In the Changing Room

Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

I see the soft capes draped over the models. They look perfect for our mild winter temps in South Florida. But I know what they’ll look like on me. Or, rather, what I’ll look like with them draped over my 5’4” frame. 

The same can be said for some cuts of jeans or the trendy untucked shirts. I’m not the 111 pounds I was at 18 and 20 extra pounds make a huge difference on the hips of a borderline petite person. I will look squatty and feel dumpy. 

Sometimes I will buy the shirt anyway. I will convince myself it’s only my eyes that see this, and that may be so. But one day, I’ll put it on and what looked good in the dressing room looks bulky and frumpy now. 

Up and down I go, trying to hold on to things no longer there: youth.

When I fit into the demographic called young, I knew my purpose and felt sure of it. I was confident in mothering. I was sure of my place in the church as a respected and valued leader. I considered it a privilege to be counted on to shuttle our kids classes on field trips and to sports games. 

I knew what was ahead. Most of the time. There was a certainty to life.

And then I blinked.

I wonder if this is how Rip Van Winkle felt when he woke from his years of sleeping. I’ve wakened to a time of unknowing and uncertainty. Mothering has changed and become more difficult as I’m not always certain when, or how, I’m needed. (The double edge of raising good, able, smart adults.)

Retirement is coming is now weeks away and what started as a fun thought is fraught with fear and uncertainty.

My youth is gone but not my life. There is more, much more to come.  But I’m not the same size and I’m not sure what fits?

I’m back in the dressing room realizing the low rise jeans aren’t working anymore nor is the size 6. Do I really HAVE to shop in the women’s department? Am I relegated to Ann Taylor or Chico’s? No offense but they aren’t my style.

That’s how life feels these days. I appreciate today’s technology and not having to worry about long distance charges to talk to friends and family on the phone. I try to stay current with culture and trends. I’m just not sure I fit into any of it.

Perhaps the best thing this part of life offers is there isn’t a one-size-fits-all pattern. It’s going to be custom made, one of a kind, for me.

“You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something.” Psalm 139:13-16 Message

Mother’s Day 2019 The baby is grown up with her own “baby”

Naming the Losses – Embracing Hope

“I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process.” ― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

From my art journal

The word I chose for this year is embrace. I want to be mindful to take hold of what is in front of me be it change or grief.

One of the tangible things I’ve begun as I process my grief is to name things I’d lost. My hope is that specificity would help me name what my feelings represent.

Two specific areas have impacted my life: frequent moving and the loss of parents.  Here’s what I wrote several months ago.

Loss (as it pertains to moving)

• Schools
• friends
• familiar place
• doctors and dentist
• hair salon
• stores
• knowing where you’re going
• belonging
• culture of place
• sense of history
• knowing where you’re from

The loss of a parent:

• confidence
• cheerleader
• shared history
• teacher
• one who has known you all of your life
• family stories
• wisdom
• encouragement
• stories you’ve yet to ask them

Recently I’ve added these losses:O

• Youth
• position
• titles
• recognition
• job
• pets
• home

Moving has had as much impact on me as my parent’s divorce. Perhaps it’s because their divorce created and accelerated the moving to once every 6 months during my high school years.

Moving, no matter the circumstances, is considered one of life’s major stressors. By the time I was 17 I had lived in 13 cities, 7 states and attended 13 schools from grades 1-12.

I think there is value in naming our loss. I believe it helps validate our feelings. It reminds me there is a legitimate reason for my feelings. I don’t have to stay in mourning but there are reasons grief looms like a shadow in my life.

If grief is going to be my faithful companion I’m going to do my best to learn what it has to teach me.

I’m going to let it move me to the point of tears but I’m also going to let it move me through the tears. 

Yes, grief is the process of sorrow. People will say you’re so brave to go through this. Grieving isn’t the brave part. Having hope is brave. 

Feel your way through the grief and embrace the hope of a new beginning.

When Grief Feels a Little Like Being Lost

Photo by Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash

The first time I felt literally lost was on a red dirt road in the middle of Arizona with my husband and two young children. If I could choose two people to be with in an emergency, my husband would be one of them. That combined with knowing the need not to alarm our children are the only things that kept me from panic. I immediately thought about the cooler of ice we had that would provide us water should we be stranded in the desert over night. Mom thinking. 

A few years ago my husband and I went hiking with some extended family. To this day the men won’t acknowledge we were lost but when you ask other hikers for directions you’re lost. It was frustrating. The map was useless as were our “smart” phones that were out of signal range in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The trail, such as it was, wasn’t marked or at the least, not marked clearly. The moderate 2-hour planned hike turned into a frustrating 3 hour search of the trail we had apparently lost.

Lost is not a good feeling. I get impatient with others. I shut down except to utter a few sharp words. 

The kind of lost I feel today is worse. I know where I am. I am not in danger of the elements. My phone has a signal. I know the landscape, the streets, the faces. I just don’t know where I’m going. I am adrift, caught in the in-between. This is the place where emotions can take you under. And they are rising up in my eyes day after day.

It would be understandable if there is no faith to tether your fears to. But what is said of one who claims a faith in a God who cares? Yes, I play that through my mind. Do I think God to be a liar? His word says he cares for me – all of me. I know the counsel that friends and scripture give. I know the songs but this lingering feeling of being without purpose and aim haunts me like looming shadows. 

I wrote those words in my journal last summer. That’s when the emotions of grief began to hit hard again.

I was in my 40’s before I realized grief could be brought on by more than death. Our life had taken an unexpected turn that had us moving from the state I’d lived in for 30 years and plopped us into a ministry that left me wondering how I would fit.

Since then, grief has often been my unwelcome companion.

There was leaving our son a long two day drive away with our next move. My father-in-law’s death. Family concerns and heart break. Then mama’s obvious memory lapses that eventually confirmed dementia. The following succession of deaths of a dear uncle, my mother-in-law and eventually mama.

It’s been a long 12 years and one that has found grief waiting at every turn.

This time it comes with the anticipation of retirement. Another surprise. Not retirement but the grief I didn’t know it would bring.

For months I was trapped with the thoughts of everything I would lose. I began to mourn the loss of place (this is home), position, the known for unknown but mostly I sensed the loss of purpose.

The tears came and I was overwhelmed with a sense of loss. The kind of loss you feel when you don’t know where you are. Like being on a dirt road with no signs in the middle of Arizona.

I journaled. I made a list of things I will miss about this place. I daydream about furnishing our retirement home and being 20 minutes away from our daughter and granddaughter. But I still feel an ache in my heart. I still wake in the middle of the night feeling a little lost.

Mostly I’m holding on to these words written by another familiar with grief:

“God was faithful before; God will be faithful now. 

We weep for that which we have that is so good. We don’t diminish how desperately we will miss it. We let ourselves feel the ache because grief is good and necessary. And mixed in with the grief is gratitude for the undeserved goodness to have the gift of this life, this place.” Gina Butz, SheLoves

Let me feel my grief and cry my tears. It’s okay, I’m okay. God was faithful before and He will be faithful now.

Life in Pieces

They did the obvious work first: removing the tree that was snapped by 155 mph winds and fell on their roof then rolled onto the back of their truck. They took pictures of the damage for the insurance claim they’d file in the coming days. Then they began picking through the water saturated things inside this house in the Florida panhandle that is a gathering place for our family.

Ten days later and there is no electricity but cell coverage is coming back in spurts. My cousin drove an hour and half away to have wifi and file a claim with their homeowners insurance. They were the only ones inside a restaurant they found open at the beach to celebrate her husband’s 60th birthday. This will be one none of us will forget.

We live 9 hours south and have had our scares with hurricanes. Last year we evacuated as Irma took aim in our direction but unlike Panama City, we escaped a direct hit and Irma’s punch was much lighter. It doesn’t matter if you live in tornado alley, on a fault line or where annual blizzards cover your cars there is nothing to prepare you for sifting through your life amid the ruins of your home.

When my cousin found a spot of cell coverage she called and quickly said, “We’re okay”. In an instant you realize all the stuff is just that and you celebrate life.

We’ve been able to talk to a few times. Each time we speak I hear her old self coming back but this devastating event will remake her like they’ll remake their home.

Boxes of photo albums had expanded with water were pulled from the attic. Some were beyond saving but the ones in frames made it. Pieces of their life sat in piles to save or trash.

She sent texts as she sorted through. I wish I could have been there with her. She’s not a cryer but I know my eyes would have teared up and maybe together we’d have let a few tears fall. We would have found humor where we could because it’s what our family does. But the texts were good. Her words connected us.

As she sifted through the damp and curled pieces she found love letters between she and her husband when they were dating. They had survived Hurricane Michael just as their love has survived. Thirty-eight years of marriage doesn’t come without figurative storms and they’ve had a few. We’ve all had those moments when we surveyed the damage and made decisions to rebuild or not.

Standing in the middle of their house with a gaping hole through the roof, water still puddled on the floor, insulation hanging down through the ceiling, he asked if she wanted to move. It didn’t take my cousin long to answer a definite NO. She reminded him she likes her neighborhood and her neighbors. This is more than a house. It’s where they’ve put roots that are stronger than the trees tossed like toothpicks.

The ruins that remain are looking more like pieces than can be put back together.

“The rainbow doesn’t negate the effects of the storm, 

but does bring light to the dark and is a symbol of hope.”

*As I finished this I got word their water and electricity have been restored!

The Withering Beauty of Grace

This withered and dying sunflower holds remnants of what was. It’s color is still true and some of the petals refuse to let go.

 

When I brought the bundle of yellow from the store some blooms weren’t fully open. Over the course of the week their petals relaxed and exposed more of the round center. Their stalks are thick and have the strength to support their brilliantly colored heads.

 

Over two weeks time I watched them cycle from full strength to petals dropping and starting to wither. Even as their blooms fade their beauty does not. The petals aren’t smooth or full. Yet it doesn’t negate their beauty. Neither has my admiration diminished. Through all of the stages they carry themselves with strength and a quiet grace.

 

Two years ago we lost the last of our parents. They are all gone on to glory now. We watched them age, color draining little by little. Dark hair to white. Energy slowly waned unable to keep pace with their younger selves or their great-grandchild. Some held tighter like the petals on the sunflowers. But life wins as it always does. The ultimate oxymoron.

 

Remnants have been left in their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Remnants of beauty that defies the kind in magazine pages. Beauty isn’t always smooth skin and clear eyes. It’s not about strength or memory. It is more. Somewhere in the withering and fading you see the grace.

 

 

I’ll Remember For You

This is my third, or maybe 5th, attempt to write something about Mother’s Day. I’ve started from this way and that and clicked “move to trash” every single time.

No fluff or sweet stories. No whining about the dementia or trips down memory lane. Just words she can’t read and wouldn’t understand but the heart wants to shout to whoever is reading:

Thank you Mama!

Thank you for not being perfect but still being strong. Strong convictions, strong opinions and strong faith. Your faith was the foundation you built your life on and was evidenced in serving others. All kinds of others, not just those who looked like you.

You showed us what the bible meant when it said love your neighbors as yourself because you usually took better care of others than you did yourself. You were tireless helping with the annual postal carrier food drive and our Mother’s Day phone calls had you telling me how many pallets of food were collected. (And mama, you’d never believe what they’re doing with pallets these days!)

Thank you for not being about drama but being about kindness. For all those times you clucked your tongue and wagged your finger at me when I said something unkind or snarky, I remember them, mama, and you were right. I’m still working on it. I’m afraid the snarky might be here to stay. Maybe it was from daddy’s DNA 😉

Mom with our daughter, Heather, 2004

Thank you for all the times you flew across the country when I think you really didn’t want to but it was the only way to see us and your grandkids. Ours were the only two for a good long while and because of your sacrifice of time and money they got to know you. They remember your laughter, just like people say they remember mine. Thank you, mama.

And all those phone calls during the long years we’ve lived apart, I miss them so much. We talked about how many families you (through the Salvation Army) were helping at Christmas about how cold it was at the fair grounds that year but it kept the food boxes cold. When I told you we gave gift certificates to the grocery store instead of food boxes you asked why and you laughed when I told you it’s not cold in Florida even in December and those food boxes would spoil faster than they could get them home. Then you’d tell me how many aunts and cousins and kids showed up for the family Christmas dinner. You had to have it at the church because so many came, usually 70 or more. Don’t know how you made it through the noise but you seemed to tolerate family noise a little better. Thanks for keeping me part of the family even though we lived thousands of miles away.

We had so many good times together. I wish you could remember them mama but I’ll remember for you for now. Someday, we both believe in that someday that will come when we’ll be healed and all things will be new and we’ll rejoice together. Maybe you’ll even be able to sing because I think you always would have liked to.

You were a doer and taught by example before your words. Thank you for that mama, because I know what you do matters more than what you  say.

Mostly, thank you for loving God. It was when you got the most quiet, when your voice would crack just a bit, because you were overwhelmed at God’s love for you. I wish we had talked about that more.

I had plans for us, mama. Plans for you to spend more time with us in your retirement but God had something else in mind. I don’t understand his plan for you. I don’t need to understand to know he loves you and all of us who miss you. I know that. I know his love is greater than your dementia and surpasses all the memories we won’t be able to make. It hasn’t come without tears, tears that still form. I think you’re already with Jesus, mama. You aren’t here so you must be with him and I am so thankful, so grateful that he is your resting place.

Laughing again

“There are two of me
And two of you”

So starts the song by Jackson Browne that describes so many relationships in life. Two of me, the daughter-child and the adult-child and two of him, the father who was only still when laying on the living room floor, pillow under his chest, watching television at night. Daddy to me no matter what age but when his age caught up he was the second him, the one who couldn’t conquer his health problems and went from joy to lament.

I have to count backwards to remember how many years he’s been gone. I only know because he passed the April before our daughter graduated high school. I guess it’s terrible not to remember the exact day and year your daddy died. I do. Sort of. I remember it was during spring break and we were doing a day camp with the kids from church who needed something to do. I remember getting the call from a friend who thought I knew. I remember his voice when it became clear to him that his condolences were actually my first hearing of daddy’s passing. I remember that exactly. How I was at my desk in that pitiful old building we called a church. I was facing the window and I remember his voice. I don’t remember what I said. Just Ron saying, “I’m so sorry.” And the kids. A dozen or so of these precious kids that Henry kept in the other room while I called mama to tell her. They’d been divorced years but she cried.

I remember the day went on and I went to where the children were and each one hugged and kissed me and maybe I didn’t show them how to grieve when we continued on with our outing for the day. But grief doesn’t come then. Grief is a sneaky bastard. Sometimes cruel in his attacks.

So yeah, it’s been a long time and I guess I can blame reading about others loss and today, April 2nd, being the day the second of him left this world that’s brought this on.

And the song goes on….

“There were two of me
And two of you
Searching for a passageway
Hidden from our view
And together we went crashing through
Every bond and vow and faith we knew”

There was always something hidden, or at least not clear to me. The fiercely protective daddy of his little girl and the sad, confessing dad to his grown daughter. Things I’m not sure a parent should tell their child no matter how old but I think I already knew.

In his absence I’ve lingered on the bitter taste of loss a bit too much. Loss and how hard his life was the last few years. Three days a week on dialysis, position taken from him through retirement and a realization he wasn’t in control. The passageway he went crashing through was frustration and sadness and it broke my heart. Bonds and vows had been broken. Faith? I think we kept that.

Some days I miss daddy. I miss telling him the funny stories because laughing with him was the best. But I don’t miss his sadness and his grieving over a life of activity lost. I don’t miss hearing his strained voice when he called after dialysis. I don’t miss his complaining about what he couldn’t do and couldn’t eat and couldn’t be because I couldn’t help him. God intervened and took him home where, I’m sure, he’s laughing once again.

 

 

 

Destination Unknown

Hey! I’m guest posting at fellow blogger Leigha Conn’s  today which works out great since Henry and I are on our way back from the mountains in North Carolina. Please hop over to Leigha’s for a visit. (I’ve always wanted to say I’m “guest posting” :))

Lake Junaluska, North Carolina

The Color of Life

“it’s something to see the Spirit leave the body.” Steve said. I looked up at my brother-in-law unsure of what he was saying. I waited for more that had to come. I’m unclear of the exact words that followed but he said something like maybe it was just his color fading. The color of life.

He was at my uncles side as he drew his last breath. YHWH-whey. My uncle, his father-in-law of 31 years. His second father. Steve is broken in two over losing this man he dearly loved. The second father in 4 years he has sat at the side as they breathed their last. The color of life left and they breathed the same word as the first they breathed at birth. YHWH-whey.

It was some time ago I heard Rob Bell speak about life’s beginning and life’s ending. Both begin with a breath. We suck air into our lungs exclaiming life and take our last breath leaving this life behind. Sacred breath. Breath of life, of heaven.

The ancient ones revered the name of God so much they would not even say it. The name we read as Yahweh they would only breathe. YHWH whey. And Rob asks this question: what if our first breath, breath of life, and our last breath, we are breathing the name of God?

I said this last night to Steve and Beki. She who lost her first love, her dad (always daddy to her). We stood for a moment, quiet as the words set in. My arms chilled as I thought of this wonder, this hope. Yahweh. And I want to believe that is exactly what we do. What uncle Johnny has done. He has breathed his whole life Yahweh’s name. his last breath as Steve saw his spirit leave. This time when he breathed His name it was Yahweh that took him home. Yahweh had called his name and he answered.

Then Sings My Soul

The skies dark this morning, clouds have moved in. I pulled gray from my closet before seeing the natures gray. It’s fitting. Today. There seems so much gray in life. But like the sky, I know light will break through.

We talk with the men, so many struggling with addictions and we talk about this season. This season of joy, family, celebration….this season of the highest rate of suicides. We talk to them to prepare, guard themselves, their mind. But it’s for all of us. This guarding of the heart.

But if I guard my heart, how can it feel deeply what I want to keep?

Our wedding day with uncle Johnny and aunt Juanita

In the midst of learning how to lose mama to dementia we learn a dear uncle is not well. Gravely ill. We travel to see him during the Thanksgiving holiday giving much thanks for him, the life he’s given in service to others, to his family. This man who dedicated me as a baby, enrolled me as a member of the church and conducted the wedding ceremony for Henry and me. It was just this Thanksgiving that aunt Juanita reminded me I was only 14 when I asked him. I remembered. Remembered being on a family picnic in Fort Smith, AR, my parents having divorced earlier that year. I remember telling uncle Johnny I wanted him to do my wedding one day. He laughed and said I’d change my mind when I was older. I argued, no, I wouldn’t. And I never considered anyone else. Our family had no shortage of ministers to conduct this special ceremony but Uncle Johnny was the one I chose.

Two years ago with mama (she didn't remember him)

Spring 2011

It’s hard to see these strong men become weak. It was sudden with him. Reasons we still aren’t sure of but don’t matter much now. They called last night to say it would only be a few days now. A few days until his suffering will be gone and his lungs won’t need the air to fill his new body.

There has been too much loss the past months. For me, for others. And in each loss I search for the grace to survive it. I search for the truth to remind me of the good. Good that brings peace.

Good memories abound and lead me to search memories for more good and I see my life has been filled with good. Good people. True people. Caring and giving people. All of us bound through God’s good. He is where we have found this purpose, this calling. Not a vocation calling but answering his voice to believe and follow.

The skies will clear, they will. The sun shine through again. But even with the clouds I know the sun is there. Always there. The Son.

Post Script: As most of our family is, uncle Johnny was musical, played tuba in the Salvation Army band. All of his children play some instrument and play it well. The time came for him to join heavens choir as he passed from this life December 9th. He’ll join the chorus with daddy and together their tenor voices will rejoice: “Then sings my soul, my savior God to Thee, How Great Thou Art, How Great Thou Art!”