grief

My Gift is My Grief

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People say things come in threes: good, bad, and awkward. Yesterday a conversation about trips to visit sick relatives and saying final goodbyes, just in case. Today a text saying my dear friend had lost her baby, my heart aches. These moments make me catch my breath–they cause my instinct of “reaching out” to kick in immediately. It’s moments like these that I am thankful for my own grief and how it has taught me to share with others and support others. My advice, empathy, and care would be very different without my experiences with my grandma and mom and other close family friends who’ve been sick or gone through hardship.

But as soon as my breath catches in my throat, I hold it there and don’t let it out for a while. My mind changes to the mode of “where and what is number three?” And then I have to tell myself to breathe. It’s different for everyone. But it’s nice to have others who walk alongside of you who understand because of the thread of shared experience.

Thankful to have received and to share compassion and love in times of need.

The Witching Hour

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I’m not sure if I’ve written about some of this before, so forgive me if I have…but right now I am just letting the words flow…

I remember so distinctly some of our conversations those last few months.  Twice a day visits, one each from Dad and I, that ebbed into one of us visiting once a day because we were running ourselves ragged and not even noticing it.  Conversations about things to come, how the world would be, and how the four of us may or may not move along.  But I can hear her saying over, and over, and over….”If you come after 4, it will be too late”.  “I won’t make it until 4…so come before then…” And in the most morbid of ways, it became our running joke.  And in my attempt to comfort her, to support her into the next stages, I promised that I would think of her at 4 o’clock and every moment between.

So it seems only appropriate that today I should wake up in the wee hours of the morning, feeling strangely wide awake though not in any shape to face the day.  I read in a book how sometimes people refer to this time in the early morn as “the witching hour” because nothing good could happen at 3 or 4 in morning (I wish I could attribute that thought to the author, but I can’t seem to recall which book it is from–but that is not my own thought).  To me this time is sacred–and I imagine because of its “name” it would be the same for certain groups of the occult.  But I consider it my own personal time where the distance, and space, and thickness of the world feels a little bit less between us.  And even though my sleep pattern gets thrown off, I am thankful for the moments I can sit at this hour and just be.

It can be difficult to remember.  Her voice seems to slip away from your ears and you wonder if you truly remember how it sounded: how your could here the smile in her voice before you saw it on her face, how you knew when you were in trouble just from her tone of exasperation, and the concern and worry that was never far from the core of her being because she loved fiercely about her people and really people in general.

I don’t like today: because it slaps me in the face with the fact that she is gone.  Life has been hectic the last several months–there have been numerous changes at work that affect how I work and my typical processes for getting things done–I’ve had to adapt time and time again.  I say that because, in a strange way, its helped me cope.  I’ve been able to distract myself from the gaping hole in my heart.  I’ve been able to push aside some of the grief and not let it crumple me in a corner.  But that also makes me feel guilty for not letting myself be raw and vulnerable and real.  But that time has also given me much time for reflection as I look at how our congregation moves forward and evolves.  And in those moments of contemplation I wonder what her advice would be.  I recognize the ball of nerves she’d be as I share everything that is happening in my life and the (self-perceived) difficulties with which I’m faced on the day-to-day.

I don’t know exactly what she’d tell me, but I can imagine the sentiment behind her advice.  I remember the strength of her faith and her spirit.  I remember the compassion and love she had for me and my sisters.  I remember the fierce connection between she and my dad.  I remember the twinkle in her eye when she’d say something that was silly or was something that just barely pushed the envelope on its appropriateness.  I remember things that bonded our souls, those connections that are unbreakable.  I remember life chats snuggled in bed together.  I remember the multitude of shopping trips for new clothes: whether her taking me for school clothes or me taking her when she’d stopped driving.  I remember the way her cheeks would pink after one glass of wine.  And how her nimble fingers could craft up just about anything on her sewing machine that seemed ancient.  I remember how as she aged she looked more and more like her dad–and I think fondly about the fact that I will probably follow suit.  I remember the difficult days: growing up, as an “adult”, and in the last several years–because life simply isn’t life without the highs and lows.

And even in all of this remembering, it doesn’t make it easier.  But I am thankful for the witching hour and the way time suspends–even just for a few split seconds–so that I can catch glimpses of her, feel concentrate moments of her presence, and commune with my mama who I will never stop missing.

 

Living Parallel Lives

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Life has a funny way of bringing you what you need, exactly when you need it sometimes.  I guess that’s just God looking out for you, but sometimes it seems so coincidental.

In the last couple years I’ve been spending time with my dad going through things in his house: purging, and organizing, and reminiscing.  Often through this process we stumble upon hidden gems and items we didn’t know (or didn’t remember) existed.  Recently, one of those items was the journal my mom kept during most of her time in Zaire.  She served as a missionary through the United Methodist Church teaching Mathematics to middle and high school students.  Her handwriting looks different,  but eerily the same.  Her voice sounds different, she sounds…ambitious, young, dedicated, passionate.  But you can also hear the struggles, the questioning, the unsure-ity (is that a word?) and doubt.  Those are a lot of the same feelings I am confronted with right now as well.

I can’t claim that my experience is the same as hers. But situationally I can see the connective points of what she went through and what I am going through. It’s been a strange reality–to read it instead of discussing it with her, to feel her presence in my own struggles and emotions, to know that there is the constant reminder that no matter what happens she is right beside me.

It makes me wonder back to journaling my own thoughts, and what my future children will think of my words they might have the chance to read. How will they see me? What will they take away for their own lives? And how can I comfort them even by just giving them the realization that we all go through difficult times, times that make us want to pull out our hair, times that push us to (or past) the brink of tears, times that challenge us and make us stronger, wiser, and more ourselves.

All of these various thoughts push me to regroup myself. I remind myself of my worth, of my inner strength, of my talent, of my compassion and heart, of my need for self-care, of my desire to leave the world and my community even just a little bit better than it was when I was born to this time and place. I am learning to find me again. I’m learning to trust myself. I am learning that somethings I thought were important aren’t. And I’m remembering some of the important things I’ve overlooked along the way. I strive to do better, to create opportunities to grow and flourish, and surround myself with those who help me get there.

A Crazy Month

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I haven’t posted in a little over a month. I’ve missed writing, but I have a long list of reason why it hasn’t happened. I’ve had ideas flood my head but just haven’t made it a priority to sit down and write them out. That’s on me. But I am hopeful to get back into a routine, to again make this blog a part of my self-care and my goal of being honest with the world.

It’s been a long and tumultuous month. There have been ups and downs, both in major and in small ways. I haven’t handled it all the most gracefully, but there is something to be said for bouts of messiness in ones life; in a strange way I think it makes living all the more real.

We had our annual Camp at the beginning of June. I was hesitant and tentative about this year. After 20+ years we decided that we needed to function out of a new site. This was more than two years in the making. It wasn’t an easy decision, not everyone was happy about it, and I am forever grateful to the long hours and diligent work our Camp Team put in behind the scenes. But the hard work and dedication of all involved truly paid off. We had a wonderful week at Pine Creek Camp. It quickly felt like home. And it was wonderful to fully embrace and feel the idea that Camp; much like Church; isn’t about the place, it’s about the people.

Fast-forward two weeks to a death in the family. This provided me the opportunity to reach out to my grandfather who has distanced himself from me over the last two years. It started positively, and I was so hopeful that we had turned a corner. I remembered fond times spent together as a family. And that was enough. However, it wasn’t long lived. I’ve come to realize that people need to live in their own realities, whether true or not. There isn’t anything that I can do to convince them otherwise, and I am tired of trying. I’m a strong believer in honesty and compromise. So I wrote a letter, sent it, and gave myself the gift of closure.

Sometimes it seems strange sharing pieces of my life like the one above. Because it gives away a little more of myself than I’d normal like to do. But I think there is a power in stories, in shared stories, in understanding where people are coming from and so I share, not always the entire story but the parts that feel right. Life is complicated and intricate–in wonderfully beautiful and awfully tragic ways. Today I am thankful for my experiences and how they have made me who I am. There’s a lot of hurt in this girl, but also a lot of strength.

I also have to brag that the same week that my dad’s cousin died my Middle School youth spent three days volunteering in the community where our church is moving. They worked at a food pantry, helped with games at a senior center, and did a work project at the Elementary School that will serve as our temporary home on Sunday mornings. Not everything went according to plan, by my kids worked through some hard lessons that were out of our control. #proudmommoment #notamom #proudYM

And now my High School youth head off to their mission trip tomorrow! And that closes out my month.

Lessons from Ruth

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There are certain books of the Bible that just resonate with me. Not because I’ve heard the stories one too many times, but because there is a deeper learning that has happened or a unique connection to my life. The book of Ruth is one of those for me. As I was driving home late tonight from an event with my youth, I was thinking about tomorrow and what I might write. I started getting teary as I really thought about my mom, missing her, wanting to share things with her, and wishing I could give her the annual flowers that were my Mother’s Day gift tradition. I thought about the list I wrote for her when she was at GWV of all of the ways that I would remember her.

I think she is the Ruth to my Naomi. One of my favorite verses is Ruth 1:16–“But Ruth replied, “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.” NLT. Over and over my mom and I talked about her presence in my life, and her continuing spirit being with me, with each of us. To me, this verse embodies that sentiment. It helps me remember and connect. It helps ground me in the here and now. It helps me to move forward.

It’s short and sweet tonight. I love you mama, always and forever. Happy Mother’s Day to the best a girl could ask for. I miss you much but am thankful to see you each and everyday in glimpses, brief or extended.

It’s Gonna Be May..

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I’m all about the song titles I guess. I really meant to post this last night, but I couldn’t finish it. It felt overwhelming and too much. And so, well, I put it off.

I’ve been bombarded by the title phrase above, and the associated GIFs and Memes. It is indeed about to be May: with that comes a lot of emotions.

May is filled with flowers and cards and commercials and pictures and gifts: Mother’s Day. This is year two. The first Mother’s Day was way too quick. But the mention of the holiday still takes my breath away. It stifles my conversations and makes my eyes fill with tears. I don’t like talking about it because I don’t like having to say “my mother is gone, has passed, is no longer with us”. None of those phrases really capture what is. Because she is still her, just not the same way. Her physical presence may have passed but her spirit is still alive and well. She is always and will always be with us.

I sense that Mother’s Day may always put a lump in my throat. It will always beriberi with emotion, at least until I have kids of my own (which is not in the near future). And then it will just be full of a different emotion. I’ll think about giving her flowers every year because it was tradition, it was our special thing. And I don’t think I ever have her anything else. I’ll think about cooking for her or taking her to lunch after church. It’s the little things. The things that make me pause, and smile. The things that sometimes make a tear run down my face. Wonderful memories through the emotions. These memories are still deeply imprinted on my heart. And I’m thankful for each and everyone.

Je t’aime, maman. Tu es mon joli papillon, toujours.

Things Remembered

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My mom and I shared a special bond, each of my sisters and I had our own special bonds with her. But in the time she was in hospice our relationship changed in ways I’ll never fully be able to articulate to anyone. It was precious time, difficult time but still very dear to my heart. Our conversations varied, her moods varied, and my ability to just enjoy the time varied.

But one afternoon as we were having a serious conversation she asked me what I would remember about her when she was no longer here on earth. I came up with a few things, but before I came back the next time I had a list of about 20 that I typed up and printed out for her. I have this list saved on my computer, I also have a copy of it in my wallet, and my dad has the copy I gave to my mom. By no means was the list exhaustive, but it was comprised of the items that immediately came to mind when asked.

I’ve found over the last year that many things could be added to the list:

  • New books by favorite authors
  • Sewing projects
  • Carrie Newcomer events
  • Silly moments
  • Butterflies
  • Math problems

The list could go on and on. It’s hard to get through those moments I see her, or feel her, or something makes her come to mind. It’s hard but I am thankful for those glimpses. Sometimes when faced with remembering, it feels like waves are crashing against me harder and harder until I go under. Sometimes the remembering just makes me feel adrift at sea, as if I’m weightless without direction–caught in the mist. And sometimes I can feel the warmth and joy of the memories as if they have just happened, fresh and new.

I’ve learned that all of those rememberings are important. They are a part of my grieving, and a part of rediscovering myself, because this experience has changed me. That’s not good or bad, it just is. Every event in our lives gives us a new layer of ourselves because we are molded by the situations and people that surround and interact with us. I am thankful for change, and growth, and the opportunity to see things differently.

A few short days and the anniversary will be here. And I am bound and determined to make it a day of sweet memories: not those wrapped up in a bow, but those that are examples of her strength, her beauty, her stubbornness, her intelligence, her grace, her tenacity, her kindness, her diligence. Those are the memories I choose for this anniversary. The memories that aren’t sugar coated but are the best examples for who she was and how she raised me.

I miss you, mama, everyday. But thank you for making me strong. Thank you for making me stubborn. Thank you for teaching me to not silence myself when I need help, have questions, or disagree. Thank you for continuing to remind me of the importance of love and compassion. Thank you for being my inspiration, now and always.

Where’s the Calm

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My life this next week or so feels like it is coming on too quickly. The 18th will mark one year since my mom passed. And every part of me is rejecting that notion. They say (don’t ask me who they is) that there is a calm before the storm. But I don’t think there’s the same occurrence in the storms of our life.

Part of me worries that I’m not thinking of her as often as I should be. That she’d be upset or sad by the fact that she’s not omnipresent in my mind. That she is having major FOMO right now. But then Shelly and I watch a tv show or movie and there is a character whose mom is sick or dying or already gone. And we sit there in shock. Let me tell you, there are lots of tv shows and movies like this. You don’t realize it until its something your body can’t help but respond to.

It sure feels like there is already a storm raging inside of me. And I know it will only get more intense as the week moves on. But I am hopeful: hopeful that I am making her proud, hopeful that she is happy, hopeful that this will just be a part of my growth on the journey.

And then I feel her presence and know I don’t have to hope, because all of those things are true.

Cyclical

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I’ve been writing this blog in my head since my last post.  Writing and rewriting and editing and scrapping everything because it didn’t feel right.  Not the right time, not the right place, not what I needed right now.

Grief does two things to me I have found:  it pushes me inward and closes me off from the world around me–it causes me to focus on me and my tight knit circle who I love and trust.  But it also does somewhat of the opposite because it also makes me super needy–I covet communication with my closest friends–I covet their support and words and love and embrace.  I reach out often, probably way too much.  I become that girl.  And sometimes I fear it makes me too clingy and overbearing.

I’ve cancelled a lot of plans recently.  It’s nothing against those people or events.  I just am discovering more and more what I need.  And I am allowing myself to hold fast to that.  I have no apologies for it.  Explanation when it involves members of my tribe, but never apologies.  That wouldn’t be true to me or what I need.  And just a word of warning–I don’t plan to apologize for doing what I need to in order to grieve.  My grief is mine, no one else’s, and I won’t be held to someone else’s expectations of what my process should look like.  I have to proceed in ways that will heal me and help me grow. So, if I am not reaching out to you: first, don’t be offended but second, please don’t try to insert yourself.  I can only handle so much–and I decide when and what that is. I am sure in your mind its a nice sentiment, but it’s not helpful at this point. I want to be as authentic and real as possible, but I do try to avoid hurting feelings along the way. However, I’m at a place where I can’t forfeit my well-being for someone else’s. I’ve been reminded a lot this week to “do me”. And in an effort to do just that I put out the disclaimer because otherwise it will lead to 1) me coming across as rude in my blatant dismissal of whatever you put forth or 2) my strained, half-hearted, insincere appreciation that is unfounded and untrue.  And those aren’t fair to anyone.  Grief hasn’t hardened me, not in this way.  It has helped me get back to the core of me.  And so, this may seem unseen or unusual–but I have to have authenticity.  Anything less creates chaos for everyone involved.

Thank you to those who have let me cling. To those who have reminded me being “self-centered” is okay. To those who have seen me at my worst and keep coming back. Thank you for listening to what I need. This next week is going to be unbearable. It’s going to shake me to my core. I know I’ll be stuck in a fog of sorts. In some ways I already have been. It won’t ever be solved. It won’t ever disappear. But I do believe it will change and evolve and teach me things along the way. It’s already taught me loads about who I need to be and what I need to go from day to day. It’s taught me about self-care and being unapologetically me. It’s taught me about who I surround myself with and how to rely on my faith when all else fails. This entire experience has seen me grow, and if for nothing else I am humbled by that.

I Find Her in the Words

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One month to go. Less than really. And it doesn’t seem any more real than it did a year ago. There’s this strange time between 2/22 and 3/18 that will always leave me in a haze of wonderment.

I talked to one of my many “sisters” today. She brings much solace to my soul through her insight, mystical soul, and youngest camaraderie. Her words today soothed me, enlivened the song in my heart, and reminded me to keep watch.

No one will understand exactly what my grief is like. No one will understand perfectly my journey and purpose on this earth. But several know pieces. And I am thankful for how those pieces and those people are bound together. So when I feel sad or lost or without hope or direction I still have places to turn.

The words of others are just amplifying her words. They are bringing new insight, shedding new light, and constant reminders of her presence and being in the here and now. Today I am thankful for the thin places where I can hear her, where I can feel her, where I know she is reaching out fully of laughter and grace.

I am thankful for the memories other people share so I can continue getting to know her. So that when I am too tired to grasp on to the fragments of her there are still pages flooding in that keep her story in print.

I can remember the joy and wonder she had 30 years ago of being a mom again and welcoming you into this world. May this year and new decade be filled with many blessings and opportunities.

Blessings and opportunities. These are things I can create.