To Dad: Beauty for ashes

I am really having a hard time looking at boats on the ocean. Granddads at soccer games: rip my heart out. I still can’t walk past the card aisle in the month of June. It’s just too hard. It’s too much of a reminder of the card I can’t buy for you anymore. Today I went through the Dunkin' drive thru, not Dunkin’ Donuts anymore, you would think that was dumb. I ordered a Dunkin’ stick and a cinnamon roll and tried hard to not weird out the server through my tears over pastries. Because that’s what we always got. I got an iced coffee instead of hot chocolate, because I’m 43 now and it’s 90° outside. But I did forget how good the cinnamon roll tasted, which is a good thing, because I cannot imagine how astronomically high the caloric count on this thing is. It was exactly the way I remember it tasting, though, every time I was sitting across the table eating one with you and telling you all about my day, my week, but mostly my heart. Your piercing blue eyes. I can still see them looking deeply into my soul and just knowing all that was deep down in me. No matter what I said or didn’t say, you just knew. And so I’m sitting here on the bench on the eve of Father’s Day and I miss you. 

I knew I would be emotional with Emma's graduation because my baby girl is leaving the nest. But I don’t think I anticipated how raw and heartbreaking it would feel to not have you there. Papa‘s punkin. She did it. I put a pink rose by your bench that we had at her party. You always liked to give me pink roses and so I felt that it was appropriate that we had them there for her. She graduated, she looked beautiful, and I know how proud you would be. How proud you’ve always been. 

Did I ever explain enneagrams to you? You would humor me and take the test, I’m sure. I’ve re-discovered that I am actually a 6 on the Enneagram. A lot of people including myself have mistaken me as a 2 or a 9, but I really think I am a six. I am a loyalist. And you have been my safest place. And that doesn’t bode well for a loyalist when you lose someone. Especially when that someone is your rock. I miss you more than words. I miss the little things. I miss your laugh until you cry, I miss how wholeheartedly you sing, albeit completely off tune, I really miss picking up the phone to hear you say, “Hey, babe, this is Dad.” I miss how often you would ask me if I want to go fishing and how desperately I wish I had one more trip with you. I miss the way you eat corn on the cob in the summer, the slight Southern drawl you never lost, and especially your hugs, I really miss those. A lot. 

I’ve always been someone who has cherished every moment, but no matter how hard I cherished, it hasn’t made you not being here easier. And people saying time heals, nope, not at all. It just hurts more. It hurts hard. I don’t live in regret knowing that we said everything there was to say. I know we both knew, and know, the depths of love you had for all of us, but still what I would give for another day with you.  I miss you telling me how beautiful I am and how much you love me and how proud you are of me. I miss being able to dial your number, which I’ll never forget, and tell you about something that the kids did and how you wish they would stop growing up so fast, or simply just to hear your voice to know that everything would be OK when I felt overwhelmed. You understood my joys and my sorrows as much as I did. I miss that.

Ashes. The physical part of you without the soul, our loss back into the earth surrounding me as I sit here. As I walked through trails, I began to think of Isaiah 61 “The Spirit of the Lord is on me . . .to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve . . .to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness” I began to see the beauty. The way the sun hit the water, the wildflowers climbing through the weeds. The gentle breeze, the smells and sounds of summer, of honeysuckles and frogs in concert. I secretly hoped as I walked that God might hug me and literally I wished to have a deer appear as if it were a sign of you from Him. Though it hadn’t happened, there was enough for me to feel your presence. I felt refreshed and I felt you near me. And then as I was leaving, there she stood in front of me, unafraid and looking right at me. This was your kiss, beauty for ashes. A cherished moment, tears of loss and tears of joy. I left my time with you a little lighter, a lot closer, but still reminded that I hated going home with an uneaten Dunkin’ stick. Happy Father’s Day to the best, for always.

Vibrant in the Rain

Sometimes, I think the autumned trees look more vibrant in November rains.  But almost always, I think to stand in the rain to see them feels soggy, cold and with a miserable rawness that penetrates to your bones. This feels like my life at times right now.  (Sunshine, blue skies and 72ish degrees make me happy.) The rawness and cold of life's storms don't stay away because we ask them to and prayers don't always get answered in the ways we want them to.  Rain, and dare I say, devastating storms fall on us all at some point. And I hate this. I hate this more than I ever imagined I could.

My dad is my hero, if there is or was ever a man in this world that I know, he is the goodliest that I have ever met.  And yet, life's rains don't discriminate the good from the bad. As I have watched him take the hits and face the storms, he has been nothing short of heroic, steadfast in his faith and caring about how to lift the burden that he fears I feel. He is standing taller and more vibrantly in the rain. I've always expected that my dad, my kid's Papa would be running with them until he was ninety. That's been my plan.  It's not seeming like God and I are on the same page and I can't begin to understand why.  I've gone through every reasoning in my head and, with Him, I've persuaded, pleaded and, with all abandon, begged that he see it my way.

We got home late a couple of nights ago and as I said goodnight to my 11 year old son and was walking out, he said, "Wait, you forgot to pray with me."  I was exhausted and was hoping a quick goodnight would suffice that night.  I turned back around, sat next to him and said "You're right, let's pray."  My prayer was short and rather obligatory that night.  Then Caleb began to pray and mid sentence, for the first time, he shifted his request as he started to pray as he always does for his Papa. As he was asking for God to heal him, he paused and then changed his prayer to one that started, "And God, I pray that you would heal . . .I mean, I also pray that you would encourage Papa's heart and make him feel happy."  I'm relearning to pray a bit too, not to stop asking for my desires, but to find the strength and comfort through the unbearably hard even when solace feels so distantly far away.  Caleb helped me this night to learn this more, as even his young faith is being formed, not just in the blue skies and sunshine, but especially through the rain.

I'm not thinking right now that I'll ever understand the why's. I'm just trying to figure out how in the world to be at peace with that. What I do know, and what I'm learning is that, in fact, the blood orange, sun-glittered gold and crimson leaves do seem to shout more boldly against the backdrop of gray and storm.  And I can appreciate that.  I can find comfort and joy in the presence of what is here today.  My dad is with me now and I'm enjoying the brightly colored leaves, focusing on that, rather than how the cold is raw and burns, and the anticipation of winter is coming. Today, the vibrancy is shining and that is what I am choosing to converge upon.

My Way or the Highway

So I haven't posted anything, in quite a while, actually years . . .but trying to get my writing muscles warmed up again and was looking through some unpublished drafts that seem distant enough now to not be so embarrassing for my now 7 year old ;) So here's to a throwback that still seems vividly clear in my mind and ears . . .

Friday morning, after going to the fourth grade "girl's talk" with the school nurse (very enlightening and filled with giggles), I thought meeting a friend with our 4 year olds at the mall play park seemed like an excellent idea on a dismal and downpouring day.  Little did I know the drama that would follow over a pair of socks.  My daughter was having a great time climbing in and out of the toy boats and cars and tunnels.  Smiles emerged continually after repetitious sliding.  She joyfully ran up to me asking if she could take her socks off.  My instant response was "No, honey, the floor might be dirty."  You'd think I just stuck her with fifty needles and then it happened, what all mothers dread in front and center view of all present audiences.  The fit of all fits.  Now, I knew my daughter had a will, and most times I sympathize, chuckle slightly and feel relieved that it's not my child looking demon possessed as a parent carries them off kicking and screaming to a land far far away . . .but on this day, it was my child.  Over a pair of socks.  Her will shone bright as day and dark as night as one moment of happy bliss turned to all heck breaking loose inside this "cute" child of mine.  It's in these moments, that you wish you could run away and pretend like you didn't know this little person.  And it's in these moments that every eye in, what seems all of a sudden a very crowded place, are staring at you with shakes of the heads and raised eyebrows, knowing it is precisely to you that this child belongs.  You learn to not look at anyone, mumble quickly "Yes it is!" to the woman clarifying for you that this is a rough day for you.  

The walk out through the corridors and parking lot seem eternally long and you've never felt more grateful for the haven the seat belts of the car seat provide to contain such strong wills in small packages, to put it politely.   My hands were shaking and my patience was gone and to remain quiet and pray for God to give me even a remnant of calm was all I could muster. The breathing techniques from childbirth classes came into play again, don't  think they can't find a place outside of labor in this wonderful, wild world of parenthood.  We had a very stern talk with dad upon arrival at home and after many tears, apologies and punishment, my angelic daughter returned--I'd never missed her so much!  Later that night as we were talking, I asked her what prompted this "display of will," and her simple response was still "I just didn't want to wear my socks."  Seriously, was that worth it? You wonder as a parent how all sense of logic and rationale find no place in a child's heart.

We prayed together at bedtime, and after such a day, the sincerity in the prayers of my child melt my heart (which still needed a little melting towards her ;) ) as she asked God to help her to be good and thanking him for giving her a mommy that takes care of her and helps her to be good.  Maybe, she had learned something from all of this :)  She is one of my greatest joys in this life, but at times these greatest joys have to learn that wanting it "my way" and being the boss is not her role in life at this point.  Today, I admired her quietly from the doorway as I eavesdropped on her and Baby, Baby, Baby as she was explaining to her about Jesus and how important it was to obey Mommy and Daddy. Her learning the lessons didn't shut down her spirit, but is pruning her character to remain a joy in all circumstances.  It made me think about how I handle life when things don't go my way or turn out the way I was hoping.  Hopefully,it's not resulting in public (or private) tantrums, but learning to trust that God always prevails and his way is always better than mine!

Isaiah 55:8-9

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
    neither are your ways my ways,”
declares the Lord.
9 “As the heavens are higher than the earth,
    so are my ways higher than your ways
    and my thoughts than your thoughts.

The Big Brother

I just finished tucking my younger two kids in bed and let Caleb sleep with Lexi in her room in Emma's bed while she is at a sleepover.  I stood at the top of the stairs smiling at the priceless conversation I got to eavesdrop in on.  It went something like this:

"Caleb?"
"Yeah?"
"Oh, I just thought you were asleep. . ."
"Oh"
"Caleb?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't you just think these stars are the most beautiful ever?"
"Uh, I guess so"
"Caleb?"
"Yeah?"
"I just love you so much"
"Lexi, you're funny"
"Yeah, I am, but I think you're even funnier"
"Yeah, I guess I am the funniest, and Lexi, if you need to go potty tonight, just tell me and I'll help you"
"Caleb?"
"Yeah?"
"Caleb, I just love that when I wake up in the morning, you will always play with me, I have the best big brother ever"
"Oh"

I love the way they love each other and the way that Lexi looks up to her big brother.  I remember back to one of their first times together and feeling so excited that this little girl has a big brother . . .

“Where’s my big brother shirt?” is a question I heard often in those early days.  It had been washed many times since it was bought on the day she was born.  Just over a month after it was given to him, it was beginning to already have that faded, slightly stained and well worn, favorite t-shirt look.  Any day that he could, Caleb wanted to wear this shirt with honor, so proud that he was the big brother now.  He adored his little sister and took his new role very seriously. 

Sitting quietly in bed next to me one  morning as I was half in and out of sleep, my little three year old Caleb leaned over to his little sister and stroking her on the cheek, I heard him whisper to her, “Baby Alex, you’re perfect. You are just perfect, baby.  I couldn’t ask God for you to be any better.  I’m your big brother and I will protect you from dragons and monsters and trains.”
 

So often I see myself as unworthy before God and my flaws seem huge and overwhelming.  I can feel like I walk in and out of grace because of what I do or don’t do.  Yet, in Jesus we have a big brother who presents us before his father, our father, as always perfect.  He took his role seriously as the “older brother” to even give up his own life to protect us from ever having to be insecure in knowing where we stand before God.

 In those early days, Caleb didn’t analyze day to day or moment by moment if he loved his sister, in fact most of the times he was holding her or praising her worth, she had poopy diapers and spit up under her chin.  Yet, to him, she couldn’t have been more perfect.  Neither did Lexi question or doubt his sincerity because she might be a mess.  She just looked back at him with big adoring eyes, reveling in the love of her big brother.  And now, almost four years later, he is even more the "bestest big brother ever." Trust me they have their many "non-angelic sibling moments,"  but he proudly and emphatically fights with his nerf swords as the brave knight protecting his little sister, the princess, from the dragons, trains and monsters.  She adores him and he loves being the big brother.  Do you trust that this is how God consistently looks at you because of the big brother that we have?

Col 1:22

22 But now he has reconciled you by Christ's physical body through death to present you holy in his sight, without blemish and free from accusation-

(from New International Version)

Heb 2:11-12

11 Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers.

Crazy Love

I just finished writing back to a friend of mine who is thinking of having three children and was asking how that transition was from two kids to three kids.  It took all of a half a second to be emphatically and joyfully assuring to her that three kids made my life feel complete and I couldn't imagine life differently.  It's crazy alright, but crazy wonderful and I remembered back to one of those early and very common scenes of my life in some of those newborn years and things I learned then. . .  

The phone was wedged in between my shoulder and my ear, trying to take in and respond attentively to the conversation at hand, while I held three dirty diapers in one hand and 409 carpet cleaner in the other to clean up a mess from my dog as he urinated in the middle of howling at my previously screaming newborn who had finally fallen asleep and let me put her down in the swing.  Then my 3 year old slipped on a blanket, crashing into the swing, waking up the baby as he cried.  They both began a melodious concert of high pitched cries and screams that the dog soon again joined in as well.  My friend quickly excused me from our conversation where I then hugged my son, then picked up the baby, only to have a gush of projectile digested milk come pouring over me. At this moment I sat down, decorated in spit up, baby in hand and surrendered my sanity.  I started to feel the tears well up and then began to laugh uncontrollably at this wonderful, crazy life that I always wanted.  Unending chaos, bottomless laundry, dirty dishes abounding, hormones highly elevated and yet having these tiny fingers wrap around mine tightly, the crazy fades and I realize how much I love all of this, every moment of it.

            The hours seem to disappear and before I can blink it is bedtime.  Dinner is done, baths have been taken, prayers have been said and the routines are through, I realize I’m still breathing and can hear myself think.  Caleb has a long list that we go through every night:  Can you lay down with me and can we talk about things?  Can you rub my back for one minute? Can you keep checking on me?  If I have nightmares can I crawl in your bed?  Can you put water at the end of my bed and turn lullabies on?  And every night, I routinely answer yes to all of these requests.  As I fulfill my promise to check on them, I can’t help but well up with tender love as I kiss the cheeks of my sleeping miracles.  It’s during these rare, quiet moments that I understand why God calls me to be still and remember him. 

Psalm 46:10
"Be still and know that I am God"

Tightly wound

"Would you like me to call her out of lunch or should we make this a show?" my daughter's fourth grade principal asked my husband. And of course, my husband would never hesitate at choosing the show. He had a meeting early this morning and didn't get to see Emma waking up a ""preteen." Now he was holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand and wanted to surprise her at school on her tenth birthday. It was lunchtime and all the fourth grade got to see how much this dad loves this girl.  Her friends at her table all giggled and applauded with delight as Emma smiled shyly, whispering to one of them "This is so embarrassing, but I kinda really love it too."
    I remember 10 years ago, waking up thinking I was getting ready to go to my baby shower.  I had never felt more excited in my life to become a mommy and felt like I had been waiting my whole life for it.  Taking almost a year to get pregnant, the joy and anticipation of this little girl coming to take over my world was overwhelmingly wonderful.  I had many complications during my last trimester, had been hospitalized, on bedrest and now finally with six weeks to go, my doctor was allowing me to attend my baby shower.  Something felt amiss that morning and I couldn't quite figure it out.  I knew if I called my obstetrician, she would make me come in to the hospital.  Kevin didn't want to take any chances and before I knew it I was hooked up to monitors.  Things seemed ok, there was no glaring problem, but they wanted to monitor me for several hours and torturously I watched the minutes wash away along with my baby shower.  I was thoroughly depressed.  Within moments of my full blown onset of depression a team of doctors and nurses raced into my room, put an oxygen mask over me, started sticking me with needles and IV's and said they would update me on "the situation" momentarily after the storm subsided.  To say the least, Kevin and I were terrified!  After what seemed like an eternal five minutes, my doctor calmly informed me that everything would be ok, but that they needed to operate immediately and that I would meet my daughter within the half hour.  Her heart rate was dropping dramatically and she needed to come out now.  I started crying and hugged my husband, scared to death.  Kevin spoke to my mom and filled her in on the situation, to which she responded, "We get to meet Emma today!"  I remember in that moment, Kevin's anxiety started to evolve into joy that we were about to see the face of this miracle we had been praying and waiting for, and that was exciting.  Moments later I was wheeled into the OR and minutes after that, the sweetest sound to ever hit my ears was heard in the resonant voice of my little 4 pound miracle.  We wept and laughed and were filled with inexpressible joy.  She was tiny but she was vocal, strong and absolutely perfect.  I had to recover from the surgery and due to Emma's early debut, she was whisked away to the NICU.  Kevin did not want to spend a minute away from her and it was in these first early hours that this little princess that literally fit in his one hand had him wrapped around all ten of her tiny fingers.  He would come back briefly to check on me and then return, unwilling to leave her, even at any nurses suggestion to get in a short nap.  I'd never felt more in love with my husband than seeing him at these moments hopelessly obsessed with this little girl.  As the years have come and gone I couldn't be prouder of who she is growing up to be and I couldn't be fonder of the way her daddy is, even more tightly wound around her finger and, most importantly, her heart.  Happy birthday to my sweet and wonderful Emma and happy ten years of fatherhood to her amazing daddy.

The wonder years

       Tomorrow morning, my little yellow house will be for sale.  They'll put a sign in the front yard and anybody could walk through my door and decide they want to buy it.  This will be the fifteenth time I've moved over the course of my life, but it feels very different this time.  There's been a lot of life lived in this house since the first day we walked through its front door.
        There's a LOT of preparation that must go into the selling of a house and I'm exhausted!  I'd like to say I'm meticulously neat and overly clean when it comes to my home, but I'd be lying if I did.  And so as I began to scrub the doors of the kids' bedrooms, there were marks more than a few days old.  I began to peel off princess stickers and superhero, "bravest patient" award badges, crayon masterpieces hanging by visible and assymetrically aligned masking tape, handprints and finger marks and my mind began to wander . . .I began to wipe away these smudges and my mind flooded with unerasable memories of the first time my daughter walked into her bedroom and the day she raced in front of me to push open the door to introduce her new brother to his palace where they reigned.   I remember chubby little legs attempting to stand on tiptoes and trying to wriggle the door knob to  open for the first time with the greatest of determination.  I remember putting child locks in place on these doors to protect the newest toddling member of our brood. Pinched fingers as a door slammed during a game of chase without knowing little hands were there.  Behind these doors were hide and seek caverns and explosions of laughter and giggles.  Sibling rivalries and threats that boys were absolutely not allowed to enter.  Summer days where the porch door was revolving with my kids and "adopted" neighbor's kids running in and out barefoot, leaving cut grass and sprinkler footprints in their wake.  Those same doors busting open at the first snowfall with them unable to get snow boots on fast enough to catch the flakes on their tongues to soon return inside the door to steaming cups of hot chocolate. Just a few short days ago Caleb leaned all his might against his door as my three year old Lexi pleaded from the other side "Caleb I admit I'm not a patient person, but give me a chance to try again" as they worked out their conflict that ended in hugging heaps on the floor. There were closed doors as I waited on the other side of a timeout where so many of their first lessons were learned of respect, obedience and then an assurance and trust of a deep and securing love that followed.   The conflicts had and resolved, the growing and maturing, the learning and the loving, the fighting and the struggling, the joys and the tears that have all occurred beside, in and outside of, opened and closed of these doors and doorframes.   My eyes began to well as I soaked in these precious memories that only these walls and doors will know once we are gone. I brought my hand down with one last swipe to get an overlooked chocolate thumbprint that I must not have cleaned on them very well or that they snuck up while I wasn't looking.  I know there will always be new doors to open, but I must admit I'm really going to miss these ones . . .