love

Wrapped in Your Love

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I’ve been waiting to write this post. But when the time is right, it’s just right.

Shelly and I saved several of our mom’s clothes because we knew we wanted to have them in some way. Several of her T-shirt’s or outfits have a special place in our memories and our hearts–but we didn’t necessarily see them as staples for our own wardrobes. We settled on a T-shirt rag quilt–simple enough to make but also something we could wrap ourselves up in when we need to.

It was a process. And I had several other projects that were ongoing alongside of this one (shout out to my friend who let me help her with four T-shirt tie quilts for four very special high school seniors). We spent one night crafting with a friend and we cut the T-shirt’s and the flannel “batting” into squares. Then we cut the backing squares out of material mom had when she was a missionary in Zaire (DRC today). I took a break after that. Eventually, slowly, I sewed the three layers of each square together. And after that, sewed the squares into rows and then three rows into a complete quilt.

None of it was done perfectly. But all of it was done with love. The binding was the last step. A quick wash and it was ready to use. Shelly claims I’m going to hoard it and not let anyone else use it (she may be right). But there is something wonderful about being wrapped up in Mom’s memories, in her love.

A Blessing for this Day

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You are my blessing.

Day in and day out,

You flood my thoughts,

Protect my heart,

And bring unending joy.

You are my blessing.

You find me in the dark places,

You wrap your spirit around me

When you can embrace no more.

You find me in times of weakness and shame,

You raise me to my feet,

And remind me of the strength within.

You are my blessing.

Lessons on end,

Teachings still to come:

About life,

About love,

About relationships

And faith.

About children,

About elders,

About spaces and in between.

You are my blessing,

My mantra,

My mama.

Bert and Ginger

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Sometimes the universe knows what you need. It sends you little messages of presence and encouragement and love. Hold on to those, dear ones, gather them up and keep them close to your soul.

Earlier this week my sister and I were able to spend some intentional time with our aunt who lives in another state. She’s been a widow for a handful of years, and we talk to her regularly to check in and make sure she is doing alright. Our mom, her sister, was the youngest of four by about 8 years. Because our parents had us (what was once considered) later in life, people often thought our aunt and uncle were our grandparents. And they operated as such, our maternal grandmother had already passed before our parents were even married, and I only have a few memories of my maternal grandfather before he went to the nursing home–but they are wonderfully happy memories.

But our aunt and uncle stepped in, in so many ways, to the role of grandparents. They came for visits, kept me for a week or two while the rest of my family went on vacation (no joke), they spoiled us, loved us, gave us advice, celebrated with us, and so much more. Visiting my aunt brought back lots of those happy memories, and thoughts of being worried about her being lonely living states away from family–especially as she ages. And so when my sister and I saw the below picture on the flight home, the wind left our lungs, tears welled up, and there was a stark feeling of reassurance and pain, an eerie combination.

A good reminder that those we love are always with us, sending us signs, offering reassurance, and urging us to remember them. Thanks, Bert. Love you. And don’t worry, we will take care of her.

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.

 

Forty Years…

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I would not be me if dates didn’t hold a special place in my heart. We had plans, or maybe just I did, about the celebration we’d have today. The guest list, the food, the decorations, the sharing of stories, the photos. But sometimes things change. Something happens and we have to set a new course, or change our goal. And so the magical dream in my head of celebrating my parents’ 40th anniversary went away. I packed up the ideas and the imaginings and put them in deep storage where they’ve remained untouched, until today.

It seems strange to celebrate without her here, and so I’ve held myself from wishing my dad “happy anniversary”. But in actuality I am sad for the years they have been cheated; it’s a strange sensation because it’s not even emotions about me.

I am thankful for my parents, their relationship , and how they raised me. And I am thankful for the realness, for the beautiful, and for the messy and difficult that comes with any marriage.

So here is to my parents on their 40th wedding anniversary. Thank you for your wisdom, your love, and your endless support. I am proud to have both of you to guide and teach me along the way. You may not be perfect, but you have proved to me that with the right person you can work through anything. And that love, true love, is everlasting.

Training Them Up

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The school year is coming to a close. Students have finals, papers, tests, projects, and presentations. They have yearbooks ready to be signed and teacher gifts ready to be given. Many of them have plans for summer trips/camps/activities/visits/fun. Unlike most years, this year has given me great pause. It’s reminded me how lucky I am to be doing what I do. How amazing the young people are that surround me. And, if you know anything about me, I get teary.

As this class of juniors is on the brink of becoming <<gulp>> seniors I have thought about what that means to me and my ministry. Each year at Southport CC (now Tapestry Church) I get to know the children and youth a little better. They grow and develop, and or shared time together increases. I learn about their quirks, their goals, what makes them laugh, what makes them cry, and I get to see their faith develop, evolve and transform. That last piece is definitely my favorite (faith nerd alert).

Next year will be the first year I will see a group of my kiddos graduate who I first had in Elementary school. Those Seniors were in 5th grade when I started. And though the group has changed slightly in terms of member composition over the years, they are a core, tightly knit group. And I am unbelievably proud of them, each for their own accomplishments and how they hold each other up.

All of this makes me think further. How will it feel when the next group, and the next group and so on? What about when the kids who were in 1st grade when I started graduated? What about the kids who were in preschool? It’s just incomprehensible to me. And I know the more years I have shared with these young people, the harder it will be to send them off to college or work or whatever the next stage of their journey is. It’s very humbling. And it makes me want to take hold of all of them and never let go.

I guess the true “test” is seeing the ones who have come back after college. That is heartwarming in so many ways. I am feeling very fulfilled, and gracious for the experience God has provided through my call.

“I only say inappropriate things around you…”

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Mother’s Day always brings the list of “those who raised you” or “those who helped you grow” and “aunts, sisters, mentors” types of shout outs in order to include all women into the celebration. It’s wonderful, but it still hurts as I feel I shouldn’t be honoring anyone other than my mother. But this year is different. I am making a shout out to someone very special, and I know in no way does it diminish my relationship with my own mom.

When I was in college I had the opportunity to join a sorority. I’m not sure what initially drew me in other than I knew several of the women from the chapter. In true Shannon form, I blossomed in the chapter, getting involved and making people laugh and being my generally outgoing self. But one relationship took hold very quickly.

When the sorority houses were reestablished in Delaware, OH, there were laws against a certain number of women living under the same roof together (oh, anti-brothel laws). So the houses were meeting houses and didn’t accommodate sleeping areas. Most of the houses didn’t have traditional House Mothers as there wasn’t much to look out for as the homes were not used 24/7. But our chapter still had a House Mom. Enter Sonya.

I’m not sure what it was that first made us click. Maybe it was our silliness, the fact that I’d always stop by to chat when I was in the house, or perhaps it was my care. I don’t know. But we quickly became good friends and she has since been a constant in my life. She hasn’t always had it easy, though. But somehow she still has a strong faith. She is one of the most thoughtful, spirited, and “beat to your own drum” people I have ever met. She gives what she has to others, often times even before she gives to herself.

Everyone in the house calls her “Mom”. This is true to the point that most people don’t even know her first name. She is small in stature but rich in love. She is an excellent baker, and wonderful friend, she makes me crack up like no one else can (especially when talking about things that some would consider taboo). Somehow I have a knack for making unlikely people come out of their shell. I don’t know how or why, but it has happened several times in my life.

My college experience would not be the same without this woman in my life. She’s seen me laugh so hard I can’t breathe, she’s seen me cry and cry and cry, she’s given me numerous hugs and unlimited advice, she has inspired me to always keep family at the forefront even when it is difficult. She is a blessing.

When my own mama got sick, she sent cards and talked to me on the phone. When my mama passed, I couldn’t call her. I texted and asked one of my other sorority sisters to let Sonya know my mom had passed. I literally couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone and say “Hi, Mom,” because my mom wasn’t here physically anymore. It took several months before I could do it. And the first time I called all I said was “hi”. But she was there with a reassuring word and lots of love. I am thankful for her friendship and her continued presence in my life. I love you, Sonya. Happy Mother’s Day.

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.

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.