating a curriculum plan for next school year when I'll be teaching Middle School Language Arts and Social Studies. I couldn't be more pleased about this. Honestly, it's been a dream of mine to teach, and one that I didn't think I would realize so quickly. My mind is spinning with classroom rules, comprehension questions, lesson plans, textbook foibles, incentive programs, etc. It's a whirlwind.

I'm creating loads of hand made items for an upcoming, and grand, family occasion. Grand only because of it's importance to my life and not because of the number of attendees. It will be small. Immediate family only. I like that. It gives me a chance to give everyone a gift and I'm blissfully sewing away. It's like Christmas. Here's a little clue:

I'm also gardening. Let's see...I have honeydew, yellow squash, cherry tomatoes, regular tomatoes, okra, peas, eggplant, sweet potato, regular potato, collards, radish, broccoli, and some others I'm sure I'm forgetting. There is a heavy laden mango tree in the back that "technically" belongs to the neighbor's yard, but since no one is living in that house I think I'll claim it. I must make some gorgeous cans of mango jam at some point. So, I've been outside in the yard quite a bit with this lovely boy I know. He's spectacular and he likes to help me. And he's smart and works hard and he sees me. Through and through.

Which leads me to another pretty thing...I'm in love. Awe. How sweet. How silly to post on a blog. But it's true and I can't seem to help myself from telling people. My friend asked me the other day if I could possibly say his name without smiling. No...I don't think so. I'm trying right now and I can't pull it off.

So much beauty and peace and redemption. I'm certainly not capable of creating these things; they are simply a gracious gift, and one that I don't feel I deserve. But the truth is none of us deserve what we receive, either terrible or spectacularly good. The idea of getting what you deserve is a myth really. Fair is in fairy tales. So much of everything is a gift, pure and simple, and redemption is so often in the eye of the beholder.

I'm happy with my pretty things.

Disappearing Act

2010-05-28T08:20:00.000-04:00

When I was a bitty girl I bossed people around. Once, on the playground, I told a boy to "run off now, we don't want to play with you." When I pretended with my best girl friends, I was Anne from Anne of Green Gables. I was also Jo from Little Women and Annie from Annie....basically all the leading rolls. I must have been a pill.

When I was a young woman (adolescent) I craved solitude. I couldn't control myself in my own skin, or understand my own heart, so I retreated. I wrote in my journal for hours each day. I wrote poems and burned them. I read and read and read every book I could think of. I prayed and forged a relationship with God that sustains me still. I was a thin reed standing tall in a prevailing wind.

As years went by and womanhood began to mold itself to my contours like a tailored coat, I settled into an easy, if not perfect, mix of headstrong and contemplative. Each year closer to age 30 was more of a sigh of relaxation and certainty...into who I was and where I'd been.

But no one ever told me that grief is like an identity crisis of sorts. Everything...every single thing...disrupts. And when Andy died every piece of me was disrupted and jumbled and put back together in all the wrong places.

I ran. I hid. I was boisterous. I was happy. I was terribly terribly sad. I couldn't get off the couch. I travelled anywhere I could think to go. The roaring blackness inside of me craved love and I tried to find it anywhere. I hurt people. I helped people. I made horrifying decisions. I made beautifully right decisions. It was all just a tangle of threads. Then, with a sudden yawning silence, everything slowed down. That was the first year.

Lately I've been enjoying my home, my children, and Jonathan. We're gardening in the backyard, or watching movies and folding laundry. I'm craving the gentle pace of home life. I just want to sit in the hammock and be still. The nervous energy I needed to sustain me for so long is gone. Now I just want to rest and disappear into the goodness of now.

Summer is here, today is the last day of school, and I'm sighing with relief. More hours in the hammock. More pulling weeds and walking to the mailbox. More of a whole lot of love. I plan to disappear. I plan to sink into the cool and deep sands of these days. And it's right and good for me. I'm just where I need to be.

Openness

2010-05-19T22:15:00.000-04:00

When my youngest daughter, Sylvia, sees me from across a room, after spending some time with anyone else, she runs to me. She throws out her arms and grins like a monkey and runs. And I've learned to get down on my knees and just wait for her to reach me, with my arms open too. She careens into my chest, squeezes my neck and relaxes. There is nothing in the world like it. I swear the child was giving squeezey hugs by the time she was six months old.

So tonight I've been thinking about the cross. Such pure suffering is embodied there. Such abject shame. Yet, it's the arms that get me tonight. Jesus and His open arms.

It's so easy to learn how to be protective of your own heart. In some ways it's a necessary learned skill. But always, inevitably, we take it too far. Something happens, something hurts, and we retract. We protect too much. We pull our arms close to our chests.

Maybe this is why my baby's hugs are so precious to me now. She hasn't learned to protect herself yet. She's open and free and abandoned to all she feels.

There really isn't any way to pull someone close to your heart without opening your arms. Yet, the act exposes all your most vulnerable places. Open arms equal a defenseless heart.

Jesus and His open arms...oh it gets me. I want that openness. I also shake in my boots at the risk. But He went willingly to His own demise. He opened His arms and prayed for mercy. And somehow this teaches me that this whole process, learning to abandon yourself to life, is really much more about the choice to do so than any of the results. Because, what can I receive when my arms are huddled about me? I'd miss all the squeeziest hugs.

A Week

2010-05-12T22:38:00.000-04:00

This week in May will always be a week from the lower portions of Hell. You see, it usually starts with Mothers Day. I love Mothers Day...but it's also sad for me and tenderly incomplete. Then, quickly on the heels of this event is Andy's birthday, May 11. He would have been 32 yesterday. I would have made him cookies or something. He would have had the day off work and the kids would have colored him pictures. Instead I went out with friends and family and an amazing man for Sushi and we celebrated. It was sweet and happy and my sadness was chased away by the poignant assurance that Andy's life was well lived.

But, please remember that the week isn't over. May 13 comes next. Our wedding anniversary. It would have been ten years tomorrow. We would have gone out on a much needed date. We would have chattered about the kids and sighed with relief that we had found each other and held on all those years ago. Instead I plan to spend the day in mundane tasks...maybe a nap. Miraculously, I have someone in my life who listens now and doesn't need to fix me. He understands that he can't anyway...that job belongs to the upper levels of Heaven, and he's content to wrap his arms around me and wait.

Also, by some twist of fate, this week in May is National Law Enforcement Memorial Week. The whole nation honors fallen law enforcement with various memorials and tributes. It's as though everyone stops to remember Andy's birthday, our anniversary and a life cut short too soon. It's strange and lovely and it makes me tremble.

This entire week tires me deep within the marrow of my bones. All I want to do is sleep and love my babies and my family. My eyes sort of glaze over and I forget basic things. Yet, this year, I'm also happy and at peace with all that has been. It's possible to be sad and content all at the same time. That's me. That's this week. But I'll be glad when it's over too. I'll sigh a sigh of relief and crawl into bed and, hopefully, rest.

Surprised

2010-05-08T08:51:00.000-04:00

I think too much. All the time actually. In fact, it's a tendency I haven't really found a solution for. Maybe that's why I like to read because for those moments of being immersed in a book, I'm not thinking about anything but the characters and the story.

When I drive down the road I think about the psychology of my children. When I go to sleep at night I plan out the escape routes from the house in case of fire. When I'm shopping I put together an entire outfit before I buy a single element. It's sort of exhausting actually.

So, needless to say, I've thought through all the angles of finding someone special and the best way to go about doing so. I looked. I got tired. I tried. I failed. Then, not too long ago I met a friend for coffee. I've known him since he was born. He used to irritate me when I was a little girl playing with his sisters. I had a smallish crush on him in high school because I liked the way he drove his truck. Never, in a million years, was I thinking about anything other than coffee about six weeks ago....but he was cute, and for the first time in our whole lives together we were in the right place at the right time.

So, anyway, who knows what will happen, but I was surprised in the best possible way.

We're dating. I'm making him work in my yard...and my master plan is in motion. Shhhh. No, not really. I'm just enjoying this and enjoying the fact that he listens to all my crazy thoughts and simultaneously relaxes me. It's like reading a book just being next to him.

Birthdays

2010-04-27T11:29:00.000-04:00

This boy. This one here. The one who's brilliantly excited that he found an old nail in the dirt, is turning six on Friday.

I cannot believe that he has grown so quickly or so well. He is a beautiful boy inside and out.

I love him.

I'll make him a superman cake for his birthday with sparkler candles.

I need to wrap his stomp rocket.

He still crawls into my bed in the middle of the night and cozies up. His freckles are adorable. His kindness is rivaled only by his need for adventure. He likes to organize things just for the sake of organizing them...a trait he received in equal dose from his father and me. I don't know how part of me made someone so wonderful, but I'm grateful every day. I don't know if he will ever really know how much I love him. Words certainly aren't enough. Actions fall short. So, I brim over and I just have to share with all of you that I adore my son. Six years with him have been precious beyond measure. And I know Andy is proud.

Birthdays aren't easy for me. I sort of shrink a little in the days before these events. It's always the days before too. The anticipation is always worse than the actual day. On Friday I'll probably be joyful and relieved and ready for fun. Today I'm still and small and diminished by this loss. I want my son to have his Father. I want a sweet family birthday dinner. I want to take out Samuel's baby pictures and look at them with Andy and ask, "Do you remember when he did that?" I want my son to be able to show his dad his birthday presents and play with them in the yard. All these things pull at my heart and I have to slow down and wait. Just breathe. Just be.

I was reading a little booklet last night about children and grief. It was reviewing the different manifestations children tend to produce after experiencing extreme loss. I saw my son in parts. I see my daughters too. But at the end of the booklet it talked about when children arrive at "reconciliation" with their loss and what that looks like. I saw my son there too.

He has come so far. He has reconciled his loss in ways I find thrilling and comforting. He has integrated the loss of his father into the truth of our family now. It's a beautiful thing. I thank God for the grace that brought him to this point. And I know there's still a lifetime to go. It never really ends, this journey.

There will be so many more birthdays. More tears too. But so much more settled peace surrounds me and my children now than I ever thought possible. I'm going to breathe that in. I'm going to soothe the tugging at my heart with peace that needs no understanding.

Rotten Apples

2010-04-19T08:37:00.000-04:00

This is something I don’t talk about in a public setting such as this. In part because it’s no one’s business, but mostly because it paints me in a bad light. I’m referring to dating.

I’ve dated my share of men since becoming a widow. I dated way too early and for all the wrong reasons. I’ve grown more careful. I’ve been devastated and hurt. Yet, I still have hope that somewhere, someday, the right combo will present itself.

It’s interesting to me that there are many people, among them some of my friends, who think dating someone else demonstrates lack of loyalty to the husband I lost. That thought is laughable to me. There will, never, be anyone who can take Andy’s place. In fact, it would be weird if they ever could. Anyone who wants a relationship with me will have to realize that they aren’t displacing the former. There is simply, great potential for new things. New love, new life, new journeys....and this is what Andy would have wanted for me more than anything else. It’s what he would have wanted for his children. Because, Andy wasn’t selfish. He loved selflessly and wanted me to thrive in love...with or without him. He wanted his children to be protected and loved...with or without him. In fact, two weeks before his death we discussed this. Randomly and without prescience, he said, “You know, if anything ever happens to me, I want you to get remarried and I want the kids to have a father.” Immediately after his death this conversation played over and over in my heart. Which is why, irrationally, I tried to date so soon. I wanted to make it happen. I wanted my husband to rest in peace.

Of course, I learned the hard way, that there is a right time for everything. I hurt other people and I was hurt. I rushed headlong into terrible pain. Yet, nothing is so terrible as burying a husband, and I survived. More than that, I think I’ve grown.

That’s why I’m discussing it now.

With maybe one exception, every man that has shown interest in me, even loved me, since Andy’s death, has been overwhelmed by the burden of my children. I find it ironic that the greatest blessings in my life could be someone else’s greatest deal breaker. In fact, if it wasn’t so heartbreaking, it would be funny. Most recently I had a man tell me that he didn’t think it was selfish that he wanted to have his own oldest son. Men want a namesake. They don’t want to raise someone else’s child, especially a son. One that will grow up revering his dead father. One that will carry his father’s name on to the next generation. It’s natural to feel that way. I get it. However, it is terribly selfish. It’s criminally selfish. It’s a feeling so soaked with pride that I doubt it could be wrung out into an honorable sentiment. And, I hate to make this comparison because it seems so self righteous, but it’s the opposite of anything Jesus would embrace. He said anyone who promotes his own name will not be great in His kingdom. In fact, Jesus said you must be a servant in order to be great; a slave in order to rule.

And when I look at my children with this in mind I crumble into bits. It’s one thing to reject me. I’m a grown up. But the second hand rejection of my children turns me into a warrior. I am filled with indignation and the overwhelming need to defend the defenseless. They are precious, beautiful, desperately needy gems. This is why I don’t introduce men to my three. They’re smart. They’d get attached. I get attached, but I can always bounce back. My children aren’t so bouncy yet. They are transparently devoted to people. They love without pretense. And I’ll protect them from the abuse of love with every ounce of strength I can muster.

Earth and Heaven are at odds. But we must live every day in the one and yearn for the other. I understand that we tell ourselves lies to justify the ways that we’ve settled for earthliness. The danger begins when we start believing our own lies. We start calling selfishness normal, we start labeling lust a necessary evil. It’s then that the things inside of us which are heavenly and noble begin to be tainted. The whole apple barrel starts to rot.

I keep finding rotten apples. Ones that seem fairly content with their rottenness. Or ones that are too crippled by life to change.

But the things I have are too precious to risk on rotten apples. Thank God for my children. They keep me. They simplify the most complex riddles.

Protection

2010-04-17T09:47:00.000-04:00

I was, what some people refer to as, "sheltered" in my girlhood. I blossomed in the cozy little cocoon of small town church life. I have three, very protective, older brothers. They made me tougher and taught me how to build a treehouse and how to punch appropriately, but they also took care of me. They still do. My brothers had tea parties with me, watched all my ballet productions, interviewed potential boyfriends, took me shopping, and listened to my troubles. When Andy died, one of the things I wanted immediately was my three brothers sitting on my couch. They didn't have to say or do anything. I just wanted to look across the room and see them there.

My Dad is often quiet. He doesn't have to say much though because he does a lot more. When I was a little girl my Mom used to tell me, often, that my Dad cried when I was born. After three boys they weren't expecting to actually have a girl, and this was before the days of routine ultrasounds. So when I was born he cried, and I've, always, felt like his princess....sort of an outspoken, more than he bargained for, princess, but a princess all the same. He used to read to me every night. He used to let me climb on top of his shoulders and jump off them into the ocean again and again and again. When I was six he baptized me in the cold, murky, waters of Tropical Point and I came out of the water to the sound of a crowd of people singing hymns. He wrapped me up in an electric blanket of safety. Only, I didn't realize this for so long. You see, my parents raised a strong, passionate, confidant girl and when I left home for college at 18 I thought I could do anything at all. I trusted myself with the implicit trust only a naive girl can carry.

This was the naive girl who met Andy in the college bookstore during the second week of college. I smiled at him brightly and it was downhill from there. At one point, very early on in our relationship, Andy wrote me a letter. He wrote that he wasn't sure he deserved me, that I deserved someone better with more to offer than he ever could. He said all he wanted to be was a missionary and he wasn't sure that type of life was for me. I'm sure he wanted to let me down easy, but he wasn't prepared for my response. I wrote back. I told him he was feigning humility just because he was scared. I told him all those reasons were cop outs and I didn't really want to be with anyone who took the easy way out. It was a fiery letter full of conviction and overblown confidence. We talked for five hours that night and sorted it out. Of course we did. We always sorted it out.

Andy used to take my car keys when we had a bad fight. He did this, not to be controlling, but because I drive terribly dangerously when I'm angry. He used to say, "You won't protect yourself so I guess I have to." Of course, this just made me more angry, but later I would reluctantly agree that he was right, at least about that part. And then I'd get my keys back.

Andy, I know now, was a rare breed. He considered me before he considered himself. Only, for this lucky girl, that was normal. I expected it. After all, I had always been considered by my brothers and my Father. It just seemed natural that Andy would be the same way. If there's one thing I regret now, it's that I didn't realize this truth while Andy was with me. I never saw the way that he shielded me. My favorite analogy for this is a tree. Andy was a like a spreading Oak and I grew in the shade of his branches like a green fern. I thrived and my leaves opened their fingers to the sun. I grew taller and taller and richer and deeper, until one day my tree was cut down. I didn't know the unfiltered sun could be so bright or the nights so bitter.

The absence of protection has been a shock. It's one it's taken me this long to acknowledge in detail.

It reminds me of something Samuel did the other day. He took seven cents to the grocery store so he could buy himself some candy. I tried to tell him that seven cents wasn't enough but he didn't listen. Then, in the checkout line he tried to find a piece of gum or something, anything at all, for seven cents. He cried when he realized that it was just not enough. The innocence of a child, unaware of inflation and the ways prices work.

I was like Samuel as a young widow. I didn't understand that seven cents would buy nothing at all.

I've had to learn to protect myself and protect my children. But, I think, the trick is, somehow, to learn the good rules of self protection and leave out the thorny ones. Success in this area doesn't look like cynicism and derision. The answer isn't removal from reality either. I'm still ironing out the details, but I think healthy protection has a lot to do with feeding my roots and making hard choices rather than avoiding pain. Because, if I've learned anything at all, it's that pain won't decimate you if you're roots are strong.

I'm so thankful for my years of protection by others. I needed their nurture, even if I took it for granted. Now, as I've faced a different type of reality, one open to the sky, I've had to adapt and grow. I've had to learn, often the hard way, to consider myself. I've had to learn to leave my keys on the hook by the door when I'm angry, because no one else will take them from me now. I've learned that most people I meet won't consider me before they consider themselves. That truth makes me sad, but not bitter. I've surprised myself with my resiliency. And I'm learning the balance between guarding my heart and accepting certain things with peace. By the end of this process, not that there is an end, I'll be like one of those plants classified as "all-weather"...and I hope I have flowers. Pink ones.

Outreach

2010-04-12T09:07:00.000-04:00

The other day I went to the park. Within minutes of arriving, and noticing the group of people wearing identical shirts, I realized what was about to happen. I was going to be "outreached". For those of you unfamiliar with that term, it means I was about to be vigorously and thoroughly evangelized. I saw their eyes taking in my three children and then looking at my left hand for a ring. It was interesting, to say the least.

I grew up in the church and have attended some of these types of events in the past. I remember feeling guilty for not being more bold, more aggressive towards the "unsaved". I remember pushing down those feelings of awkwardness and convincing myself that concerns for politeness were irrelevant when people's souls were at stake. But I have to tell you, being on the receiving end of such attention is not pleasant. Politeness and respect matter, and even the most ignorant among us can smell an agenda. It feels cheap to be an agenda.

There were tables filled with bags of food and free clothing. They had coolers of ice pops for the children. There was even a clown on the corner with a basket of candy. Oh, and face painting. My children, oblivious to anything but ice pops, were thrilled. And, at first, I was too. "I can handle this," I thought. I mean, I knew they meant well. I know how it looks when I go out with my three. After all, I look like I'm younger than I am and I don't wear wedding rings.

After the ice pops were consumed we made our way to the clown and her basket of candy. When my children reached for a candy they were greeted with, "Praise Jesus," "Jesus loves you," and "Hallelujah." I love kids, especially mine. They said nothing. They just looked confused.

Apparently this group was planning to put on a puppet show. This plan kept being derailed because of impromptu prayer circles, but we were assured that the show would go on. Apparently the bags of food and free clothes were reserved for the people who endured the puppet show.

I had seen enough. I decided to take my crew home, and after running the gauntlet of people with church flyers and even a few asking me if I'd please come to services, we finally made it home.

After this little experience I spent the afternoon thinking it over. I knew the whole thing had bothered me, but I wasn't sure why. Upon reflection I think it comes down to this: Jesus didn't make his disciples wear matching t-shirts. In fact, he healed people and then made them promise not to tell anyone. He fed the hungry, not after making them listen to a sermon, but simply because they were hungry. At every point Jesus subverted fan-based, glory driven, self aggrandizing behavior.

I guess I'm asking this, why can't the hungry be fed and the poor clothed simply because they are hungry and poor? Why can't children get ice pops simply because they're children? Why can't people be loved simply because they have the dignity of being made in the image of God? All that other stuff, all the soul saving truths I believe in, don't need to be inserted at every opportunity. In fact, everything I know about love, especially God's love, is that it seeps in slowly.

Tension

2010-04-10T09:36:00.000-04:00

The kids are playing upstairs in our new house. I'm downstairs listening to Patty Griffin on a Saturday morning with a blossoming tree outside my kitchen window. It's peaceful and still and heartbreaking all at the same time. This isn't what I wanted in so many ways, yet it's so perfectly what I've needed. I'm happy and blessed. And bereft. The tension between the two is one I'm growing accustomed to...in fact, I think it's in that tension that I want to build my new home.

I've been thinking about love. I love to love. I pour myself out with abandon, completely. I don't think that's a bad thing. I do need to be more selective about who I love, about who receives the outpouring of me, but I think I've learned the hard way about being more careful. I've been too reckless with my heart at times. I've treated myself poorly. Now, fingers crossed, I will consider my heart a sacred thing.

I love this house. I loved it the minute I walked through it's crazily narrow front doors. And, make no mistake, it looked like utter crap. There was rat poop scattered on the sagging kitchen cabinets. The plastered walls were yellow and splotched with water marks.

But I loved it still. Every part. I had a vision in my mind of all the house could be. I loved the vision, but I also loved the absolute disaster of it's rooms. Of course I knew I couldn't live in disaster, but I guess what I'm trying to say is that my adoration didn't begin when the rooms started looking beautiful. My devotion to this gorgeous home started when it wasn't beautiful at all. And if the full potential of this remodel was never realized, I would have loved the house just the same. I love that there is a random hole in the staircase. I love that the floors in the dining room slope towards the center wall...so much so that if you roll a marble on the floor you always know where it will end up.

And that's the way I love people too. It's devastatingly wonderful to love that way. It's a love of all that is, in the full extent of ugliness, and a love of all that can be...regardless of the outcome. I love my children that way. I've loved other people that way, ones that have absolutely, crushingly, turned away from me. Yet I can say, with honesty, that I don't want to love any other way.

And I believe it's wrong to only love the vision of all a person can be. You have to love both--the absolute disaster, and the potential for beauty. Because, that's the way we are loved, and by the Maker of Heaven and Earth, no less. We are loved for the vision of our perfection, but we are also loved in the absolute disaster that is our humanity. In that tension we build our lives.

Backseat Theologian

2010-03-24T21:06:00.000-04:00

I get to listen to the best conversations while I drive. My three are quite entertaining when they're not screaming at each other. Tonight, while driving back from a friends house, this is what I heard:

"Mama! I LOVE makeup," gushed Sasha. (And she really does, although I only allow her to have lip gloss)

"Sasha, that's bad," chided Samuel

"Why, Bubba?" (we call brothers "bubba" in the South. Deal with it)

Samuel answered her question with his own, "Well, do you love makeup more than God?" I could tell by his tone that he believed this question alone would settle matters.

Sasha replied, "Yes, I do."

"That's BAD!" gasped Samuel, "You shouldn't love anything more than God. In fact, you shouldn't love anything at all except God...and people...but only nice people...and your parents...and only people who love God too."

At this point I had to interject with, "Actually, Samuel, we're supposed to love all people and not just the ones who love God."

"But not Satan, right?" asks Samuel

"Well, he's not really a person," I hedged as best I could.

"Right," agreed Samuel, "But Sasha you can't love makeup more than God. That's bad."

"Okay. I don't," conceded Sasha.

"Sasha, you not love makeup. I LOVE makeup," said Sylvia and we found ourselves right back at the beginning of the debate.

Dirty Secrets

2010-03-24T20:53:00.000-04:00

Well, I have a lot of stories about poop and my children. Almost all of them involve my daughter Sasha because she's always been the most fascinated with the stuff. However, this story centers around Sylvia and it's my favorite.

Samuel, being a boy, sometimes pees outside. I innocently allowed his sprinkling of the bushes for months before I recognized that whatever he does, Sasha does. After I caught her, squatting down behind the swingset in our backyard and peeing in a hole, I seriously tried to stop Samuel from continuing his habit. He usually remembers but sometimes he forgets. And when he forgets I find Sasha peeing somewhere in the yard. Inevitably.

Having a puppy didn't help matters. They would pretend to be puppies and, ever the realists, would explain to me innocently, "Well puppies need to go potty outside, Mama!" I couldn't argue with that. In fact I just laughed and tried to catch them in the act.

Sylvia, now two, and fully aware of all her siblings accomplishments, doesn't like to be left out.

On the day in question the girls were playing puppy. It began innocently enough. There was lots of petting, some licking, and imaginary bowls of water. I was reading a book at the kitchen table when I lost track of Sylvia. If you're a mother you know that we all possess the unnatural ability to sense where your children are even when you aren't, exactly, paying attention. But, Sylvia fell off the radar screen and I got up from what I was doing to find her. This is what I found:

Sylvia was standing in the middle of the yard with her skirt and diaper pooled around her ankles. She was holding out her hand to me and it looked muddy. Only, it wasn't mud. She was saying, "I a puppy. I go poo poo outside." She had pooped, pulled down her diaper and tried to scoop it out. Yum.

It's a testament to all I've seen that I calmly walked out to her, directed her hand away from me, and called to Sasha to bring me the wipes. There was a moment of chaos there in which I was attempting to keep Sylvia from tripping on the clothes around her feet and also trying to keep all hints of poo away from myself and pulling out wipes by the handful. I was wiping furiously at her streaked legs and gooey bum right there in the middle of the yard. And that's when it registered in my brain that Sylvia was spitting and sputtering just like she does when I give her asparagus. It was all becoming so scarily clear. "Sylvia," I asked, "Did you?" I couldn't even ask it. She just looked at me and said, "I taste my poo-poo and it yucky."

Pure Love

2010-03-23T18:58:00.000-04:00

I love my new house. Simply adore it. Every spec of it is mine. The construction started almost a year to the day from Andy's death, and of course, at first, all the broken parts had to be ripped out. The house looked much worse before it could look better. Since it was built in 1925 the house has so many interesting features. Somehow the old is blending with the new for some kind of modern looking house that feels homey and old. Perfect.

I have loved that I've had to answer to no other adult in this process. Don't get me wrong, I loved being married too...but you ladies know how it is. There are certain ideas that my husband would have determined impractical or silly. And my paint colors....well, he wouldn't have been willing to try dark trim, which looks fabulous by the way. I never had to stop and think about anyone else's preferences. There's something really nice about that.

And as my house has been remodeled and rebuilt, my life has followed a similar course.

Now, in just a few weeks I'll be moving in. All the work will be done by the end of the week and then it will just be up to me to finish packing, clean, hang blinds, assemble new furniture...all the fun stuff.

I am simply, purely, in love with my house.

Soon I'm going to post before and after pictures. However, I must clean the floors first. They're disgraceful.

The Straw

2010-03-19T20:46:00.000-04:00

Just quickly... as a follow up to my previous blog... I made it through the funeral. Friends were holding my hands and my Dad was crying next to me. It was beautiful and awful and needful. I feel like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders and I feel the comforting press of memories. That night will always be a marker in the vast ocean of this journey. It will be a place I'll remember, upon looking back, that I turned my boat.

This week I've been watching my children. My amazing, simply astonishing children. They are more resilient than I ever believed possible. They have been so touched by tragedy and yet they shine.

Samuel will be six at the end of April and he's just started reading with enthusiasm. And I do mean enthusiasm. This last week alone he read 865 pages. I would never have known the number, but I have to keep track for a reading fair he's participating in at school. Actually, maybe I should have known because he's been following me around, trailing my heels, with a book pressed into my back for weeks. "Mama, am I reading this right? Mama? Mama?" Oh boy. He's incredible. He's caring and sweet. He patiently explains to his classmates that if they don't like school they should just deal with it and it will get better. He defends his friends when other people make fun of them. And his sisters...well, if anyone messes with them his fists come out.

Sasha is feisty and naughty and full of sweetness. It's true. She's quite the handful but she'll melt your heart. I don't know how she does it. If any of my three are going to end up in the emergency room it will be her. She'll fall on the safest staircase. She'll slip on a pillow. She also takes things. If anything is missing in the house, I'll usually find it hidden behind the curtain in her room. She's curious, you see. But she'll look at me with the biggest blue eyes I've ever seen and tell me that she misses her Papa. She'll cry at The Fox and the Hound because Copper and Todd can't be friends forever. She'll color a picture for Sylvia and tell her she's the best.

Sylvia is the softest ball of energy I've ever seen. She gives the best squeezy hugs. Honestly, she wraps her tiny arms around you and squeezes. And now it's kisses too. I'm rich in kisses and hugs. She's short, like me. Which is why, when she talks, people look at her in astonishment. She says things like, "Because I want too," with such conviction and pride. She's a giggler and a runner. If she takes a toy from Samuel or Sasha she'll run with wild abandon all around the kitchen until someone corners her and takes it back. And I just laugh. She's truly the baby of the family and let her get away with bunches.

I sometimes hold my breath when I think about how much they've had to endure already. Losing their Father, so suddenly and violently, will have life long effects. I've come to terms with this and I don't try to deny that truth. We deal with it as best we can as things occur. When Samuel was afraid at night that a bullet would come through his window and get him, we dealt with it. When Sasha clings to any male that enters the house, we deal with it. When Sylvia says, "My Papa dead," in the middle of a store and people stop shopping and stare at us, we deal.

Yet, I can't help but have a crazy train of thought at times. Like, since they've gone through this their set of troubles in life is over. Right? Or, that there's some kind of system in place to prevent tragic things from striking twice. Yeah. Not so much.

I was driving down the road the other day and praying a prayer like this: "God, please just let them be the lucky ones. Please, let them have a magical life with no more heartbreak, no more loss, just love and truth and peace." And immediately I asked myself this: why? Why should I think that my babies have any right to fare better than anyone else? Why should I think that I have some kind of entitlement because of my pain, or their pain, or death, or loss? And I was immediately and profoundly grateful that instead I can tell my children that they can have all they need in the presence of a loving God. The suffering will come. The heartbreak will be too much to bear. But there is comfort in this truth: the presence of God keeps us, hold us, encircles us, and we are not alone. No there will not be a warranty against their pain but there will be a Lifeline, one I know personally, and that I can show them.

Still, I wonder about the human tolerance for pain. It's much less here in America. All you have to do is look at Africa to realize that truth. The complete lack of basic human pain here in America leaves us with a low tolerance for it when it hits and we feel that we generally deserve much less than most. Nevertheless we all must have a limit, varying from person to person. There is, at some point, a straw that breaks any camel's back.

And I wonder about my children. Will the tragedy they've had to face so young make their threshold for pain lower throughout their life? I hope the opposite. I hope they'll be stronger. But as their Mother, their only parent, I long to delay anything and everything they must suffer as long as possible. I know it's coming. I know I'll have to watch it. Just, please God, let me watch it later... when I'm older and hopefully wiser. That's my prayer now....oh, please God just give them a few years, a few moments of peace. It's a pitiful prayer and it's half hearted because I think it misses the point entirely, but I must pray it. I must because I'm a Mother.

Careful Now

2010-03-15T08:45:00.000-04:00

I can be a deflector. When tension mounts and emotions rise I sometimes find a scapegoat, an easy vessel for my disappointment and hurt, anger and confusion. It's easy really to find someone who deserves my wrath. I mean, there's always someone who's been mean, or hurt me...even if unintentionally. But, sometimes I don't stop there. Yes, I've been hurt, yes they've been mean, but I don't neatly label the situation and stick them on a shelf. Instead, I pour into them all the other messes I carry that have no labels. I make them the center of things, the location of pain itself, the dart board.

For the longest time I felt terribly bereft that I couldn't focus my anger on any one source. Andy didn't make any mistakes that led to his death. I've never been able to be terribly angry with my husband's murderer. After all, he died in a street. He was a father too. I wanted to forgive and I did. The justice system failed and I suppose I could be angry with that, but I don't have the emotional energy to be angry with an inanimate object. Yet, just because I haven't been able to find a fitting receptacle for my anger, that doesn't mean it isn't there. I just realized, after months and months, that anger is really just a by product anyway. It has no power or life of its own until we assign it to someone or something else. On it's own, it's just like tears. Tears are a by product of the tidal wave of emotion pressing behind the surface. They are just little leaks.

I haven't been able to approach this grief, this longing, this pain, straight on. I've had to approach it at an angle. I've had to look sideways at the truth of my loss. Straight on, looking it all full in the face, has been too much to bear. Too much. Too great. Impossible.

It's only now that I've begun to tiptoe around and shift my focus. It's only now that I've begun to examine the wound.

So, tonight, I'm going to watch the funeral. I haven't watched it. Ever. I've seen the odd clip or two, but not the whole thing. Tonight, I've gathered friends around me and I'm going to look directly at my loss.

Careful now. The wound is still raw.

Tide Pool

2010-03-12T13:25:00.000-05:00

I was a tide pool.

The water receded and left me empty to bake in the sun. My slick contours, kissed by the sea, grew parched and brown. Bare feet could not traverse my sharp peaks and the blue sky mocked the shallow heat of my emptiness. I could no longer protect and nurture life in secret depths. Seagulls dropped their shells onto the hardened surface of me and gobbled up the life that wiggled free. I became a scene of death.

Then, with gentle undulation, like a whisper of breath, you crept upon me. Cooly you travelled, coaxed by the moon, and filled in the smallest places of me. Pocked craters and small cracks awakened to your salty kiss, given quietly and with measured pressure.

Suddenly, in a rush, abandoning all pretense, you descended with crashing waves of sweetness, clear and deep. I sighed beneath the weight of you. You filled me until I was brimming and satiated. And with you, you brought vast arrays of life into all the secret places of me. My farthest reaches teemed with the wriggling fingers of pulsing existence.

And, when the sun rose and glittered off my placid surface I knew you would do it all again, receding and contracting. I would face the glare of the sun and the pure exposure of sucking dryness. Again and again you would return to reclaim me. And I loved you all the same.

Stunned into stillness

2010-03-11T22:13:00.000-05:00

So much running. At first it was because I couldn't stop... if I did I would drown in the absolute bitterness of grief. And then, after a while, I was running because I thought I might find a solution, a fix for the mess. But I've been stunned into stillness now. So I wait. My lungs are burning from running so far and for so long. I think it will take a while for me to rehydrate, heart rate stabilize, muscles relax.

Lately, I've realized that I needed to run. Yes, maybe it wasn't ever going to solve anything, and at some point it had to end, but for a time it was needful. Needful because the sheer weight of what I faced was too great at first. I had to distance myself or drown. I had to run or die.

Lately, I've been looking back and I really haven't done that. My focus has been getting through the next week, the next trip, the next project, the next relationship, and sometimes, just the next hour. But now that I am still, I am looking back at all that I've waded through in the last eighteen months. It's a mammoth.

And I've been looking at photos. Oh God my heart is dead in my chest.

I was loved. I was more than loved. It was an irreplaceable love.

The girls

2010-03-03T20:44:00.000-05:00

My girls share a bedroom now. This is a new development and one I already love. Being only fifteen months apart, they play constantly with one another's toys anyway. Now they're all pooled together and equally soiled. Love it.

Sylvia is two and quite the chatterbox.

Sasha is three and quite the troublemaker.

This picture was taken quite awhile ago but it captures them so well:

The other day they snuck into the pantry and confiscated a jar of cocoa powder. Yes, cocoa powder. Bitter, nasty cocoa powder that's only good when you bake with it and use tons of sugar. I walked into their room to find Sylvia spitting brown goo out of her mouth and Sasha stomping through puffs of chocolate powder. Vacuums don't like the fine nature of such things. They balk. I had to resort to a wet cloth and lots of spray cleaner. Still, there's cocoa powder stuck to the windowsill.

Each night I put them to bed virtually at the same time. I tried putting Sylvia to sleep earlier but she usually just waits patiently in her crib for Sasha to join her. So, I gave that up and now I put them to bed at the same time. After I leave, with the door cracked, they talk for about an hour. Seriously, an hour. As long as it's tame I don't interfere...because it's so stinking cute. They cover a myriad of childhood topics. Makeup. Princesses. Poop. Puppies. Juice. Snacks. You get the idea. Tonight Sasha must have fallen asleep mid conversation because all I heard for a while was Sylvia saying, "Sasha! Sasha! Wake up!" She eventually gave up and went to sleep herself. Oh those two...the dynamic duo. They'll be quite the adventurous pair.

Willoughby

2010-03-01T08:48:00.000-05:00

If you haven't read Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility (or at least watched the movie), then there's no need to read further.

I'm like Marianne. It's just true. I want passion and drama and the whole bit. I like taking walks and chancing the rain. Oh my, sometimes I annoy myself.

Recently I fell for my personal version of Willoughby. Oh the pain. Seriously. It hasn't been pretty.

Remember that scene in the movie when she sees him at the party and he pretends that he barely knows her? Yeah. That hurts a lot more than I imagined in real life.

I find myself wondering about Colonel Brandon. Did Marianne settle by choosing him after such heartbreak? Did she wonder, years later when her heart had healed, if she should have just waited to find that connection again with someone who wasn't misguided and selfish? Or, did she realize that she had misunderstood love entirely with Willoughby and Brandon taught her, patiently and with dignity, the true meaning of love? Who knows. These are things I think about. Because I read too much. Because, after all, I am Marianne.

And Willoughby. Isn't it easier to just categorize him as a selfish jerk and move on? Actually, the truth is always a lot more blurry.

Small Round Coins

2010-02-27T19:06:00.000-05:00

I have a wonderful Dad. He loves me. He encourages me, and today he spent most of the day with me just helping me clean out a shed and move boxes around. I was thinking about what I would say at his funeral one day (morbid, but that's the way my mind leans). If his funeral was today, I would say that he's left for me a legacy of grace and faith. It hasn't been easy for him. He's struggled for peace often. But he always comes back to this place of grace and unwavering faith. I cherish him and I hope the years before his funeral are many and full.

This morning my Dad gave me a copy of a poem he's read and enjoyed over the last eighteen months or so. I wanted to share it with you:

The Well of Grief
written by: David Whyte

Those who will not slip beneath
The still surface of the well of grief
Turning downward through its black water
To the place we cannot breathe
Will never know the source from which we drink,
The secret water, cold and clear,
Nor find in the darkness glimmering
The small round coins
Thrown by those who wished
For something else.

I love this poem. It's perfect. I wished for something else. I threw my small round coin in the well and wished for something else. And, for years I thought my wish had come true. But everything can change in an instant. The instantaneous nature of such change frightens me to the core. I've spent a lot of time suppressing that fear. Recently I experienced a fresh reminder that everything I might wish for, everything I think I might already have, can change, can disappear, in an instant.

I wasn't ready for the reminder. I find myself in the slick black waters again, feeling my way around the bottom of the well, holding between my fingers another small round coin, another wish for something that will never be.

Yet, when I look up, past the murky edges of the water, I see the orb of sunlight. I am buoyed by so many treasured people. And I know that this secret water, cold and clear, can wash me clean.

Right Back Here

2010-02-08T23:15:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of wishful thinking lately so I guess this blog's title fits.

I woke up Sunday morning with all the remembrances of a life once lived. In this life there were pancakes and bacon and folded laundry in piles. There was wrestling on the couches and giggling babies. We used to make coffee in a French Press. I stopped doing that. I've been using a coffee maker for 18 months. At first it was simply logistical...there were too many people in and out of my house needing coffee and a cute little French Press couldn't keep up.

However, that excuse ended after about a month. I just kept brewing smaller pots in a huge coffee maker. I don't think it's just an odd happenstance that I couldn't clean out the coffee cabinet until last October. He loved coffee. He loved tea. He loved the ritual of hot beverages and he loved the time it took to brew it perfectly. In fact, I was somewhat banned from the task. Andy used to say I didn't know how to properly plunge the press and thus my coffee was weaker. Whatever. Simply. Not. True. I'm a kick ass coffee plunger. I just stopped, that's all. I took a sabbatical.

Sunday morning I boiled some water on the stove, dusted off the French Press, scooped the coffee and brewed a pot. Cried a little.

Nothing has gone as I'd hoped lately and I find myself in familiar waters. I'm watching myself from a removed space. Time is slower. I've been here before and I know how it will end. I should be patient with myself, only I'm not. Not without effort.

My town

2010-01-21T18:04:00.000-05:00

Today I walked around the city of Fort Myers. My city. My town. This is the town that named a street after my husband, placed a plaque in the ground to honor him, hosted countless events to raise funds for my children, and the list goes on. It's the city that I longed to live in, to connect with; so much so that I bought my dream house within it's perimeters. It's a wonderful city. Today the breeze from the river side was cool and brisk. The cobbled streets and palm trees were simply too quaint. The farmers market downtown was stocked full of Florida Avocados, green tomatoes, kohlrabi...perfect south Florida fare. I was happy. I am happy. I have roots here.

But there is a flip side. The same roots that draw me and hold me close, sweetly, also tangle me up and pull at my feet. For instance, at the coffee shop this morning a man stopped to say hello and tell me my girls are growing up fast. He doesn't know them. He only knows them from newspaper pictures. It's odd to be recognized and cared for because of tragedy. It's normal for me, but it's still odd. At the farmers market the flower lady won't let me pay for my flowers. She thanks me for my sacrifice. I get it. I do. I appreciate it all...but what if I had yelled at my daughter one stall over for touching the tomatoes? What if the flower lady had observed and noted that the poor widow wasn't holding up well under the strain? I didn't yell, but I still felt the realization that people are watching. People know who I am here. I live in a glass house.

It takes dignity and courage to live in a glass house. I'm not frightened of it. However, this isn't what I wanted for my children. I grew up scrutinized because my Father was a pastor. I remember well the feeling that what I did and said was always viewed through that lens. I don't want that for my children. I don't want them to know that what they do and say is seen in the light of their Father's sacrifice. No one asked our permission. No one asked me.

It's a beautiful piece of heartache. One I would gladly shoulder if it was just me, but I worry for my children. I worried when the nurse at the Emergency Room today said, "He looks just like his Father." I'd never met her before. It's not that I would rather people say nothing at all. On the contrary, I value and appreciate the care and concern of strangers. It's just that this isn't the life I would have chosen for my children. The scrutiny and attention they face is one I'd rather have prevented. It's hard enough to be a child without these extraneous details.

So, perhaps you can understand my need to escape from time to time. Travel. Roam. Sink into anonymity. I like throwing off the protective cloud that follows me and keeps track of my decisions, and there is a cloud of people far too concerned with my decisions on every level.

At the end of the day it's just me and my three. I'll make decisions, as best as I am able, for us alone. That's all I can do. And my roots will strengthen me.

Ah Happiness

2010-01-19T13:55:00.000-05:00

Why is it that melancholy produces more inspired writing out of me? I haven't been blogging, because I've been so blissfully happy lately. Not the unrealistic happy of the fantasy world sustained as an escape from reality. I've done that before. It's nice for a while, but it's a frantic nice. The fantasy world always seems frayed at the edges and panic awaits with the introduction of truth.

No, this is different. I'm happy in real life. In real time. I'm happy with the full realization of what my life looks like, how it absolutely hurts, and how it's so breathtakingly beautiful.

After sucking at life through a straw for a year, last July I started taking full gulps. The shock was too much to bear for a while. I had to adjust, but I kept breathing.

And oh the glorious beauty of life after despair loosens its grip. I'm astounded. The shadow proves the sunshine.

New Year

2010-01-08T16:53:00.000-05:00

Just when I think I might understand one corner of the way life works, everything shifts and I'm left with the inescapable reality of how very little I do know.

This time, this shift, is a pleasing one. Pleasing doesn't go far enough. I'm glad to be proven wrong. I'm happy in my ignorance. And I shake my head and wonder at the ebb and flow of life.

That's all I can manage for now. For once, words fail me and cannot be enough for all that I feel.

This Day

2009-12-27T13:52:00.000-05:00

I measure my day in moments.

Perfect droplets of peace

Encapsulated and transitory.

Some gather and rain upon me,

A shower of segments,

That fill my cup.

The Pebble

2009-12-20T08:26:00.000-05:00

In the thick of this mess,

I saw you shining,

Green, and smooth,

Like a pebble.

So, I picked you up and put you

In my pocket.

Who could know that I would

Love you?

Who could know that the contours of

Your pleasing weight

Would slip through my pocket

Under my skin?

But you were not meant to ride

In a pocket,

Or under skin,

And love could not settle you.

Such bitter tears,

In a flash,

Burned away by the sun

And I set you free.

Don’t worry, my sweet one,

What you think is love is only

An appreciation of beauty.

And this pain will deepen your patina.

Responses

2009-12-18T17:03:00.000-05:00

It's a week before Christmas and I'm just starting to descend from the annual high of shopping, baking, mailing, wrapping, decorating, visiting, and organizing. I started early specifically so that I could have this last week to enjoy my children and all the things about Christmas that I love.

This year has not been easy. Last year was the most terrible Christmas I could imagine. This year is much better already. Joy has discovered me. I have embraced the peace that inevitably comes after realizing your imperfections and admitting that the world is till turning regardless.

I'm getting the kids this for Christmas:

This is going to be one great year.

Also, in the spirit of the season, I responded to an email that's been sitting in my inbox for a month. It wasn't an email I wanted to respond to, mainly because it required humility and care and honesty. It had to do with lost friendship and if there could be repair. Is there ever occasion in which it's natural and right for a friendship to be severed? I believe there is. Yet, I don't like this option. Given time I almost always want to mend things....even if mending things is painful.

Our lives are mostly made up of our responses to things. I realized today that the people I admire most are not the ones who make the least mistakes, but the ones who respond graciously despite them. Maybe life is more about how we respond to the events that shape us than about the events themselves.

Merry Christmas everyone. Oh, and the puppy's name is Adelaide.

Gratefulness

2009-11-25T10:08:00.000-05:00

This morning I explained the story of Thanksgiving to my children. I realized as I was talking that I could say anything at all and they would believe me. I could have told them that aliens came down to earth and visited for one meal and gave us brussel sprouts as a parting gift and that's why no one likes to eat them. But I didn't say that...I told them the real story, and then I asked them what they were thankful for. Sometimes I honestly think what comes out of my children's mouths must be scripted because it's too perfect. Granted, I only think this sometimes. This is what Samuel said:

"I'm thankful for Sasha, and I'm sad about sin because I really love my sister but sometimes I'm mean to her anyway...and that's because of my sin. I'm also thankful for God because He made the whole world and I love what He made. I'm even thankful for bad guys because God made them too and maybe they can learn to make better choices."

Seriously? My son said that? I adore his heart. The girls were also thankful, but not so articulately....they are, after all, ages 3 and 1 respectively.

Today I am grateful, as an attitude of being and seeing. I'm grateful for my children and God's provision for us. I'm grateful for pain and sorrow and the ways that I've changed. I'm grateful for beauty and breath and life and death. I'm grateful for tears and laughter and Mom's yeast roll recipe. I'm grateful that some days end and others seem to last forever. I'm grateful for music that bolsters my heart and speaks words I cannot muster. I'm grateful for friends and family. I'm grateful for gems of time that I carry in my pocket, rubbed smooth from tumbling about in my memory.

I want to wish all of you a Happy Thanksgiving...filled, most of all, with peace and gratitude.

Hope

2009-11-23T12:01:00.000-05:00

We need hope to survive. I know I do.

I've been thinking so much about the story of Christmas this year. Usually I gloss over it, since I've heard it every year since birth. Old hat. But, this year I'm more acquainted with sorrow and more comfortable with it, in a way. Last year I was merely surviving. Zombielike. This year I can actually see a few paces in front of me. There is breathing room, and in that space I'm reading about a baby being born in a stable.

I've been struck by the hope we infuse in a story that is so full of sorrow. Mary's life was ruined, her reputation never salvaged. Joseph's dream died. Hundreds of babies were murdered because the wise men were blabbermouths. Being born in a barn and laid in a stable wasn't sweet and warm and earthy. It was gross and everything probably smelled like poop. It would have been terrifying as a first time mother.

Yet, even in the midst of that, there was hope. Mary's song in the Gospel of Luke is full of gratitude to the Lord. She was grateful to be used. She had hope in a scheme that was grander than her life and her dreams. She didn't even know what the big picture would look like...she just knew it existed and that somehow, miraculously, she was a small part of it.

That is the hope of Bethlehem. When everything smells like poop and it's cold and you're vulnerable, there is a Savior in your midst.

I used to pray for peace that passes all understanding. In the past few months I've realized that there is also hope that passes all understanding. I pray for that hope. It's the kind that has nothing to do with what I see with my eyes or what is happening in my life. It's what Mary had-- clear enough vision to believe in a grander, if invisible, scheme.

The Vigilantes of Love have a Christmas song that I love. It's called "On to Bethlehem" and here are some of the lyrics:

God wraps Himself up in human skin
for those who want to touch
and God let them drive the nails in
for those of us who know way too much

it's cold this year and i'm late on my dues
it's cold in here ah but that's nothing new
my heart's electric with your love again
so it's on to bethlehem

Some great pictures by a great friend

2009-11-23T08:51:00.000-05:00

Check out these from my friend Janice's blog. If you don't follow her work, you should. She really captures something special with her photos.

Power

2009-11-13T09:05:00.001-05:00

I was waiting in the dentist's office yesterday while Samuel got a small filling in his tooth. Miraculously, there was a Time magazine to read and not just the ordinary dentist office fare...Golf Digest and Highlights Magazine. In this issue of Time there was an article about the Balloon Boy and his family and, in general, the race for fame. Something was missing in the assessment and conclusions of the article, so I started thinking about it more and more. Here are my thoughts...

Fame was really just a vehicle to power for the Heene family (aka, Balloon Boy's parents). And, really, this has always been an issue for people...power. This is why men in Tudor England used to bargain with their daughters to gain the ear of the king....power. The issue isn't only that the Heene's were using their children and the rest of American along with them in their mad dash for the spotlight. The issue is that they must have felt deep powerlessness within their lives and sought, at a high price, to harness what control they could. Let's face it, reality shows and even negative attention gives you the control and attention you wouldn't have by just being an interesting person. There isn't even a set of criteria or minimal level of intelligence for reality tv stars and yet they find success and money and...power over their lives.

Maybe one of the hardest things to come to terms with in life is our own powerlessness. And the arbitrary nature of those who seem to have power. There are things we have control over...important things...but the list of what we can control is small in comparison to the list of things we can't. In a nutshell, you can only choose for yourself. You can't make choices for anyone else and, unfortunately, their choices affect you every day. You can't even make choices for your own children...at least not for long.

Maybe coming to terms with powerlessness is what is means to have "faith like a child." Children are comfortable with their dependency. They know that they don't have life figured out and in fact, don't have the resources to navigate life on their own. They are mostly powerless and yet I wish I could have the pure joy that comes so naturally to them. My kids believe me when I tell them everything will be fine. They think it perfectly commonplace that I adore them.

Anyway, power is mostly an illusion. We're just one frame of the movie. The grass withers and the flowers fade...you know the rest.

Glass

2009-11-08T07:45:00.000-05:00

I feel like there are rods of glass throughout me, just under my skin. Sometimes a sudden turn will cause one to shatter and infinitesimal shards then flow through my veins, searing a path of pain like an ice cube across my skin. And when that happens I am preoccupied with my recovery, choking on the aftertaste of bitterness, and trembling. I wonder how many sticks of glass remain...or if I will just grow accustomed to the shiver of their disintegration.

Obscure

2009-10-30T09:41:00.000-04:00

I look at you with the widened eyes
Of a child
Only seeing one step,
Maybe two,
In this fog.

Past certainty is lost
And never was
More then a mirage,
Trick of the light,
Wisp of smoke.

Yet I settle and know
This is home.
Near-sighted obscurity
Can bring
Far-sighted hope.

When I hear the whispers
Of peace,
It is your voice speaking
In ancient timbre, and
In symmetry.

Perhaps these clouded eyes
In childhood, innocent,
Were always the ones
You meant
To see.

Conversation with Samuel

2009-10-24T16:30:00.000-04:00

One night, not too long ago, I put the kids to bed, checked my email, and then decided I was too tired to do anything but go to sleep.

Just when I had climbed into bed and turned the lights off I heard the soft shuffle of Samuel's feet down the hallway. He popped his head into my room and said, "Mama, since the lights are off are you going to bed right now?"
"Yes."
"Can I come sleep with you then?" (This question was asked as he was cuddling his back into my arms)

He was satisfied. His feet were resting on my knees. And then he said,
"Mama, I have bad stuff in my throat. I thought it was my heart but now I know where my heart is and I still have bad stuff in my throat."
"What do you mean, honey?"
"I didn't have the bad stuff in my throat before Papa died but then after he died I had all this stuff in my throat and it makes me angry sometimes. And sad. And the bad stuff in my throat makes me do things sometimes that I don't want to do like be mean to my sisters."
"Um--"
"--and I just want you to get married to someone else so all that bad stuff in my throat will go away. Even though I know that isn't my heart because Jesus lives in my heart."
"Well, Samuel, even if Mama gets married again it won't make the bad feelings you have go away. Those are things we just have to deal with...and some of those feelings are part of growing up too."
"But I want you to find someone kind and handsome and marry him"
"Me too"
"Well I think you should marry Jonathan" (Jonathan is a four year old at school)
"I can't marry Jonathan, honey."
"Well, then you should marry someone just like him who's old."
"Okay."

This was one of those moments I wanted to freeze and replay over and over again for the rest of my life. A five year old was describing, in vivid detail, what it means to have a lump in your throat...that physical feeling that grief brings to your body with all its hues of anger and selfishness and longing.

Incredible.

Some days I have bad stuff in my throat too, but my words are more varied and my explanations complex. It's really all the same though.

By the way, after this conversation Samuel slept soundly. He just needed to tell me his thoughts. And I'm glad he did.

Birthday Girl

2009-10-22T13:35:00.000-04:00

Sasha turns three tomorrow. She is becoming quite the little lady.

When Andy died she was barely talking. She might have said a few words consistently but she wasn't forming sentences and her vocabulary was limited at best. Andy used to fret about this. He'd talk to me about his concerns at night after he'd put her to sleep and tried to coax her, unsuccessfully, into saying a few words.
Three months after she lost her Papa Sasha turned two, and it was shortly after that birthday that her language skills exploded into reality. She said everything. She didn't care if she said it wrong, she just repeated herself until I understood.
Now she tells stories and talks in paragraphs, let alone sentences.
I can't help but burst with pride over her. She really is as smart as a whip, whatever that means.
Sasha was born with a birth defect that went undetected for the first week of her life. She had a cleft palette without the presentation of a cleft lip. It was the most traumatic event of my life at the time. Andy wasn't certain, despite corrective surgery that Sasha would be able to talk normally. It was something the doctors couldn't assure us of either.
In my mind I can still hear Andy talking to Sasha at night as he rubbed her back. The house was quiet then and he would speak so calmly and kindly to her. I loved to listen. Sasha remembers those moments too. Every now and then when I'm putting her to bed at night she'll turn to me and say, "Papa wubbed my back," and I know she's thinking of him.
Tomorrow she's three. I can't believe my little baby is turning into such a polite and sweet girl. Those blue eyes are tender. She loves to share. She cries when her baby sister cries. And I know Andy is proud of her.
Somehow I feel so deeply lucky to have her.

Solace

2009-10-18T18:17:00.000-04:00

Time doesn't heal anything.

Yet, it's only been through time that I've been faced with choices over and over again...the choice between life and death, internally. Unfortunately, there isn't any way to rush this process. Believe me. I've tried. But it isn't a passive waiting either. I must be active, with time, in choosing my own life.

Sasha informed me today that princesses never wear pants. I love it. Today, the weather alone is enough to fill me with hope and courage. It's breezy and sunny and perfect. I feel solace.

Solace

You are not peace.
There isn't any rest in your
Embrace.
And yet,
You keep me in measured
Beats.
And your rhythm reminds me
That I am not
Alone.

Good Day

2009-10-15T12:55:00.000-04:00

After a series of long weeks, today is a good day. And that, my friends, is really all I have to say.

Falling Slowly

2009-10-14T10:51:00.000-04:00

Sometimes other people say it better than I ever could.

The Shorter List

2009-10-09T13:46:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I get like this. Angry for no apparent reason. Actually, there are so many reasons and all of them difficult to explain that I end up abandoning them all and being, simply, angry. Angry at the world. On days like these I really want someone to be rude to me so that I can unleash upon them all the torrents of words I feel pressing against my throat. Of course, on days like these people are nice and polite and I never get the chance for a decent verbal assault. It's a shame really.

And then the inevitable happens. I can never sustain anger for long without tears following suit. The tears make me angrier still. Ironic. These tears feel like drops of water leaking from cracks in the dam. They're really just a small indication of the massive press of emotion behind the wall.

Someone asked me today what I was frustrated about. I answered that the shorter list is what I'm not frustrated about. So...here's the shorter list:

My kids: They are beautiful. Even when I screw things up they love me and actually want to be with me. We like spending time together. They make me laugh. And if we four are the only family I ever know, it will be enough. They are, without a doubt, the best thing I've ever done. Oh, and they don't know this, but they save my life almost every day.

My house: I love that it is old. I love that things are finally taking shape within it's walls. The roof is going on and it's a creamy tan metal. The floors are covered in an inch of plaster dust, but it's still an inspiring sight.

My cooking: I'm a good cook. I like that I can put a roast in and know what's going to make it taste better and not be dry. I love that it's delicious and artistic and fills me up.

My creations: Whether it's writing or sewing, I've been quite happy with the things I've created lately. It's refreshing.

That's it. It's a short list, but a good one.

Untitled

2009-10-08T18:43:00.000-04:00

I miss you.
Please, Time, work your magic
So I can take a breath
Again
And not wonder at the sprain
Around my ribs.
I can't pull you along with me
Any more
Like a little girl pulls a toy
But I want you to find me.
Please find me
And together we can walk.
I want to walk
With you
And listen.

The Death of Life

2009-10-04T16:26:00.000-04:00

When you don't talk with your closest friend for a few days or weeks or months, there is a buildup of all the things that you wanted to say and couldn't. There are little corners of your mind that you feel compelled to share...new discoveries to articulate. Sometimes this can only be unraveled over time and a great cup of coffee. What a relief you feel when you can unburden the weight of yourself on some other willing party!...a friend willing to dissect these parts that are you because they love you and want to know you as well as you know yourself.

So, what happens when your best friend is your spouse? And what happens when there is a buildup of all the things you wanted to say and couldn't but the buildup is months and months, maybe a year or two? I think, in a healthy marriage, you understand that Love is not demanding. Love is patient. Love waits for the time to share, the time to unravel the secrets of another. And, eventually, there is time.

There are patterns of waiting and growing and learning and loving that weave the fabric of a marriage. But it isn't our right to be understood and known, it's just a beautiful gift that we are given in spurts of radiant beauty.

When Andy died we were mired in a season of disconnection. He was just beginning a career that was demanding and rewarding and stressful and simply, exhausting. I had been perpetually pregnant for four years (well, that's how it felt at least) and accompanied by the typical trappings of that state: frustrated, exhausted, blissful, emotional, isolated, and oddly content. We were together. We were happy...but there were whole corners of ourselves that we had yet to share with one another. There was time for that. And then, suddenly, there wasn't any more time at all.

I miss him. I miss him how he used to be. I miss the me he used to know. Sometimes I fantasize that Andy walks through the door at the end of the day and we're a family again. But, actually, the idea of this terrifies me. I'm, simply, not the same person. I wonder if he would recognize me now.

The most frightening thing about loss is the absolute suddenness of the death of life...an entire lived life. In anthropological terms, an entire culture complete with separate language and nuance is snuffed out. It's shocking and appalling and somehow completely beautiful...like the violent eruption of a volcano. And this is why every single thing is different now. I'm not even rebuilding my city on familiar ground. The terrain was cauterized.

I've realized since Andy's death that we all experience little deaths along the way. Maybe they aren't all as sudden and complete as my own, but nonetheless they are life altering. We are all more accustomed to mourning than we might realize.

I'm experiencing a little death now. I find myself with stories to tell and decisions to articulate. There is coffee, but there is no one waiting on the other side. All these bits and pieces of myself are left behind in my outstretched hands, slipping through my fingers like so much broken glass.

Yet, I know that this isn't the point...not really. Everything precious is a gift. Some gifts you keep and enjoy for a long time. Others just fade away or wear out. Others are stolen. But they're still a gift...even if in the absence of their warmth and brightness everything looks grey and cold for a time.

I Exist

2009-10-01T22:48:00.000-04:00

Tonight was spa night. I took a bath, painted my toes and fingers, wore a ridiculous cold mask to reduce eye puffiness, then applied a warming mask. Lotions were used. Pomegranate Martinis were consumed. It was lovely. And all throughout this process these words were running through my head:
"I exist because he does not."

It's from a book. It's a wonderful book, so far, about a widow. She is commenting in these lines about what she feels right after her husbands death...she exists because he does not.

After he is gone she is consumed with the need to be his voice.

I've never felt this compulsion. I cannot begin to be Andy's voice because his voice was so rich and deep and full. He is lost to us and the world is grey because of that loss. Those of us who knew him well carry him with us as we walk. But I cannot be his voice. His voice was so unique...impossible to repeat.

Yet I do identify with the need to find a purpose in all of this mess. I understand the need to have a compulsion, however threadbare.

The only thing I know is that there is a purpose, a plan greater than myself and my life. That is all I know for certain. And that certainty is the only thing that keeps me.

Potato Harvest '09

2009-09-24T19:15:00.000-04:00

So, I'm going away for a weekend sans kids...which is delightful. I'm visiting my dear friend Rachel for her birthday, but really it's a present to me to be able to be around the Hillman clan and generally catch up.

Whilst planning my trip Rachel called to ask me if I would be opposed to harvesting a few potatoes when I'm in town. They have a plot at a CSA farm, and when potatoes need to be harvested, well, by golly, I'm there. Actually, it should be fun. I only wish I had overalls.

I have been unusually crafty lately. Some of my projects cannot be pictured here, since they're for Rachel's birthday present. However, I did make a delightful plaid shirt to wear on my travels:

This picture is somewhat awful. But at least you can tell that it's puffy, which I like. There are tucks on the sleeves and around the neckline. Trust me, it's cute when it's actually on.

Lately I've been obsessed with ruffles. I want something ruffly and lacey attached to my clothing. Silly. Girly. I really don't know what's gotten into me.

Oh, and also I am now a fan of Mad Men. It's a great show. The oddball things about the 60s are fun to watch, but the real fascination is the psychology of the characters. I'm only in season one. I hope it stays this good. I can't get the scene of Betty shooting at the doves out of my brain. Genius.

In honor of my recent Mad Men obsession I purchased a felt hat. I plan to wear said hat on one of my excursions this weekend, though not to the potato harvest...that feat requires pigtails.

O Love That Will Not Let Me Go...

2009-09-21T14:46:00.000-04:00

Everything of note has been said before in myriad beautiful ways. That truth usually cloaks me in darkness, but today I felt the solid comfort of hearing words, old words, echo across time and speak to me.

I've been listening to hymns. Hymns are underrated. Our desire to reinvent ancient truths seems silly. We think, "truth will look better cloaked in the latest and greatest." Silly or not, this is true. It's not that the reinvention is wrong, I think the error lies in our tendency to believe that because we exist in another time, we are different. We think, "thank God we're different than our parents or those who came before us." We beg to believe that we are unique, that we are more understanding, more intelligent, more tolerant, etc.

We really aren't different. Cultures change. Mediums evolve. But everything that has been felt has been felt before. The essence is the same. Humanity is the same.

Today is a good day. The curious thing about it is that nothing has changed. There isn't one breath of hope in any of the circumstances that trouble me. Yet, I am comforted by ancient truths despite that. And in the realization of my place in time comes peace, even in the absence of understanding. Today, I rest in the truth that I am known, I am seen, and I am loved more fully than I have realized. I've been searching for a long time for something I think I had all along. Strange.

So here are the lyrics to a hymn I particularly love, one that speaks to me across time:

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.
O light that foll’west all my way,
I yield my flick’ring torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

How to Spot a Liar

2009-09-15T17:30:00.002-04:00

Here's something I've learned about liars...

They usually assume you're lying to them too. They hardly ever believe anything you say either. They are incapable of understanding a world in which people say exactly what they mean.

Of course, we all lie to some extent...that's not what I mean. I'm referring to the creators of some personal fantasy world in which they insulate themselves from their own pain, and other's hurt, by lying about the way things are. They are exhausted. They must be. It's almost impossible to sustain such a small, enclosed sphere.

The interesting thing is that they usually think they're fooling everyone. They think it's working, when it so obviously and pathetically isn't.

***************

So, maybe I shouldn't write a blog post when I'm angry. That would probably be a good idea. I typed all of the above in a fever of frustration. And, as a result, it's not very coherent. There's nothing in here about how to spot a liar. In fact, there isn't much at all besides some ranting.

I would just delete the whole thing, but there's something there...something about myself, I think.

When I was a little girl I told the janitor at our school that my brothers thought he took his job too seriously. I didn't even know what the words meant as I said them. I only wanted to be truthful. This was the same reason I suggested an exercise routine to the overweight kindergarten teacher. After these incidents I distinctly remember my mother trying to describe discretion to me. I was confused. In my five year old brain, discretion sounded a lot like lying.

Lies scare me. I want to believe people, and I'm too easily trusting at times. The power of a lie is frightening. And if truth can so easily be obscured than I'm one fragile step away from chaos. That's how it feels sometimes.

But the most frightening lies of all are the ones we tell ourselves. I learned early on that I am an unreliable narrator of my own life. I can sometimes be quite talented at telling myself what I want to hear.

The only hope I have is a truth beyond myself. I believe that God values truth and that honesty is the only way toward growth. But honesty can be ugly. And truth hurts. It's paradoxical, and simultaneously perfect, that God works such beauty with painful and ugly means. But that's what I want, it's what I embrace...though sometimes not smoothly.

Lies sadden me. Chronic liars are stuck in their own sphere. They have no means of escaping the terrible narration of their lives...because the only voice they listen to is their own. How crushingly lonely that must be.

Reinvestment

2009-09-07T08:58:00.000-04:00

The book called it a "reinvestment of love" This sounded so cold and rational to me last year when I read it that I dismissed it as too simple for my situation. I read the words again last night and I see their worth.

When you lose someone you love, especially when it's someone you love well, a void erupts...not only the void created by that person's absence or death, but the void of undirected love. Everything seems worthless and full of holes. Like a fish floundering out of water gasping for air that simply won't flow through its gills.

So, apparently, the answer is a "reinvestment of love". You must find something or someone or a set of goals to pour that love into; so that you can survive...so that you can swim in the water again and breathe.

Of course the most logical choice for this reinvestment would appear to be my children, and to an extent that has occurred. We are closer than we were. We give hugs longer. But I have actively resisted the seemingly natural response to reinvest here. I think these can be potentially dangerous waters. Too much reinvestment and dependence blossoms and suddenly I can't imagine the day when they leave home and it's just me. Suddenly I'm entwined with their lives in a way that is mutually damaging. So, I've kept them separate from me in as healthy a way as possible. They have entire lives to live...lives that shouldn't require a backward glance in my direction.

My own personal preference for reinvestment was someone else. Lets just say I tried that, twice, and it didn't turn out as I'd hoped on either occasion. So, I'm backing away and realizing my limitations. The market is in poor condition for reinvestment in this sector anyway.

Oh, and I tried loving a dog. That worked for a few weeks, and then I was just exhausted. I realized I had attempted to get a puppy and had ended up with a fourth child. So, the puppy went to another loving home.

Unexpectedly, I found an excellent choice for reinvestment with my new house...obviously this has double meaning. Financially, it's a wise investment. Emotionally, well, somehow this house has my heart. I've reinvested it in those crumbly walls. I'm making it into something beautiful and unique and full of love. Never before have paint colors seemed so important or sink faucets so sacred. I am exaggerating slightly, obviously my house is an inanimate object :)

However, I do take it very personally when someone criticizes my new project. There was this one boy who said he'd like to take my house and throw it all in the dumpster...this because it's old and needs lots of repairs. He also wanted to take me out for drinks. Um, no.

I don't think a lot of people understand my devotion. People just think it's a house. And it is...but it's oh so much more to me too. It's a fresh start. A place for me. A dream actualized. A piece of this town's history revisited. Andy is a piece of the city's recent history, and it seems so symmetrical that I will be living in a piece of the city's past history. Let's face it...I've reinvested.

Paper Garlands

2009-09-06T08:00:00.000-04:00

So, I made a paper garland out of ironed coffee filters and other scraps of paper. It turned out pretty nice, but I think in the future I will also incorporate bits of lace and vintage fabrics.

Speaking of vintage fabrics, I discovered a cute little fabric store on my excursion into the mountains. They had a whole section of 1930s reproduction fabrics. I was in heaven! I plan to experiment soon...

In the meantime I've been working on my novel, sewing some side projects, watching my house being rebuilt, driving to and from school, and reading...not to mention general housework and making time to visit a delightful Jazz club with some friends.

I do love my busy life...most of the time.

Recently, I purchased Julia Child's cookbook, Mastering The Art of French Cooking. Which is a direct result of watching the movie. I've been going through it and I think, today, I will plan out my week of menus and incorporate some of the recipes. It's all so ridiculous really because my kids will eat two bites of whatever I cook and swear they're done. But, I guess I'll have yummy leftovers. Maybe I'll invite more dinner guests.

Escape

2009-08-31T10:31:00.000-04:00

I've hidden myself away for a few days in the mountains of NC. What a wonderful idea this was. After I flew into Atlanta and scooped up my rental car I swung by the college I used to attend in North Georgia. It was a beautiful afternoon full of old friends, familiar locations, and absolutely beautiful sights. Revisiting the scene of so many important events catapulted me into a bit of self analysis.

I've thought of my life as certain eras that could be neatly categorized. There were the younger years, the adolescent years, the young married, and the new mother years. Think of a shelf with mismatched glass bottles lined up and perfectly labeled. Of course, I'm in a new era now, but I'm finding elements of the past woven into the present. What I mean to say is that, finally, I am beginning to feel a sense of a holistic self. And I'm discovering that there isn't a shelf of bottles at all, but one vessel...me.

My early life

Was a sturdy square of calico,

And I understood it's perimeters.

Adolescence

Was a tie-dyed knit,

And not square at all.

My first breath of womanhood,

A silk thread--

Delicate and strong.

Now I watch

Each scrap

Weave itself into the other

And take the shape

Of a bowl, resting,

In my cupped hands.

Normalcy

2009-08-24T19:54:00.000-04:00

Normalcy is a myth. At the very least, it's not consistent from person to person. Normalcy for me is probably completely different from what is normal to another. Sometimes I forget this truth. Sometimes I see a look on someone's face...the shock of recognition as they realize my life is different from theirs. Sometimes that look is the only thing that reminds me that some things I consider normal aren't.

For instance, when I put Sasha to bed she wraps her arms around me and tells me how much she misses her Papa. I pretend it's normal that her arms are too tight and her voice sounds frightened. Last night Samuel was playing cops and robbers, only the robbers weren't exaggerated caricatures they were, simply, the man who shot his Papa. Sylvia is fascinated with men. For her, they are a novelty...something to be enjoyed as a rarity. Like chocolate donuts.

In my smallish family the dust is settling. I had begun to believe that chaos was the fabric of life. I'm realizing now that this isn't true. It just felt true. Like the man who spends a year at sea feels like solid ground is tipsy when he returns.

I haven't grieved without hope. Sometimes hope was illusively playing hide and seek, but was never quite absent. Yet, now, as I begin to tentatively peek past one day or one week, I see hope differently. It looks a lot like peace. And rest. And not at all like certainty.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the evidence of things unseen. I have faith in what I cannot see, but over the last year, the list of things I cannot see has grown exponentially longer. Even so I cannot let go of Faith. I don't understand God really. Not much at all. But I know Him. I know He is Love. So, what choice do I have? I sit on my hands and listen.

I updated my Etsy site with some new listings. I've been dreaming about my new house and planning out the rooms. And here is where I admit something secret...Andy would have hated that house. He would have never, not in a million years, let me buy that place. He would have wanted to rip all of it down and replace it with new and sturdy machinations. And this truth makes me wildly happy.

It's time to begin something. Something fresh. Something full of dreams and stamped with me. I took this picture over the weekend. It's one of the old wooden vents they removed from the roofline of the house. I just loved it. I just love everything about that place.

Futility

2009-08-22T10:29:00.000-04:00

I swept the house last night so that when I woke up this morning I would have a clean start. Nice way to begin the weekend. And it was refreshing to see my dark bamboo floors shining at me when I stumbled toward the coffee maker at 7:30 am.

Three hours later, this is the pile I sweep up:

Honestly? There was a whole roll of crackers in there, a broken up game, apple slices that had been half chewed. How is that even possible? With children as young as mine, housework seems to be the definition of futility.

On a happier note, I did end up making something before I went to bed last night...an altered t-shirt. I used reverse applique and am pretty happy with the result.

Should be

2009-08-21T23:57:00.000-04:00

I'm supposed to be crafting right now. I have a million ideas dancing around in my brain and a coffee induced hyper activity that should be put to use creating new and amusing items.

However, here I sit...blogging.

I want to write about a movie I just saw with a friend. It was delightful while at the same time making me want to weep buckets. The movie was 500 Days of Summer and if you wish to see it at some point and don't want me to ruin it for you...stop reading now.

Summer was not such a nice girl but seemed rather oblivious to this fact. Boy meets girl. Boy loves girl. Girl breaks boy's heart. I wish that this wasn't a familiar refrain for me and my life.

So I'm wondering tonight about who I should be, and who, in fact, I am. One of the things that comes with age, thank God, is settling into who you are. I feel that settling. Yet, I know that I am also blind to who I am. My desires lead me more than they ought. I'm very talented at convincing myself of things...at least for a while...and then it all crashes in on me. I crumple. I wonder if I'm simply hollow.

After the movie we walked over to a coffee shop and sat for a while, talking. There was someone sitting at an adjacent table. He was lonely. I could tell immediately. Some girls joined him and he cajoled them to stay and talk to him...well he didn't cajole exactly. His eyes were sharp and somewhat pleading. He asked questions. He dropped hints. They laughed and chatted and eventually wandered off into the night. He was silent after their departure....the uneasy silence that begs the question, "what now?" I understood what he must be feeling. I recognized the uncomfortable posture; the attitude that being in a crowd of strangers was better than being alone at home. Loneliness is terrifying. Not so much because of the alone part, though that is difficult...but because our blind side feels like it looms larger. We talk ourselves into things we never would otherwise.

I'm not hollow. I'm not all I should be either. But I'm not Summer.

Beauty

2009-08-19T18:06:00.000-04:00

I was sitting in a drive thru today waiting for a Dr. Pepper. I looked to my right and saw the shabby back entrance to an office building. Clumps of grizzled weeds were poking out of the cracks on the small square of sidewalk. An old air conditioner hummed on a rotten wooden platform next to the sidewalk. There was no awning. The building itself looked raw and white, like an unhealed wound. Next to the door was a smallish pile of cigarette butts. I began to wonder about the person who smoked there on breaks. How depressing, I thought. How ugly. If one were to smoke, it should be in a lovely location. It should be in a calm field at dusk with the smoke arcing away from your lips languidly. There should, at the very least, be a potted plant.

Then I started thinking about Communism. It has fascinated me for some time that one of the unforeseen effects of communism on society was the diminishment of beauty. In Communist Europe buildings were painted grey. People stopped wearing colorful clothes. With the emphasis on equality and sameness, vibrancy faded away. It seems to me that in this environment people must have felt numbed...sluggish, frozen internally...slowly starved with the retraction of beauty.

We need beauty. I believe there is something inside of us that needs it, that cannot be sustained by anything less. It's one of the requirements that elevates us from the rest of creation. Think of cave paintings. We need beauty. We need to surround ourselves with beautiful things.

When I was in Thailand I visited a poor refugee family. They were living in a hut made of bamboo poles, with banana leaves thatched together for a roof. They couldn't sleep on their mud floor, so they had suspended more bamboo poles to form a makeshift loft. Their stove and oven was one cement block. The two holes formed two burners. They made me a treat while I was there, one banana steamed inside a banana leaf until it was mushy, sugary, and delicious. Near the entryway to their hut they had tacked a chipped portion of a mirror. It was small, just big enough to see part of your face in, but not your whole face at once. Why did they need a mirror? They had, maybe, two changes of clothes. Their feet were always dirty. Yet, beauty meant something to them. Even amidst such humble circumstances they felt compelled to look presentable, and to check in the mirror to make sure.

Kicking and Screaming

2009-08-14T23:16:00.000-04:00

When Sasha was a baby she didn't handle Doctor's visits well. As soon as we walked into the waiting room she would become rigid. Forget the simple things like weighing or measuring the circumference of her head, it was all one big horrific experience.

I used to try to talk her into it. I'd bargain. I'd sing songs. I brought candy. Nothing worked. She was immovable. She kicked and screamed and had to be held down to get through the visit. Of course, all of this made the visit terrible for her regardless of what was done. She simply didn't believe me when I told her that the Doctor wanted to help her...and if she would just relax...

So, I have come to realize that Sasha must have come by this trait genetically. I've been kicking and screaming for a year. I have accepted so many things that most people should never have to accept. But we're not talking about most people are we. We're talking about me.

I'm coming to terms with loneliness. And as I do I find that it's all around me. Not limited to those without a spouse. Not limited to the solitary. It's a common element really. Like mittens, or sweaters in the winter. Everyone goes through seasons of it. Which should make it easier, right? Well, not exactly.

Regardless of it's ease, this is what lies before me for a season. I can't change that. I'm done trying. My legs are tired of kicking. My lungs ache from screaming. I want to accept.

This acceptance brought to mind a photo I took a few years ago of Samuel holding a moth, gently in his hand. It was a cold night and the moth had been trapped in our garage until morning. When Andy found it, it was sluggish from the cold, willing to be held, wings ill prepared for flight. So, he taught Samuel and Sasha how to hold it, softly. This picture reminds me of acceptance. Of gentling. Of all the things I choose now.

Change of Plan

2009-08-13T14:06:00.000-04:00

Samuel decided he wanted a snail, instead of an electric eel. I thought this was a grand plan since it involved no "clickers". So, this morning, rather than doing most of the other things I needed to get done, I crocheted a snail. He really did turn out rather cute. You can't see too clearly in the picture but he has a pink felt smile. It's a smile to warm your heart.

While said snail was being constructed, Sasha's ear began to bleed...off to the Doctor we went. Poor thing. It's always something with her. Turns out a few ear drops were the only needful thing.

Now I'm home and the sun is blazing hot outside. It's one of those days. The kind of day that is tremulous and volatile. The kind of day I can only take one hour at a time. I try not to think about next week, or next year, or tomorrow on days like these. Just today. Just impromptu crocheted snails and quick trips to the Doctor; drops in the ear and dishes in the sink. Those I can wrap my mind around. Those things are blessed inanities.

So now I start a new list, because the day isn't over yet: laundry, swimming in the sun, dinner, and juice cups. Oh, and carving. I'm going to carve something. As I shave off bits of wood with my sharp x-acto knife maybe I'll find something more. Maybe I'll discover the secret to calming days like these, easing past the tremulous turns. Maybe that's why old men in their overalls spend hours whittling driftwood. Maybe they've known the secret all along.

Kissy

2009-08-12T15:23:00.000-04:00

Meet Kissy (christened by my two year old). She is a knitted doll. I got the pattern from this book. She is floppy and squishy and she has noodley arms, which I love. She has little black felt slippers and a frilly dress and even a pair of knitted panties. She was so fun to make that now I plan to make some more outfits for her. Perhaps a blankie for her to sleep with. Gee, this is already getting out of hand.

She was supposed to be for my daughter's birthday (in October), but Sasha saw me making her and looked at me with her big blue eyes and said, "Can I wuv on her, Mama?" I couldn't say no. How can you say no to wuv?

Of course as I was finishing up Kissy's slippers today Samuel commissioned me to make him an eel. An electric eel with a clicker inside. He wants it to sound like the one we saw at the New England Aquarium when we visited Boston. Hmmm. This could be difficult.

Apparently my children think I can make anything. I wonder how many more years this will last. I wonder how long it will take them to realize that I'm not a miracle worker...I hope I have a few years at least. I want to be able to kiss their owies away and soothe their bad dreams for a while longer. I'll try my hardest to make electric eels and baby clothes and all those things while they still want me to. I hope to instill in them a love for creating, and a belief that almost anything we dream up can be actualized, at least in the artistic realm.

It's a great release to be able to create and envision. It soothes the chaos for me. I hope my children never stop dreaming.

Altered Living

2009-08-10T14:13:00.000-04:00

This is an old version of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. I found it at a thrift store and was immediately enchanted with the odd illustrations and interesting cover. I think I'm going to "alter" it. For those of you unfamiliar with the altered objects craft, it's fairly self explanatory. You take an object and alter it...turn a gameboard into a piece of art, or, in this case, a book into a autobiographical journal.

I'm going to make this book into a journal of my growing up years on Pine Island. The sea themed pictures should incorporate quite nicely. I hope it's beautiful when it's finished. I should probably write snippets inside too..snippets of memories and events. And there will have to be photos...smeary looking, old photos of me as a little girl.

I'll keep you posted.

Lonesome

2009-08-07T17:33:00.000-04:00

I never realized that loneliness can feel a lot like boredom. Sometimes I stare at the wall, or try to plan a detailed set of tasks, just to fill the hours. It's exhausting. (That was sarcastic)

Today I went to the library. This was a fun adventure with three. Sylvia took off running, full tilt, out of the children's section and into the main adult area of the library. I couldn't help but laugh at her. Meanwhile, as I'm madly chasing after her, Samuel assumes I'm abandoning him in the children's section and stands at the border crossing shouting my name. I guess everyone knew we were there. But it was fun, it was a way to pass the time.

I drove by my new house which is fully in demolition mode. This is a scary mode. I'm uncertain if each new day will reveal some fresh rotten beam or instability to be mended. My dream house has wound itself so tightly around my heart that I've jumped in with both feet. At this point it doesn't really matter what goes wrong with it, because I'm all in.

Strange

2009-08-06T20:10:00.000-04:00

So, I forgot I had a blog. Apparently I've been sitting here since 2007, quietly waiting to discover myself again.

I read my two previous posts. Wow, I seemed tired. And I suppose I was. Two children was a hard transition for me. Looking back it seems that it should have been easier, because I've experienced more in that last year than I care to list in detail at present.

Suffice it to say, I now have three children. I'm still tired, but not always. Mostly because I want to be engaged with who they are and what they're doing. I think if I close my eyes I might miss it...and they'll be 18 and leaving home. I also lost a member of the team, a little over a year ago now.

My husband, Andy died at the age of 30. Was murdered, actually. Let's be specific, shall we? He was a Police Officer. He never drew a weapon of any type. That detail always plays over and over in my head. Why, I wonder? Do I imagine that if he had a weapon out to defend himself then his death would make more sense? Fit into the order of things? No, I don't think so. There is no way death can fit into the order of things when you're young and father to three young children. There isn't any way I can make this fit. I don't really try anymore.

But, I have been writing more. So, this little blog could be good right? A forum to post my meandering thoughts and musings? Hopefully I won't forget about it for another few years.

Thoughts on Books and Authors

2007-02-22T13:42:00.000-05:00

I've been re-reading one of my most favorite novels. It's called The Blue Castle and it was written by L.M. Montgomery...that's the author of the Anne of Green Gables books. The Blue Castle is a great book that someone needs to make into a movie. It's sweet and fun and romantic. There's a dreamy quality about it that's timeless. I truly enjoy reading it about once per year. However, as much as I love The Blue Castle, L.M. Montgomery isn't one of my favorite authors. I enjoy her stories, but the depth of her writing isn't phenomenal. If I want depth combined with great story writing, I turn to Susan Howatch. She is, by far, my most favorite novelist...and I've read quite a few. She is like a rare gem and I don't know many who have discovered her, though she does have quite a following. Her Church of England series is probably the best, although I am awed by her more recent trilogy beginning with The Wonder Worker. Simply amazing writing. I think I am going to re-read her Church of England series next. Though, I am torn because I feel I need to re-read the Harry Potter series before the final book comes out this summer. I don't know what I will do without all my friends from Hogwarts when the series comes to a close! I know I will feel adrift in a barren world for quite some time.

Humble Beginnings

2007-02-18T20:22:00.000-05:00

So, here I am at Blogger and hoping to begin a new and better blog. I am a convert from myspace which, in my opinion, is a really strange place to be. Here, I'm hoping for a level of sophistication. However, don't get your hopes up. I am a mother of two and, if I'm honest with myself, my days of being eloquent are gone. I have high hopes that my eloquence will return when my children are a bit older...but for now I function in practicalities. Blogging might rouse some dormant prose within me, this I eagerly await.