mom

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.

“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.

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.

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.

Imani Haerenga

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I’m not really sure how to put into words all that this last weekend was for me.  My favorite times in ministry are those times I get to spend extended intentional time with the young people of our church: lock-ins, mission trips, camp, and retreats.  This retreat is always special.  We have a theme, we start dreaming about and creating a vision for Youth Sunday.  I always walk away with extreme pride, a warm heart, and insight into how much these kiddos have grown over the last year (sometimes even just in the last few weeks).

One important thing I have seen in my own life, but I know to be true for others and for faith formation and retention in youth, is genuine connection.  To me that includes vulnerability, and openness, and realness.  So this year’s retreat theme landed on “Faith Stories”–broad in many senses, but also adaptable to be narrowed down.  We talked about what a faith story is, some examples from the Bible, different ways to express your story, mandalas, and then our sponsors shared their own stories.  The stories were raw, and emotional, and not candy-coated.  It can be uncomfortable sitting with someone else’s story, but our youth did an amazing job being respectful and receptive and present.

I’d like to share the story I wrote for my youth with you all here.  It was a struggle to read for them, but I got through it.  Please recognize that the audience this was written for was the youth on retreat, so the pronouns and language should be read as such.

Shannon’s Faith Story

I find writing my faith story to be a lot like journaling.  It ebbs and flows and most times just eeps out of me.  The first thing I’d like to make clear is that I don’t have just one faith story.  I have many.  Some are big, some are small.  No matter the size they have all had a hand in shaping me.  And that is ongoing.

I could tell you about my confirmation experience, and why I decided to go through with joining my church when I was in the 7th grade.  I could tell you about my African faith story.  How it felt to be God’s hands and feet and what culture shock was like for me.  I could tell you about my call to ministry and my process for discernment in youth ministry as my vocation.  But I think an important lesson in stories of faith is knowing they don’t always come in happy and joyous experiences.

I want to share with you my faith story from the last couple of years.  Bear with me because there are bound to be tears.  Some of you may know that my mom had Parkinson’s.  It’s a degenerative disease, meaning it doesn’t ever get better but medications and therapies can slow the progression of the disease.  Parkinson’s is a neurological disease so it affects the brain and nerves.  It was very difficult to see the spread of the disease but I found it gave me new perspective about my mom, our relationship, and our faith.

I’d have huge bouts of frustration with my mom in the early stages when she couldn’t remember things I had told her repeatedly, when I had to do everyday tasks for her, or things that seemed strange because she couldn’t do herself.  This is when my prayer life picked up.  My prayers morphed from just meal times and when I feel asleep to constant breaks in my day: anytime I was driving, after I hung up with talking to family or friends on the phone, when I was exercising, etc.  I’d pray for her, my dad, my sisters, myself, and for specific situations as they arose.

Then November 11th 2016 hit.  Shelly and I were planning to see our parents and we got an urgent call from our dad saying that he couldn’t wake our mom up.  We got in the car and drove to their house.  I was in constant prayer then. “Give us strength, give us strength, give us strength.”  My heart was racing.  We arrived, finally roused my mom, got her in the car and we all immediately went to the ER.  This time I wasn’t driving but my prayers kept flooding in “she has to be okay, God, she just has to…”

They ran all sorts of tests in the ER.  And found nothing.  We’d been down a similar road before.  But the crazy thing is once we hit the ER her temperature plummeted.  She got so cold the machines had trouble reading her pulse and signaled several times that she had coded.

From there she went to the ICU and our family made the decision after about a week that she should be moved to hospice care.  Generally, hospice is used as a way to ease patients and their families into the dying process making patients comfortable for their last days.  For me, this took even more prayer.  I prayed for my dad, who was going through a horrible time as he thought about losing his wife, life partner and best friend.  I prayed for my sisters: one far away who could be in a sense of denial and one close at home who takes emotions very directly.  I prayed for our decision making, that we were doing what my mom would have wanted and that God would continue to provide comfort and peace for her through the process.

The thing about my faith at this point is that I believed in the power of God, I believed he would surround us and provide us support but I didn’t make myself the center of my prayers.  I have a tendency to be a protector, someone who looks out for others, and gives so much that sometimes I neglect my own well-being.  This showed me my own strong faith.  It’s like breathing, I don’t have to consciously tell myself to breath in and out, I just do it.  The same way I didn’t have to worry about myself because God already had me taken care of.

The next 5 months were tough.  I wasn’t myself.  I wasn’t always present, in my own life or admittedly at work either.  And I probably neglected you all along the way.

Often times when people are grief stricken they resort to asking God “why”.  Why do they have to be sick?  Why now?  Why did they have to die?  Why her?  Because Parkinson’s patients who have the specific diagnosis my mom had generally live 5-10 years after initial diagnosis, I had been gearing myself up for days and decisions like these with which we were now faced.  My mom was diagnoses in the late fall of 2009 and this was November of 2016.

I had already spent the last seven years processing the fact that my mom’s life would come to a close much sooner than I would like, and much soon than the parents of my peers.  I already had seven years to fight with God, to question, and to work through much of my grief.  So my questions, in Shannon fashion, at this point became more geared toward advocating for my mom.  Why is she still in pain?  Why this back and forth of good days and bad days and all the in-betweens?  When will this burden be lifted?  I’m not always so proud to admit that last one.

Even though these questions were difficult, you can see that my faith changed.  I knew my mom would be provided for in heaven.  I knew she was already having vision of the other side.  And I knew that much of her continued time on earth, though stressful for myself and my dad as we visited everyday or every other day, and stressful for my sisters as they processed in their own ways—this continued time on earth was necessary for my mom.  Because even in my mom’s strength and dedicated faith, she was scared.  She was frightened of the unknown of what heaven would be like, what dying would feel like, and how my whole immediate family would deal with the hole in our hearts and our lives.

This whole experience that I walked through with my mom and her journey to eternal life strengthened my faith and showed me that our prayers are not always answered in the ways we expect.  Sometimes the desires of our hearts are not what wins out when put up against the desires of the heart of another.  I kept praying for an end to my mom’s suffering—in my mind that being a peaceful passing.  But I am confident that she was praying for clarity and comfort as she came to terms with the unknown in front of her.  Her needs and wishes were greater than, and honestly, more important than, mine.

I am thankful in knowing that even when we are sad and suffering, our faith can grow in positive ways.  We may not always expect the outcomes we get, but with the many prayers God receives, he fits the pieces together to create the needed outcomes.

**The title is a combination of Swahili and Maori words.  The first is Swahili for “faith” and the second is Maori for “journey”**

In the nick of time…

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About two and a half years ago, my sisters and I were spit-balling ideas for our parents for Christmas.  They are often difficult to buy for, especially since they didn’t need more “stuff”.  And then I got an idea: pictures.  We hadn’t done any kind of family portraits with all five of us since…our Olan Mills days?  And we for sure hadn’t had Josh in any with us.  Good photography can beis expensive.  It’s one of those things that I think you really do need to splurge for, if you want a good end result.

I wracked my brain, how were we going to pay for photos?  Even with all four of us kids pitching in, I wasn’t sure we’d get the effect we wanted.  Until I thought of Chelsea.

Chelsea and I attended OWU at the same time I did, she was a freshman when I was a senior.  The funny thing, I think, is that I actually met her mother and brother before I actually met her.  See, I was working as an intern in the Admissions Office at the time, and I helped at an event in Indy that OWU was hosting.  And her brother was there as a “prospective student”.  To be candid, he wasn’t ever seriously considering our school, but it was free food and it helped the event to have a current student’s parent present for questions.  Chelsea’s mother was quick to learn that I had a car on campus and set up our first meeting–carpooling home for…Thanksgiving break (right, Chels?)

We were quick friends based on our love of Starbucks, good music, and unbelievable abilities to hold an endless conversation with a seemingly complete stranger.  What more could you want?  That year I gave Chelsea many rides home, and the following year as well as I returned to OWU to fill a temporary position in the Admissions Office.

She has been one of my closest friends here in Indy. Someone close geographically that understands my longing for HamboInn and Amato’s. And at Christmas time two years ago she was a Godsend. Chelsea has her BFA and is a professional Art Therapist, and she is super talented in many of the arts. But one of my favorites is her photography. So she agreed and trekked with us to Nashville, IN and took photo after photo of the 6 of us. I will forever be grateful for this kindness and the resulting memories in my mind, my heart, and captured in print.

They offer me of tiny glimpses of silliness, joy, togetherness, and love. And those moments are so dear.