The Mass

It's been a while since my fingers graced this keyboard.  A virus struck our main computer, and between juggling time to write on a different computer with Christmas preparations ...I surrendered putting my thoughts to form.
The tree still twinkles and the fire is lit ...and we're all exhausted ...a good exhausted though.  Days for reflecting, remembering ...
I don't like the frantic pace of Christmas ...or, really of the commercialism that's taken deep root in this holy season.  I love the season and all it celebrates.  Finding the quiet to immerse in its true meaning is fleeting.  But yesterday, I was able to capture a little bit that fed my soul. 
I love being a Catholic.  I love the ancient traditions of our faith; and I especially love when those traditions are celebrated in the Mass of the ages, the Traditional Latin Mass.  My heart finds its most sacred, peaceful place there.  Because its a distance from us and because I work many weekends, I don't get there as often as I'd like ...or even need to.  But trusting that God provides us what we truly "need" I take heart and believe that the spiritual nourishment of the Traditional Mass will sustain me as long as I need.  It's at this Mass I find Phoebe.  It's at this Mass I have a sense of all those before me, all those long dead relatives who'd spent years praying for their family.  It's there I have a sense of all those family members to come, and the importance and value our prayers have today.
I don't know how well I would have survived losing Phoebe if I didn't have the experience of this Mass.  It's so different than the ordinary form offered in most parishes.  Not everyone gets the grace or opportunity to attend the Traditional form, and many don't prefer it.  It takes time to be joined to it, takes time to learn it ....and yet, it is so learnable, and so worth it.
Why do I love it so much?  Because it offers to God the best of ourselves:  our humility, our gratitude, our awe, our submission ...our weakness and total, absolute dependence on Him.  It speaks to God in a way that means something ...so outside, above and beyond the culture.  The prayers are powerful and so beautiful ...and complete. 
Phoebe's death broke me into a trillion pieces, and only by His hand could I or can I be restored.  That restoration is every day.  At the ordinary Mass God seems like the nice guy next door, rather than the all powerful, all merciful Creator.  I like the guy next door, but I have no real inspiration to spend eternity with him.  I don't necessarily sense he is capable of ALl things.  But at the Traditional Mass, I know God is not the nice guy next door ...He is God ...the only font of all things ...always. And one day, I want to go spend eternity with Him ...and come to know Him in His fullness.
It's important for me to know God is God ...different from me, from you ...and the nice guy next door.
It is here I can believe Phoebe is someplace ...Phoebe is safe and unafraid ...Phoebe is loved and returned to the complete source of love that created her.  It is here I know and have a glimmer of understanding that God's love for her is far greater than my own.  It is here I find the patience to wait ...the patience to trust one day I will see her again.
I guess it's times like these ...holidays, holy days, family days, that people stop to consider what life might be like for us without Phoebe.  And so more people make comments or ask questions around this time ...both of which I like and welcome.  The surreal fact of her absence is always present.  Her physical being is gone from us.  I miss that.  I shop and prepare for Christmas without her. There are no gifts for her under the tree.   She was my partner for many many years.  I'm not sure anyone can ever move in to that spot of hers.  I carry on conversations with Phoebe while I shop, tears fall while I wrap ...wanting her here with me, telling me what to do ...bossing me around.  I want those conversations and those tears ....they are my hugs to her now, for the little while we are separated.  I might catch a bird diving, a strong gust of wind, a picture of her making a funny face ...and I imagine her there, eyes twinkling, her giggle while she talks ...those are our gifts to each other now.
And people ask me how I've done it, how we've survived and thrived in many ways.  My answer is always the same: "God's grace."  So many people begged prayers for us, for her ...and many, many still do.  And God's grace has stayed steady and strong.  Truthfully though, had I not experienced the Traditional Latin Mass, I don't think I'd be in the same place.  I don't think I would have the trust in God that I do, not sure my heart would be open to His whispers.  I wish that for everyone. 
Years ago, someone introduced us to this Mass.  My first time there I'd felt as if I'd come home.  And I wanted to stay.  When I look back on that, I see God's hand preparing me for the great loss that was to come.  He was showing me the safe haven ...a place to truly be with my lost child.  The invitation to that place was generous, and the continued source of faith and comfort has been beyond profound.  It has been an immeasurable gift over time, for which I remain eternally grateful.  Our life once woven with the person who invited us, ultimately untangled, the loss of my daughter revealed me as someone she no longer liked or respected.  And yet, no matter her thoughts or mine, the Mass remains steady, constant, unchanged for centuries.  Humans can change, humans can disrupt and be cruel ...but the gift of the Ancient Mass never, ever changes.  And it is that constancy which settles me ...because I know, despite human frailty, human error and desire, despite 'reconfigurations' and desires to modernize the church, the Traditional Latin Mass will not change,  the true Church cannot be changed ...ever.  And that is how God is ...despite our desire to make him just like the nice guy next door ...He never, ever will be or can be ...because He is God.  And I'm really glad I know that ... because I'm very certain, when I ultimately find Him ( which I pray I do!), I will find my feisty, sassy, one of a kind daughter ...I'll find my Phoebe.

Candles

Tonight was our yearly candle lighting for Compassionate Friends, a support group for parents who've lost a child ...or two ...or three.
I remember our first one.  Making it there back then is a blur to me.  How were we even able to rally enough to find our way; it was so soon after losing Phoebe.  But we did, huddled in the back, sobbing, unable to even see ...the tears so thick.  I look around, lots of new faces ...new losses.  I am more settled now, in this grief, though I don't want to be.  My heart sags knowing the weight of the earlier grieving, the certainty you won't make it ...you will die at any moment.  You live a long time with that thought, those feelings ...its heavy, heavy stuff. Beyond imagination.
Words are offered, reflections capturing what we've all lost, what we've all gained ...the oddity of losing the expectation of our whole lives with each child.  Our lives changed, forever.  The natural order of things derailed.
Candles are lit around the world on this night.  As I look at the clock, I realize they are just now lighting in California, so the flicker of light circles the world, recognizing so many lost children.  I wonder what that looks like above the earth.  It is the single largest candle lighting in the world.  That says a lot about the magnitude of heartbreak, and the intensity of losing a child.  In our own little gathering the candles fill the room.  Names are read, more and more I recognize.  I've come to know lots of these children in their death, their habits, their hobbies, style, humor, intellect ...all sorts of qualities that make them who they are.  And within these walls, their names are spoken and remembered ...it is a safe place, a natural place for us to share our child with each other.  I treasure that!
So we are a bit ahead of others now; it's our turn to assure them they will make it, that they will learn to bear the burden with grace ...and sprinkles of joy.  Hearts will always be heavy, but knowing how much we love our children we wouldn't want it any other way.  The weight reminds us of how well we love them ...still.
The best thing you can offer someone who's lost a child is a memory ...a whisper of their name.  Too often people think mentioning the child will bring up misery. It might bring a tear, but that's okay, it's like our hug or kiss to our child we can no longer hug or kiss!  We need to speak and hear our child's name, we need to hear about their time on this earth ...we need to remember them and to have them remembered.  It is the greatest gift you can offer anyone whose lost a child.
Light a candle one day for a child gone before their own parents. 

Place settings

We were a flurry of activity Thanksgiving day.  A large crowd to be seated and fed, close by to Grammy for visits ...a sense she was with us. 
I have my candle I light on special days ...or whenever, up in the cupboard.  All day I reminded myself to take it down, light it, imagine Phoebe there with me ...with us.  I'm certain I won't forget; how could I?
We're joining tables and finding chairs, counting, recounting.  I wish I had space for one more, just one spot to signify Phoebe ...her space.  But we just can't, we're too tight already.  I'll have the candle at least.
Someone new joins us, and she is pleasure.  I've been looking forward to meeting her.  My husband tells me over and over she's from France.  Okay ..I'll remember ...France. 
In she comes, ahead of her beau.  I want so badly for her to feel welcome, at home.  And I'm so glad she's open and chatty, quickly settling into the rhythm of us.  And I banter away, peppering questions about France.  Quizzically, she looks at me as I ask her how far she lives from Paris.  "Oh, very, very far!"  I'm no geographer, but surely she can't be that far away ...but it's all relative, I think.  I ask what town she's from in France.  She's so, so polite, "Latvia, have you heard of it ever? I live near Riga, the capitol"  No, I say ( quietly thinking to myself  'I always thought Paris was the capitol of France.  Go figure!)  Again with the Paris thing, "Now how far is that from Paris?"  I'm fixated on Paris; and I have absolutely no desire to go there, but listening to me you'd think I was pining away for a one way ticket.  And the conversation goes on and on.  She's giving more and more clues ..."well, I live near the Baltic Sea ...have you heard of it?"  Yes, of course. Again I'm secretly thinking 'gee my geography is really bad, I never knew France was near the Baltic Sea.  Now while this conversation is going on I'm also plotting my timing of dinner and figuring when everything needs in or out of the oven along with all sorts of other details.  But I keep at this conversation about France with gusto.  Olivia is across the room, gently smiling at me.  A buzzer goes off and I excuse myself.  Olivia follows me into the kitchen, giggling "Mom, you've never heard of Latvia?"  "Of course I have, why?"  She tells me "THATS WHERE SHES FROM!  It's far away from Paris you know."  Wait a minute I think  "Dad said she's from France!"  "No, she's from Latvia."  The laughter continues, pitied comments, "poor Mom, you really don't know where Latvia is, do you? You must be so embarrassed!"  But the thing is, I don't really get embarrassed ...I just go with it.  Out I march to my guest and ask her where she is from.  "Latvia!" she tells me wide eyed.  "I thought you were from France! ...that's why I was fixated on Paris ...and by the way girls, instead of sitting there letting your mom ramble on and on, why didn't you chime in and correct me?"  Oh we had a great laugh over that.  And it made me miss Phoebe a whole lot because she would have enjoyed that whole exchange, would have probably led me on even more, digging a deeper hole ...or, redirecting me with her eyes and subtle hand signals.  I remember the candle.
Our guest is next to me in the kitchen so eager to help, so much a part of the day and us.  I like her; I'm glad she's here.  She's 20 she tells me.  The age Phoebe would be.  I notice the difference of a teenager and a twenty year old young woman, traveling and studying, so open to new experiences and life.  And I wish that for Phoebe ...those thoughts fleeting.  I remember the candle.
It comes time to sit and my husband is insistent on both of us in certain seats.  We've counted and recounted, no room to spare.  Our guest is two seats down from me.  I take my place, the last arrive, and we are gathered ...truly.  Between me and our guest is a place setting ...empty.  I point and look at my husband.  "It's Phoebe's seat, you knew that would happen, she'd never let you get away without that."  But we counted, I say. "Doesn't matter, she always shows up!"  And I remember the candle ...still up in the cupboard.  No need for it. 
Phoebe winks at me ..."really mom, you'd think some other girl is gonna have her seat next to you ...what are you thinking?"  And I can hear her giggle.  My Phoebe ...always finding me.
We worry about forgetting them, losing the sense of who they are, how they move, speak, laugh, cry.  We never do!  As deep as that fear, is as deep and certain they will find us, remind us ...be with us. 
I am so glad to find her here.
The mystery of God's creation most often cannot be understood, but if we just remain open ...He allows the beauty to unfold and surround us ...even in the saddest of times.

Separations

I wonder what the greeting was like?  I wonder, as Gram passed from this world to the next, who was there for her? She was the last of six siblings to die, she had a son to meet again ...and of course, her granddaughter ...precious Phoebe.
But most especially, she has her chance to meet God and begin to understand the mystery of Him.
In the most peaceful way possible, she slipped away, trusting the faith she'd held since a young child.
And we trust that too!
Thank you for your prayers ...please continue.
Giving thanks ...always.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving morning.  I am alone in the quiet of the early day.  I close each bedroom door and marvel at those beautiful bodies slumbering ...and I am grateful.  It is our fourth Thanksgiving without Phoebe.
My husband's mother has been peacefully slipping away.  Likely, she will die today.
I remember thinking how horrible it would be to die on Thanksgiving day ...a slap to the loved ones, the sting of it carried year to year.
I don't think that anymore.  Today is a beautiful day to die ...in the context of our faith, all things are done with thanksgiving.
We've prayed each night for the angels and saints to greet and accompany Grammy.  And we've prayed our beautiful Phoebe will too ...take her by the hand and lead her home.
Great mystery surrounds death ...what actually happens, how it happens.  But our faith gives us so much to rest on, so much assurance and promise, that we can be certain in the great mercy and generosity.
Our own generosity cannot outdo Gods.  And if we're living our faith, as best we can, we know to trust His great promise of eternity with Him.  And if He allows my children to have a say in who gets to help Gram find her way there ...Phoebe is there ...waiting to take her grandmother into her arms.
While we wait here, she waits there.  Together we all wait ...and so, we are indeed ...together.
Giving thanks today for the great blessings of this life.

Please pray for a peaceful death for Gram ...and for all her children and grandchildren.  And I will pray that you all see the abundant blessings of your lives.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Remembering

Thirty years ago one of my best friend's mother died.  Just like that.  We were sophomores in college, different schools, and our lives had started to diverge and build separately.  I remember taking the phone from my mother in our kitchen and hearing the news.  And then I remember sitting down at my kitchen table in disbelief.
My friends dad was a high profile guy.  Mention his name and most often people knew him.  He had gained a following over the years because of his great heart, his true manliness ...and just because.  Sometimes people would find out I was friends with his daughter and treat me like I had access to royalty. We still laugh about that. I loved her dad, who died shy of three months before Phoebe.  He was a great man.
But her mom ...love runs real deep sometimes.  And I loved her so much.  I sat with Kelly when her mom died and we didn't talk much, just sat in that space we claimed so often, taking over and relishing being there with her ...or just with the sense of her.  We'd watch her iron shirts or we'd run to Friendly's to buy her a beloved Fribble.  She loved us back. 
A simple photo sent today with her picture ....her big moon face and smile.  Kelly's sister has that same face and smile.  I see it while I'm at work, feel the jolt, the memories of this woman who made such an impression on me when I was a teenager.  She was one of those rare people I felt "got" me.  I missed her for a long time, and seeing her picture again makes me miss her all over.  I miss her for me, for my own kids.  But mostly I miss her for her own kids, for her grandchildren ...the one's who've never known her in any physical way. 
And then I think that now, maybe, Phoebe knows her ...this woman I'd told her so much about.  I'd told Phoebe all the funny stories, little secrets she taught us to take care of ourselves in good ways.  I told her how much I loved her.  Phoebe heard how this mom had laughed at our stories and at us ...the joy of three girls at an all girls high school trying to meet boys.  She never minimized us, she saw all the things we took so seriously and never mocked us.  When a crush on someone crushed us ... she felt our pain ...knew the romance in our heads had found its place in our hearts.  She knew the pain of letting that go. 
I remember telling Phoebe how I wanted to be like that ...but she had that special gift few people do.  And she shared it with me.  Pretty special!
So I think today that Phoebe must know her now.  And I can see Phoebe smiling as the moonbeam face greeted her.  "Did your mom ever tell you how the three of them would eat all my meatballs so I had none left for dinner?  A hundred times maybe."  And I can hear Phoebe say back with a giggle "yeah she did, but mostly she told me a whole lot about how much she loved you.  A hundred times maybe!"
She died way too young ...like Phoebe.
God weaves us in and out of each others lives, sometimes here, sometimes later on. 
So tonight I'll take comfort in Phoebe and Anne being together.

Inbox

There it is again.  Another teenager dies.  It's staring at me from my inbox.  In my head I scan a crowd for the parents.  I want to race to them ...tell them I'm alive, we are all alive ...and living our lives.  I want to grab the hand that reaches up from the cliff they've tumbled over headfirst.  I want to package the balm that soothed the raw searing pain, eviscerating them.  I want to scream from the depths with them, for them, like savage wolves howling to fill the sky with 'why?', 'how?'.  I want to tell them to claw at the earth, sleep out in the rain, run naked through the woods ...all those things that assure you you're alive, you are in one piece, you are whole ...you are broken, destroyed, ruined through and through, but you are alive.  I want to tell them those things no one else can, unless ...they too staggered in disbelief while flung from their orbit of familiar.  But there is no hand to grasp, no balm to soothe ...it is alone, only alone, they must be  for now.  And knowing the depth of their pain makes me tremble.  Please pray for them.

Soon after Phoebe died, I'd started writing 'Losing Phoebe, Heading for Home', it settled my racing brain and words rallied round my heart, making some sense of the chaos.  I've been rereading some of those entries to see how far we've traveled.  It's been an arduous walk, only possible through God's amazing grace and constant prayer from so many.  We've been blessed in so many ways.  One day, I hope these newly grieving parents will find the same for themselves. A month after she died, I wrote the following words ...I still feel all those things, but I've learned to live with the discomfort, and I've learned that my relationship with Phoebe continues as God allows. And where I only saw despair and sadness ...I see hope and joy amidst the great missing.

Quiet 

Thursday, November 11, 2010

My house is quiet now.  It's not very often quiet.  Before when it was, when the last of the littles would finally find stillness, I would usually hear Phoebe's footsteps headed my way ...a chance to be together, if only for a moment.  I always loved that sound.  Over the past year, it happened more and more ...she would be there, just waiting for me.  I'd come from the shower and she would be sitting there on my bed.  We had lots to discuss ...about her, about me.  Family, friends, school, future ...all those set on the table of talk.  Lots of our conversations were easy banter ...the more I just listened, the more I would learn, and the better she would arrive at her own solid, well founded conclusions.  Sometimes, they were heated, especially when I expressed concern.  Those were harder conversations because they seemed to threaten her ...a typical teenage response.  How I wish she knew she didn't know everything ...yet.  I grapple with the teenage arrogance that dismisses a parents experience and wisdom ... We had some tough times for sure, maybe harder than most.  Phoebe was full of passion, full of her own will.  At home, parent's can find their children come up against them, while outside these same kids are a beacon, notable in so many ways.  And that was Phoebe.  She was notable.  She reached out for others when she thought they didn't get a fair shake ...she paid attention to the student who struggled with the English language.  One teacher told me one of these students told her Phoebe was her only friend because when she struggled to talk, search for the words of this foreign tongue, she would find Phoebe's eyes that always said "it's ok, take your time, you will learn."   She fought for the girl who tried out every year for soccer and didn't make the team ...she fought because this girls character, perseverance and hard work would be an asset to any team.  She fought for her siblings when she thought she could help mom and dad see more clearly.  She fought for the boy in third grade who was made to wear a skirt for the afternoon when he had an accident.  She fought for the friend who had lost so much in her life, so many loved ones.
Phoebe was notable because she noticed.  So why, why why, did she not fight for herself ...why?
I don't mean to place her on a pedestal, make her something she was not.  But an advocate for the unnoticed was part of her tapestry.  I think about these kinds of things in the quiet, when she isn't here.  I think about who she was, is...still.  And I can't help but wonder ...did I notice ...enough.  I certainly prayed hard and long for her about so many things.  I certainly loved her and went to bat for her when she needed that, or at least I thought she did.  I certainly thought about her and enjoyed picking up little things for her she hadn't asked for, like mango strips, funky socks, an iced coffee.  Silly little things really, but it made my heart sing when she would giggle out "thanks mom."  But did I NOTICE her?  Were there tear stains on her face I didn't see?  Did her sides hurt her lately because she had cried so hard during the night?  Did the twinkle in her eyes fade while I was wearing sunglasses?  Did she mouth to me "help me" as I turned my back?  What, oh what dear God, did I miss ...because I sure am missing her right about now?  Did she fight for the unnoticed because she was among them?????
What now can I do?  I scream to God ....where were You?  You have seen my struggle, my fight for my children, my battle for their safety ...for YOU!!!  Where were YOU that dreaded morning as I raced off to soccer?  Was that MORE important than my daughter, my Phoebe?  Did You not notice how much I love her ...was it not enough?  Are you asking me how much I love You?  What are you asking of me?
I struggle, oh how I struggle.  I am a strong woman ...always have been.  It is an extraordinary strength I've been given ...a gift, I always thought.  But is it?  Did I show such strength to Phoebe that she felt she couldn't keep my pace?  Did she see a mother who charged through chaos and disorder to establish order in line with natural law ...and think she didn't have the strength to do that too?  Did she not know that the reason I've done that, carved out an order in life pleasing to God, contrary to so much of this culture, was so that she and her siblings wouldn't have to?  Didn't she know that her father and I wanted a better way for her and her children ...and theirs?  Didn't she understand it was for her, to spare her.  And she has not been spared, she has been taken, and I, we have been left with a gaping open wound.
This unusually strong woman will go on, my life will move forward.  But not without great reluctance.  A life ahead without Phoebe?  If you knew her ...you know the cost of that.  She was not just a girl, she was Phoebe, and she was mine.

Three years later, I still ask those questions of God.  I always will, perhaps.  Answers aren't expected now, or looked for.  Phoebe is far more than the way she died, and that's where we are today ...living with the memories of her, rather than living with her death.  God gets us there ...one, little, tiny step at a time.
Pray for those parents, please, who've lost a child to suicide.

You can rest, God is Awake

I was drawn to the pictures on the wall in the library.  The colors were rich and warm, blues and yellows, rose and green ...inviting. I looked at each one carefully, taken by the simplicity that spoke volumes of beauty. 'Poet Trees',  by Santjes Oomen, a series of artwork that captures the beauty and essence of trees, what they mean for us, to us.  I love trees, always have.  My father loved trees and taught me many, many things, but mostly he just taught me to appreciate them, and I do.  Phoebe loved trees too!

October really is tree month, with leaves changing and falling, naked trees reveal their shape and intricacies of branches and bark.  It's amazing to observe the differences among them.  In our region, we're blessed with great variety.  New England is like that, abundant in its flora.  Behind us is a 400 acre preserve called World's End.  Trees not natural to our area were brought in years ago and thrived, adding to many prolific species.  We pay attention to them, notice them at every phase of the season.  One stands statuesque in the spring, calling our attention with its girth and smooth, pale grey bark ..."there's Mom's tree!" my kids will say.  Early leaves are bright red, turning darker brown, understated as the air warms.  Though a mighty tree, it glories only in the spring.
I love every New England season.  Fall, though, seems to give a final punch with the vivid range of colors.  Not every fall offers great color, but this one did.  I took note.

In the first few months after she died I would sometimes go to my backyard and wrap my arms tight around one of our own big trees.  I would press my body into it and find relief ...for some unknown reason.  Phoebe loved trees.  Since she died I scan the tops of the trees every time I step out of my car or leave my house.  Big trees are all around us. Sometimes the air is still, but when I look to the tops, leaves flutter, bend and sway.  Tall enough to catch the breezes above us.  I imagine Phoebe scampering atop, running wild and free ...barefoot.  How she loved to be barefoot.  If she could have, I'm sure she'd have found a way to move across the tips of the highest branches.

The arch of a tree dancing with a strong wind has always called me outside.  If home when a wind kicks up I can usually be found outside, even if just for moments, standing face to the wind, loving the power of it.  Before our lives changed, Phoebe would come find me, stand next to me, eyes bright, smiling.  "I love the wind!," I'd say to her.  "I know," she would answer.  Time after time, our moments in the wind, watching the trees sway and toss happily ...us too.  Shared, simple, moments.

I could see this artist loves trees too.  Each picture framed in a phrase, expression, thought ...repeated around the perimeter.  I loved them all.  But one caught me so quick, I read and re-read ...it was a little message I so needed to hear, "You can rest now.  God is awake."  Like a child, feeling safe, the warm embrace of assurance that all will be well ...all is well.  Tears sprouted.

October was closing, just days left.  I could close the door to my fourth October of grief ...my fourth October of missing my great girl.  God had extended his hand, assured me He was listening to the very core of me, the words never spoken ...when, oh when dear God, when can I rest?  It had been spoken in my heart for weeks, the stress building, the exhaustion mounting, threatening to bind me.  I felt as though I simply couldn't go on.  I would be fine when moving, distracted at work, at a game, shopping, cleaning ....but when I stopped, when night fell ...it would wash over me like a rogue wave.  When can I rest?  When can my husband rest?
And here before me, framed, away from a church, outside of a prayer, was the answer gently written around the leaves ..."You can rest now.  God is awake."
I pause, Phoebe beside me in the wind ...that's how it felt to read those words ...my great girl beside me, watching the great wind dance with the leaves.
I take pictures ...they are so beautiful, imagine her rhythmic breath just behind my right shoulder, where she would often stand with me ...looking, watching.
I can't shake how that one picture spoke to me.

I know the artist.   Olivia is good friend's with her daughter, she's spent time away with the family.  I have no note cards to write on, so I tear some simple paper from a journal and write her a note, telling her how her art moved me, consoled me, promised me.  The Holy Spirit works through all of us ...I had found an answer here, a respite ...rest.  I wanted her to know what it had meant to me.  I stick it in an envelope, quickly drop it in her mailbox.

I've learned in a real way to tell people how they've made life better ...tell them I love them, tell them what joy they bring to this world, how they brighten the day ...affirm them because everyone is a child of God and has a gift to share ...simple or big, obvious or hidden.  She had hugged me long and hard when Phoebe died.  She had cried too ...without knowing me or us.  Quietly, she'd tended to my broken Olivia, in ways I couldn't ...just by being warm, welcoming ...open.

A knock on our door yesterday finds her at my doorstep with her husband.  She carries a package.  I am so glad to see her, tell her in person how her art spoke so deeply to my heart, answered a restless prayer.  Offering the package, I start to cry.  "It's okay.  Cry!," she says to me.  I tell her I can't take it.  "Its for you, take it."  I unwrap the paper and behold the beautiful peace of art that assures me once again ...You can rest, God is awake.  To me, she has given this great gift.  Messenger of relief and promise.

I know, by faith, God is present always.  I know He hears my prayers, and will answer them in perfect time ...in the perfect way.  It's not doubt I struggle with, but weariness.  I'm tired from this journey.
When things like this happen, when threads get woven into my tapestry that offer a depth and richness I didn't know were missing ...it's like quenching a thirst you hadn't noticed before.  You are surprised by how much you  needed the water ...but you needed it.

Often times, God speaks to us outside and beyond our parameter of comfort, the familiar.  I look for answers, consolation in prayer, devotions, the Mass ...all those beautiful, rich elements of our faith.  I treasure them.  Because I am so close to it, because it is where I look for answers, understanding ...I miss the offering, the grace at times.  God knows me, knows my plea for rest, my love for trees ...and answers me their ...in a frame of leaves ...in the town library ...You can rest now, God is awake.

Pumpkin graces

I guess you can measure the well-being of a family by how comfortably they talk about things.  That's one element anyway, how words flow back and forth, not getting caught in uncertain webs, or carrying a history of hurt. 
For a long while, too long for me, we couldn't talk about Phoebe without tears, or anger, hurt, frustration ...sadness.  I want her name spoken ...she is part of our fabric, one ninth to be exact.  And it will always be so.  I've spoken her name freely and often, insistent she would remain known.  I've heard it said that the sweetest word a person ever hears is their own name.  I think the sweetest word is the name of your child ...gone from your grasp.  Just to hear the whisper of their name ...heartstrings.
Very slowly, I've noticed Phoebe's name as part of the regular dialogue in our home ...not in reflection, but in the present.  While most times I want to jump up and down, screaming "Hooray, you said her name!!!,"  I stay quiet, knowing my response could shut it down fast.  This gradual re-entry promises me we are learning to live in a very healthy, real way, with our chronic sadness and loss.  Small steps can bring us forward in life.
While there are still times when one or several of us are overcome, without notice, with the stabbing grief and missing, there are moments too when we can just unanimously express how much we wish she was still here.
So last night as we carved pumpkins and discussed design, more than one of these kids stated "you know who needs to be helping us ...Phoebe!  She is so good at this, remember the pumpkins she would do, with ears sticking out, and noses?"  We remember, laughing together.  We were free ...to love her.  Strong enough, in that moment, to bear and carry with grace, the weight of her absence.
We sailed on through and carved our pumpkins.
God keeps his promises.  It's not that life gets 'easier', its just that if you can remain open, you'll find that graces abound ...and they are ours for the taking.
Blessings to you on this Eve of All Saints Day.

Escorts

I have a house full of ponytails.  Long, beautiful hair, held back off their faces, sways through my house much of the day.  It is, for sure, a vibrant, dynamic season for our family.
Early this morning, before the sun rose, one of those ponytails needed a ride.  She rows for the crew team.  Our first experience with crew, Hannah is the perfect fit for such a sport.  While it was a last minute decision for her to join crew, it has been one of the best decisions made in this house over the past few years.  Of course we've made some really good ones all along the way ...some poor ones too.  But Hannah and crew is like a great marriage ...it suits her ...really well.
One day last week, in a remote rocky nook on the bay, I looked up to see the shell gliding across the glassy water.  At first, I'd heard voices and couldn't figure where they were coming from and then I saw the boats.  I wasn't there to catch a glimpse; it didn't even cross my mind.  So it felt like a tiny little grace showered down.  I grabbed the binoculars kept in the shed.  Hannah had just been moved to a more competitive boat.  It hadn't come easy and she'd thrown herself into improving her times.  Her new spot had been hard earned.  Lens held to my eyes, I found her.  It caught my breadth; tears spilled.  My Hannah, stroking in perfect rhythm, gliding across the bay, far from where they'd launched.
All parents have their moments overcome with amazement at their child, for their child.  Many parents carry worries and burdens not shared with public ...or anyone at all. That's the life of a parent.  For obvious reasons, I live with a certain worry for each of my kids.  Having three teenage girls right now has called upon a level of trust in God beyond anything I'd ever imagined.  I lost a teenage girl ...a wonderfully vibrant, genuine girl.  Do I fear another?  Of course I do.  Do I know the price they've paid, the taunts they've been dealt, the rejection of people they thought close?  Some of it.  I'm keenly aware my kids have been given a walk few others experience.  And they walk it with tremendous grace, humor and forgiveness.  I am proud of them in all sorts of ways
So when I see my girls (or any of my kids) 'arrive', so to speak, at something that fits them perfectly, I experience a deep gratitude for that miracle.  Because it is in these places they can experience their life, fully and freely ...and it has little to do with the death of their big sister.  Crew is such an arrival point for Hannah.
I had to jump through a few hoops to get to her regatta ... almost certain it wouldn't happen.  But it did, and I got to watch her glide across the river with her crew mates, as novice rowers, to cinch  third place in their race.  I got to watch them take their boat from the water and huddle with their coach to review how they raced.  It was a magical day with beautiful weather and so many other people cheering each others kids on.  Another mom whose daughter shares the same boat found her way next to me, just as the girls were rowing by.  We laughed without talking, the smiles and eyes communicating all of it.  Both mom's of seven, we know the hurdles it took to get there on a Sunday morning ...the work of it, the logistics ...the miracle ...the gratitude.
I left the river, the races done.  Hannah would take the bus home with her team, call me when she got close to home.  At 4:40 she called.  I could hear elation in her voice, "We won states Mom ...we won!"  Even now, writing these words, I fight back the tears ...to hear her voice, the pure joy of it, the fullness of her life and the reward of hard, hard work.  My Hannah.
I drove to the high school finding other parents as smiley as me.  And then in the distance I could hear the sirens.  They grew closer until finally we could see the flash of lights, escorting the winners home.  Led by the boat truck, three busloads of teenage kids, spilling out the windows, ecstatic ...waving and smiling and yelling ...to their parents.  Flanked by the police and fire, our kids, Hannah, were escorted from the highway exit (about five miles away!) back to the high school, the sirens blaring.  I caught it all on my phone.
Hannah floated off the bus, medal around her neck and leaned in close..."I'm so glad you were there Mom."  And I was too.  I fight the tears, not wanting her to know the bittersweet moment.
Three years ago, the first and last police escort Hannah and I had ever ridden in delivered us to our church 45 minutes away for Phoebe's funeral, and then back again.  On the highway overpasses firetrucks parked with sirens and lights, a nod to my husband, Phoebe's dad, knowing he would bury his oldest daughter.  The highway was closed as police cut off the on ramps, saluting her as she was driven by, us following.  It was a long, sad ride.  I'd imagined her, ahead of us, riding her skateboard, free and wild, embracing the empty highway ...all hers.
We have a new ride now, Hannah's ride, her escort.  A nod from her big sister, I think.
Without words I show the video to my friend ...a chance meeting at the hospital as I visit another friend, I stop by to see her in her department.  She watches ...and knows, echoes my thoughts ...sees the gift.  No words ...just pure grace, shared later again with two dear friends who truly know what that escort meant for Hannah.  The gift is confirmed ..with amazing awe.
We cannot rewrite this life, but we can write new chapters ...every day!  Because God does make all things new, if only we let Him. 
It was Hannah's day.  My Hannah.

Power of Prayer

I have numerous drafts in my post box.  One I wrote just the other day with a sense of urgency.  I planned to beg for prayers for a few different things.  Reacting to the pull of fear, I'd wanted to get as many prayers offered as possible ...right away.  I never finished writing that piece, and I feel far more vulnerable now putting my writing out there than I first did.  You take a few hits ...and you get shy, or cautious or smarter.  So much of my writing goes unpublished.
But what really pulled me back from the urgency was remembering what Fr. Higgins had said to me the night Phoebe died, and then again at her funeral Mass.  He reminded me, assured me that both the prayers of the past, even generations past, and the prayers of the future were known by God, and God's mercy took all of it.  He referenced St. Padre Pio, who having received the blessing of assurance his father had made it to Heaven, was asked why he still offered Masses for him.  The great saint responded that God had known the Masses would be offered.  We simply cannot dismiss the power of prayer.  And we do all to often in this world where the standard belief is that everyone gets a straight shot to Heaven ...which is isn't authentic Catholicism and causes far too many prayers to go unsaid.
When someone asks me to pray ...I do.  If I know its critical or dangerous or imminent, I pray with great intensity for several days.  I don't sit in a corner and ignore the rest of my life, but I do try to make my life a prayer and my activities woven with my own pleas and some really beautiful devotions that always offer peace.  I love to call upon the saints, those I think have first hand knowledge of particular situations. 
I had two situations this week that drew that intensity out of me, and though there are no exact answers ...I am confident both outcomes are good, for today at least.  And I don't need to know the ultimate answers in order to make the prayers seem worthwhile.  But praying is something I can do, and give, freely, always.
We pray for Phoebe all the time in this house.  I trust God has her in His care, but that doesn't mean there is no more need to pray.  Please continue praying for her.  I know she prays for you.
And please pray for two intentions that are very close to the hearts of two extraordinary moms.  I know it means a lot to them. 
Prayer gets us outside of ourselves, it elevates our minds and hearts to God and reaches out to others.  It follows the great commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves. 
I ask my patients to pray for different things all the time.  They love being asked, and it gets them outside of themselves, allows them to offer something for another.
One of my favorite patients is 96 years old, totally lucid, and an ardent Red Sox fan.  She quips at me from time to time for being a fair weather fan. Rolls her eyes when I ask her who won. I show up right about now ... at the World Series.  If she could, I think she's have me arrested for poor fanship.

She gets very caught up in each little twitch, burp, sniffle, itch.  That's what happens when you get old and you have lots of time on your hands.  In fairness, she has some situations that require monitoring and could cause some serious concerns.  We do try to distract her from the constant self monitoring she invests much of her time in.  She will not eat with other patients and rarely goes to any activities, preferring to knit and watch her soap operas.  Most days I tell her I'm concerned about the influence these shows will have on her ...and we laugh.  Her rosary beads are always close by on her side table.  Images of the Blessed Mother are among the pictures she treasures.
A few mornings a week our facility will gather patients together to pray the rosary.  She rarely goes, preferring to say it privately.
The other morning I told her I had something very, very important for her to pray for.  "What?" she asked me.  I told her it was a special intention someone had entrusted to me.  She continued to pepper me with questions.  Finally,  "It's a prayer another mom asked of me ...very important," I told her.  She looked at me sideways.  Not satisfied, she stood in her doorway several times during the morning, catching me as I passed looking for more information.
"Just a mom asking for prayers"
"Who?"
"A faraway friend"
"Does she ever come here?"
"No"
"Cancer?"
"Just prayers for a special intention."
And so for about an hour, woven in between tending to others, we'd have this mini dialogue, and she'd go back to her perch for a bit, only to return to the doorway looking for answers.
Once the activity time came, I watched her leave her room wearing a blue blazer and lipstick, heading toward the elevator.  It was unlike her to go to the rosary, but that's where she went.
An hour later they returned.  She walked past me ..."I had everyone pray for that mother's intention ...the whole group of us."  And on she went, back to her perch.
What's so remarkable about this is how outside herself she came that morning.  Later that day she would have an exam off site.  Usually, we'd be involved in the anticipation and fretting up until departure.  A huge sigh would race through our unit, relieved we'd made it through the morning to finally see her off.  But that morning, she had a mission ...a prayer mission she took on as her own.
I have little doubt her prayers raced ahead of my own ...because she pushed herself completely outside her own comfort zone.  She made the effort to get to the rosary and beg prayers from everyone there.  A curious one for sure, she did that without the information she yearned for.  She did it because she was asked. She did it because she listened ...because of a warm heart that understands both the power and importance of prayer.
She headed off to her appointment without a glitch, and I got to marvel at the great gift of her.
The power of prayer when given selflessly and freely, is a gift right back to ourselves in ways we can't even see.
The words of prayer are powerful and important.  Our disposition and effort in praying can deepen them even more so.
And while the answers to prayer may not be what we asked, they always transform the soul ... most important part of us ...the eternal part of us.  And that will never change.
So pray for my little old lady tonight in thanksgiving for who she is!  I'll let her know!

Moms and their girls!

There's nothing quite like moms and their girls!  It's a special, wonderful, sometimes rocky and crazy, relationship that involves a long, winding adventure.
I have my share of girls ...five daughters.  A true blessing!

When Phoebe first died I felt as though I'd lost so, so much, almost everything, really.  Not only was she gone, my oldest daughter, but how on earth would anything ever be joyful or wonderful again. My world had shattered.  So broken, I feared I'd never be able to find or bring joy to my other kids' lives.

Oldest daughters are particular in their lives with their moms.  I run through the mothers and oldest daughters I know. It's a team adventure for sure.  First time through with a girl is a little scary, really.  You get a little better, more confident with each one.  But that first one ...the steps can be a bit shaky.  We learn a dance with each other, little interactions that bind us, hard and fast, to that first girl.  For me and Phoebe, it was with her eyes, our eyes.  They spoke volumes to each other ...serious lots of times, but funny so many others.  We noticed things the same way, a quick glance at each other, a slight curve of lip ...on the same page.  "Mom remember ..ha, ha" and then a quick "Oh my gosh that was so funny!'  Or, "Hey mom can I.." "No way" was my response before the request was even out there.  We didn't have to complete thoughts to understand, or know what was being communicated.  I've missed that.  It's not the same with my other girls.  There are lots of special little things with each one of them, just not that story writing with our eyes, or complete thoughts known without words. 

Our first Thanksgiving, just weeks after her passing, I'd stepped outside of our friends home.  We went between two houses, two families trying so hard to soften the day, make it pass without so much pain.  As night fell, I needed a place to compose myself.  Outside, as I wept so aching and broken and unkempt, I felt her eyes on me ...the one's that pleaded "I don't know what to say ...it's done Mom, I can't take it back."  Her floppy bun steady, barefoot in the cool night ...confirmation it was all real.  Her eyes ...gorgeous eyes.  There was no comfort there, just the reminder of the nightmare I was living.

I miss my first girl, miss making plans and seeing the world with her, sharing a laugh, a dream! ...an argument.  We weren't perfect with each other, we weren't symbiotic ...we just were ...all in.
Its hard going through life not making any plans with her, not getting invited to do anything with her.  How could that ever be? How do you make plans with someone who can't show up?
But maybe it could ...again, and again, because God is so good.

I'd been asked to work a shift and a floor that isn't typical for me.  After several requests, I agreed.  It was against better judgement, a Friday night ...three teenage girls (no licenses yet ...soon though).  I felt uneasy leaving home. My constant conversation with God shared my uneasiness.  I looked at the roster, saw the familiar name, an old friend from years ago when I thought having lots of little kids was much harder than having teenagers.  My friend knew Phoebe and all the rest.   Our protocol is to officially change the shift, get report, check the medications.  But something pulled me quick.  I headed to the room, knocked gently and opened her door.  The lights were dim and I could see she was resting.  Still, I whispered her name and she turned.  "Do you remember me?"  Immediately her hands went to her face.  Nurse instincts kick in; I assume she's in pain.  I ask her if she is, does she need something.

Her hands drop from her face and I see she is crying. "Carolyn ...I can't believe it, I can't believe its you.  All week I've been praying.  It's Phoebe's week, I know."  And so the distance of many years falls away and I tell her I know she's been praying for us, for Phoebe.   We fill in the blanks, we pray, we hug.  It is a wonderful reunion.  She knows my heart.  Fifteen years ago she buried her daughter. We share that agony.  Our beautiful girls ...we long for them, always.

"You'll come for tea with her to my beach cottage!  Phoebe and I are building a cottage by the sea.  We've reworked the porch several times, but she knows just what I want."
"Well, we won't be at the beach. We're going ice skating, that's our plan, the first thing we'll do, she loves to ice skate."
"Okay, that sounds fun.  But after, come for tea.  Phoebe would love to see you."
"And me her.  I can't wait to see her again!  You know my girl loves the ocean, she'll be happy to go."
"Great! And there's gonna be a screened porch, so you can stay in the shade if you don't want the sun."
"Well, that's something to look forward to, isn't it!"
"It will be a great day."

And so I've made my first real plan with Phoebe.  It's hard to put into words how much that conversation means to me.  She gets it!  We are waiting ...and waiting, for that moment when we see them again.  It doesn't mean we aren't fully invested in our lives here.  We are! Perhaps even more than most because we've paid a very high price. But we live with an emptiness from separation unlike anything else.  We miss our children, we are disoriented by the loss.

I have plans, finally, to do something with my oldest daughter, my friend and her oldest daughter. And it will be a great day.
 Of course I've made lots of plans with Phoebe already, even for the here and now.  But they are just for us.  Or sometimes I give her instructions on where to go and who to be with.  More and more I trust God allows that.  The depth and passion of her personality ring through for me as if she were very much here.  Never one to experience God in an emotional way, I am convinced through reason and promise that we are not separated from those we love. 
More and more I share a glance with her ...believe she's right there, catching the same view as me, finding the same things funny.  Soothing me too when the heart aches ...when the piercing sears through and stops me cold.
And more and more, I believe I am building a life with her still ...and it is a good one, rich and vibrant.
Sometimes as I walk, you might see my hand reach out ever so slightly, trusting she will slip her hand in mine.  And together we walk hand in hand ...me and my oldest girl ...my Phoebe.

God is good and generous and kind ...in all things.

Eight Plates

The day wanes, the sun too low now to light the sky.  October 9th is closing.  Not a day more or less than three years of eight plates set at our dinner table.  There were nine for four and a half years.  Nine plates at our table.
We've survived.  Made it ...out of the woods.  Our load still heavy, the pain no less, the missing tugging always.  And yet ...we've learned to carry it.  Some say its our cross.  I don't like that expression.  Only One carried the Cross, our salvation means.  I don't dare approach saying I carry my own, or even part of His.  We can never know, in this life, the depth of suffering Christ bore for each of us.  But I know it was far, far heavier than the one we carry.  And that itself is beyond my capacity to understand. Because the pain is great.
The table is cleared. We've remembered together the funny stories, her great strength ...who she is. Eight plates washed and put away.
One day, that number will grow, and we'll remember still the one who's missing.
And God knows, the daily working of making this life happen.  He knows the moments of despair, the moments of missing and gratitude ...of disbelief and trust.  He knows the patterns of our heartbreak, the cracks etched, the holes open.  And He knows our great striving and effort to live a life that is well lived and full.
God knows our great missing ...our empty space of Phoebe ...and He holds that close.
Dearest Phoebe, know always you are loved ...and always you are remembered. 

Please pray tonight for a young woman, just 18 who ended her own life days ago.  Pray for her parents, in the depth of despair, the eye of a nightmare.  Pray for an end to suicide ...and an end to abortion, an end to anything that destroys and dismisses life.

Tap!

The turn of the air, the color of the sky, the chill of the morning ...these all hint to the day Phoebe died.  We approach three years, unimaginable.  Sometimes I find myself overcome with deep sobbing, the out and out exposed missing of my precious girl.  I still don't understand the plan God has underway for me or my family.  It is all still so outrageous.  But I'm not caught in the deep sobbing, the devastation that pulls further and further downward.  There are moments, but it is not the constant.  We choose things in life, and I've chosen gratitude and attention to/awareness of the many, many blessings I have in my life.  When I begin to tally all I have, all I've been given ...despite what the culture, media or naysayers tell me ...I am overwhelmed at the enormous generosity of God.  It is as outrageous as Phoebe's untimely death.
As I continue to exercise (deliberately) gratitude, beg God to keep me in a state of thanksgiving, the image and sense I have of Phoebe is close by, giggling and smiling, laughing with me through this life.  Her bun flops from side to side, she is no longer mad she is shorter than me ...she is free and happy.  Like a child on the playground, she pulls my hand onward to the joy ...to the fun even.  And I cling to this, relish in it.  It is a better place for me to be.  More and more I can get there.  Still, the weight of loss holds me fast, but I can carry it better with the smiling, playful girl in my space.
I find Phoebe all over the place, little twinkles and sprinkles ...usually when something is pulling me down, and my gratitude fades.  Through places and people, she'll wink.  Play more I tell myself, worry less, pray more, worry less!
And so tonight as I'm dipping, something has me churning and the thoughts are tumbling, the heart is breaking.  I will myself to find that childlike place that marvels at the changing leaves, watches the moon dance across the ocean.  Frustrated I can't get there, can't pull myself up and out.  And then there she is, laughing and watching. "Mom, look at Auntie Meg, she finally did it!"
I've pulled into my friends driveway, a quick weeknight visit, unusual for both of us.  Her outdoor light doesn't work, the day is nearly gone from the sky. She is a silhouette on her doorstep.
Her arms move in dainty gestures and her feet have taken on a wild rhythm, and I can hear the tap, tap, tapping.  "Can I make you a cup of tea?"  "Would you like some ketchup?"  She's laughing, her tap shoes have arrived.  For years she's wanted to tap dance.  Not one lesson under her belt and here she is on her doorstep tap dancing.  She is a tap dancer!!!  At long last!
"It's gonna be a quick visit kids," I say, "the noise will drive us away fast!"  And we are all laughing and smiling.  She tells us how it's put a whole new spin on serving others. "You want to get up and get something or prepare something just so you can TAP your way through."  We all try the shoes on, take a turn at tapping.  None of us come close to her raw talent born of pure desire.
Both of us have had our lives changed ...suddenly, with no way out of it.  We've both been given trails we'd never ever choose.  I was with her when Phoebe died, and she was by my side as I said goodbye and kissed my precious for the last time.  She was with me when I sang "Gentle Woman" to Phoebe for the last time, brushed her cheek and said "I love you."  Meet Meg and you meet joy ...because she chooses it, day after day.
Her life changed when Phoebe died, like others close to us.  And she's stayed and been willing to play with us even though we carry the stigma of suicide.  And I can see Phoebe loves her even more now too, because she stayed ....but more because she plays.
What are any of us waiting for?  Why are any of us waiting for even an extra moment to miss the great joy and fun of this life?  Blessings abound, they are there for the taking.  I imagine God delights in my friend dancing through her kitchen, singing and tapping with abandon.  And I imagine Phoebe knew just what her mom needed to see, where I needed my heart to go tonight.
Amazing Grace ...truly, amazing grace!
May you find yours today too!
Please pray for Phoebe ...for all of us, as we strive to live fully and gratefully each day through God's amazing, abundant, boundless grace ...tap, tap!

Pots of Gold

A double rainbow spanned the sky at 7AM Labor day..  I'd railed at God on my way to work the night before.  A rare overnight shift with good timing,  relieving the heaviness that had crept back in for a visit.  It's always worse at night, when the stillness echoes the emptiness inside.
The six week walk kicks off now, towards that day nearly three years ago.  The start of school reminds me of then, and I remember the vivid moments of life with Phoebe in those last weeks, the conversations, the arguments, the laughter ...the moments, the popcorn, the coffee, the sneakers and jeans, the laundry, the blankets, the rides.  It all comes back, as easy to access as though she were right here with me.  The reminder burns.  She's not here.  Every now and then, it's too much. I welcomed the wee hours of checking wounds and vital sounds, changing dressings and repositioning ...medicating away the pain for others.
Outside, my work done, the rainbow greeted me, a color swipe of promise. But I knew it was not meant for me.  And I've heard enough stories to know lots of people are in need of a rainbow.
I'd never seen the beginning and end of a rainbow until that morning.  As I drove home, bending towards our side of the harbor, the brilliant pots of gold shimmered on the water.  Dense clouds of gold rested on the marina while at the other end, on a little spit of land, more dense clouds.  The beginning and end of the rainbow right there in Hingham Harbor. It wasn't for me though, I knew. Still, I'd thought there was someone who needed Noah's sign, probably watching nearby.  And maybe that's true.  The early morning usually brings promise after the long dark of night.
There was peace in knowing God had heard someone's begging, had offered a hint of His presence.
I remembered years ago, living in a different house that overlooked the ocean, Stephen, Phoebe and their friend Keleigh awed as the rainbow broke over our house, heading towards the ocean.  A summer afternoon of rain had broken open wide with a rainbow. Phoebe had yelled with all seriousness "The pot of gold! Can we go find it?"  I'd said no.  Thinking practically, the road twisted and turned, they were young, I had a baby on my hip and didn't want to lose sight of them. It wasn't safe.   But my husband had responded louder "Yeah! Go find it and bring it back, let me know if you need help lifting it!".  And they ran, laughing and screaming, barefoot and in bathing suits.  They'd returned tired from the long walk up the steep hill from the water, smiling, laughing still.  No gold in their hands, but they'd chased it anyway" Its too far out in the ocean."  But it was there, they saw it,  and brought it back in their togetherness, sharing popsicles in the waning summer afternoon.
I tell my husband about the rainbow, he asks for details of the beginning and end, the pots of gold..  I hold the story of long ago on Allerton Hill with the kids to myself.  He looks at me "I've only seen the pot of gold once.  A long time ago when Phoebe, Stephen and Keleigh chased it to the bottom of the hill.  It blazed in the ocean.  They'd wanted to find the gold so badly, and they did, but it was too far out in the ocean.  It was fun anyway." He tells me its a gift I saw what I did.  "What a consolation." He tells me.  Maybe that rainbow was for me afterall.
That rainbow the other morning wasn't a promise that all would be well, but more a sign that all is well.  If anyone on this earth could find a pot of gold, it would be Phoebe.  And she'd share it.
Phoebe and I did not have a pollyanna mom/daughter relationship.  We butted heads a lot.  Our dynamic included two very strong willed, mission driven females, passionate about life and truth.  Her teenage years had tough moments ...of attitude, push back, defiance. I look back now and see the goodness, rightness of all that, the raw revelations of who we were to each other.  What I thought distance, was intimacy, a closeness that tugged at the very core of each of us.  I miss that now, see the gift.  Not every close relationship between a mom and her teenage daughter has to be complicated, dynamic ...but many, many are.  And for those of us who have those particular kinds, we tend to be very hard on ourselves and our child. We look to other moms and daughters who seem to smoothly walk through the teen years.  But often, its not as it appears. Lots of conversations reveal kids often tell their parent what they think they want to hear. Phoebe scoffed at that ...I'm glad now.  I don't have all the answers to why she died, but I do know who she was, what she did, what she thought and believed.  Mistaken at times, especially that last day, she lived with passion and conviction.  She believed. 
That rainbow wasn't for me alone, it was for us.  A mom and her girl, chasing the pots of gold, often not realizing we had them all along.
When the nights are long, and the heaviness of gloom knocks on my soul, I might remember the blazing pots of gold that speak of God's promise. 

St. Monica

Mother of St. Augustine, St. Monica is a model saint for all of us mothers striving to keep our children close to God, call those who stray back to Him, and for me ...to advocate on behalf of those mothers, like me, who live in constant prayer, begging God to receive our lost children.
The Novena to St. Monica begins today in honor of her feast day, August 27.  I'll keep all of your children in my prayers during this novena.  Please pray for mine!

Novena to St. Monica

Exemplary Mother of the Great Augustine,
You perserveringly pursued your wayward son
Not with wild threats 
But with prayerful cries to heaven. 

Intercede for all mothers in our day 
So that they may learn 
To draw their children to God. 

Teach them how to remain
Close to their children, 
Even the prodigal sons and daughters 
Who have sadly gone astray. 

Dear St Monica, troubled wife and mother, 
Many sorrows pierced your heart
During your lifetime. 
Yet you never despaired or lost faith. 
With confidence, persistence and profound faith, 
You prayed daily for the conversion
Of your beloved husband, Patricius 
And your beloved son, Augustine. 

Grant me that same fortitude, 
Patience and trust in the Lord. 
Intercede for me, dear St. Monica, 
That God may favorably hear my plea 
For 

[State your petition here.) 

And grant me the grace 
To accept his will in all things, 
Through Jesus Christ, our Lord, 
In the unity of the Holy Spirit, 
One God forever and ever.

Amen.

---

August Sky

I always look to the sky.  I think I might have always done that, but now I notice how often I scan the sky, night or day.  The first thing I do when I step outside is look up, lift my eyes to things above.  We've been blessed to live in homes that give us a good view of the sky.  Recessed porches are unintentional features of each of our three places.  I guess it might be God's little detail that gathers us altogether on our porches, something He knows we always appreciate.  We've often stepped out in the rain, protected to watch trees bend, lightening strike and droplets pelt.  We always look up, measure the sky for whatever we're looking for ...sunshine, clouds ...Phoebe.
 When she was three she came running in one August summer evening, panting that she'd seen Jesus in the sky.  She insisted he was standing above the Boston skyline, a view from our backyard at the time.  With each recitation of the story,  her siting pared down.  As she finished, she clarified, with her three year old lisp,  that she had indeed seen Jesus, but just his feet and they were really, really big ...and he was wearing sandles.  At that age, her insistent, determined personality was fully developed, and she held to the viewing of Jesus' feet, and proudly told anyone who would listen.
  It's rare I look at the sky in August without remembering that story.  The August sky is different from July or June.  It's bluer and deeper ...it has promise.  I've always loved the sky of this month.  I remember sitting in the backyard of our first home, just steps from the beach, and pointing to the sky, its blueness, amazed at the difference in just days. 
  I look up now and find her.  I remember that tumbling into the house when she was little, so full of excitement and assurance that Jesus had revealed to her just his feet.  I remember listening over and over as the tale whittled down, until it was just right.  Because really, isn't it more exciting and poignant to have just a vision of his feet.  Lots of people claim to have 'seen' Jesus, but who has been able to focus in solely on his feet. 
  We used to joke when she was little that her own feet were as capable as her hands.  We fought to keep shoes on her.  She used her feet, like people use their hands.  Even older, she was rarely in shoes if she didn't have to be.  The first snow always found her barefoot outside.
  I'm sure we could do a whole analysis on Phoebe's viewing of Jesus feet and her own call to be forever barefoot.  But really, the story mostly speaks to her keen awareness of His presence in her life at an early age and her ability to communicate His place in it, and how He personally understood that she would be really, really interested in His feet, and so showed them to her. 
  There's a lot I could write about from here, but really, I want to appreciate the beautiful simplicity of that moment ...and hear her little lispy voice reciting what she'd seen. 
   Every August, the sky rewrites that memory for me ...helps me find my way to Phoebe every now and then ...when I look up.

Charlie too!

I'm on the heels of The Compassionate Friends conference this past weekend, which conveniently was held in Boston.  It was a hectic weekend with kids, so I was glad to have it so close by, allowing me to navigate the multiple obligations.  I'd hoped to spend all my time at the conference ...just to be with so many people, hear so many stories of loss and then hope, pain and the finding of joy in the most obscure circumstances.  I'll probably write more about that later ...there's so much for all of us to learn!
Phoebe never really cared for convention, so while I learn so much about other people and their own journeys, their sense of their child(ren) with them, I didn't really expect Phoebe to reveal herself in such an expected place.  But looking back, I realize she was front and center from the get-go ...in such a Phoebe way ... that it sprinkled a bit of joy on two sad hearts and lifted them in a shared moment of joy and assurance.
I'd worked the fourth of July.  I'd expected to all along since my work pattern would fall on that day.  But when the schedule had come out, I wasn't on my usual routine.  Holiday pay is double time, so we like those days if they fit into our families lives!  Someone had asked me to cover for them and before I could respond, another nurse, Holly, had already filled the spot.  I love this nurse, Holly; I usually pass my patients on to her for the evening shift ..we share an easy way with each other.  We bantered back and forth about her 'stealing' my shift, my spot.  As it turned out, I worked a different floor ...which was great since I was able to work with the nurse who'd trained me and share with her the excitement of the upcoming return of her son from a military stint that's left her a bit depleted.
Towards the end of our shift, I was called and told Holly's dog had just died.  All of a sudden, her dog went outside ...and just died.  I knew she loved this pet very, very much.  And as life can be with teenagers, her dog never talked back, never caused worry ...except in the heavy thickness of summertime when his breathing would often be compromised.  He was a great consolation and 'friend' to her.  When I made my way down to her ....she was so, so sad.  She didn't want him to be alone, she was afraid he was with no one now.  I offered her what comfort I could, but knew she'd need to go through the pain alone.  You learn that when you lose a child ...that most times, pain must be traveled alone.  No matter who, no matter how many, no one, no thing can lessen the pain, the hard work of sadness.  And the fear of her dog, Charlie, being alone seared her.  It was heavy on my heart that night, saddened for her, but as I drove home I thought that Charlie might just be with someone who had always wanted a dog, had begged and begged for one.  I thought of the girl who would plead, the girl who left us, and after she did, we'd just wished so much we had gotten her a dog.  And I thought of her beautiful face with her bright, laughing smile, calling to him.  "Charlie, Charlie ...come here Charlie, over here!"  And I'd thought about him bounding towards her and her laughing and running, playing.  I'd wondered if this could all be true ...who knows!  We don't know what God allows, but we do know His promise is that it is far greater and far better than we can humanly imagine. So I went with that thought ...and took great joy in Phoebe and Charlie being together.
The weekend got busy fast, and it wasn't until today, while finishing all my notes, Holly walked in and I was able to tune in to her recent loss.  I asked her right away if she was okay ...and she came to me and said she didn't know how I'd done it.  "How did you get up the next morning?  I just lost my dog, I can't imagine a child."  I'd told her that my husband and I had marveled that the sun had come up over the horizon, perplexed that it could still rise after Phoebe had died.  Aloud, she'd wondered if I worried about Phoebe being alone and I told her of course I had.  Was she safe?  Warm? Hungry? Scared?  So many things we wondered, and even more we wonder now, but less now with fear, and more now with awe ...and real wonderment.
I'd remembered then the image I'd had of Phoebe calling to Charlie.  "Holly, Charlie's not alone ....I think he's with Phoebe now!"  She looked at me quizzically ..."I really think so!"  "Really, you do?"  And I told her of Phoebe's  great desire for a dog and how we now regretted never getting her one, so Charlie had probably gone to her.  "If he did, I'm sure he's already been to the top of Mt. Everest ....probably chased sea turtles off the Galapagos Islands.  She was very spirited, very adventurous ...no boring walks for this puppy, they're exploring.  If Charlie is with her ....he's having a blast.  I bet he hasn't stopped running yet."  We both laughed.  Both comforted at the thought they might be sharing some great adventure ...enjoying each other.  And it was my way to give Phoebe something she'd always wanted.  And I know Holly was glad to share Charlie with my girl! 
As I walked away she told me that I always seemed to know the right thing to say. I made her feel better she said.  But what Holly couldn't know is how the tears stung as I walked away so grateful to her for being so generous and willing to share her treasure, her Charlie, with my girl.  "Finally Mom!  He's a great dog, I'll take good care of him"  I hear her say. 
Bookends to the conference ....losing Charlie and then finding where he was.  Phoebe finally has her dog!

Freedom

True freedom only comes with a surrender, complete submission, to God.  We live in the 'land of the free', a culture that puts a premier price on being able to exercise our freedoms.  Those freedoms used to be tied to our Creator, but now they've morphed into whatever we want them to be.  But the Truth will always be our source of freedom.  God must always be the core of our lives ....and even when He is, we wrestle with taking hold ourselves and defining freedom from an individual perspective, based largely on what 'pleases' us, what makes us most comfortable and happy ....even if we couch it in terms of faith.
And so ....God, knowing our struggles and our hearts deepest, true desire to be fully in union with Him, offers us the opportunity to approach Him.  Some of us need that theme over and over again in our lives, new challenges that humble us, break us.  I know I'm a challenging student, so He offers me lots of things to draw me out of myself and into Him. I'm glad he hasn't given up on me.  He never gives up on any of us!
After last weeks surgery, my sister did not get good news.  It is not what she wanted or expected to hear.  I beg prayers once again for her.  God is offering her true freedom, and it is a grueling path.   May the angels and saints guide her, and all her loved ones, gone before her, walk with her.
Blessed Freedom to you today!

Do Not Touch!

Two nights ago Nantasket Beach was in its full glory.  The moon, still full, meant an exceptionally low tide, leaving sandbars and tidal pools exposed.  A storm had just raged through leaving the sky with spectacular clouds rimmed in bursts of orange and pink as the sun set over Boston.  In this little town of Hull, a 7 mile peninsula jutting into the Atlantic, arching back towards Boston, we get the full view sunrise and sunset.  Nantasket Beach is my beach, it feels like home to me.  I have lots of familiar places and spaces, my home is my home, and lots of fond memories are conjured up and remembered from places all over.  But it is with my feet in this sand where I feel most settled.  And its a night to be settled.
Mary Claire makes her sand castles just beyond the tiny ripples of wave.  One of them stands tall, surrounded by a moat.  Another surrounds the small pool, I say it looks like a sea turtle.  Owen makes a run for a tennis ball, perfects it to a smooth track giving speed as the ball heads towards the ocean.  Lucy meanders between the two younger siblings helping, offering tips ...making things happen.  They are happy and free ...and here, on this sand, so am I.
It is the day after my sisters surgery, a double mastectomy.  Already, she is home, a brazen move on her part to get back into life as soon as she can.  She is halfway across the country, and I am here.  My life as a nurse causes me to worry even more.  Under this sky, I can imagine life less complicated, where the constant rolling in of waves isn't quite so rough. 
My sister's life has not been easy.  None of us sisters has had an easy life, and yet we've lived some great adventure ...even amidst the mundane.  This is another hard chapter for her.  She will survive it, because that's what we do. And we've survived lots of ugly things.
How much of our lives do we plan, do all we can to ensure nothing will go off track?  We tend, nurture, revise, research ...all in an effort to do things, whether parenting, professional, social, physical ...to do them all the 'right' way.  And if we can just do them the 'right' way, nothing bad will happen.  Our children will thrive, our careers ascend, friendships will be genuine and loyal,  and if we do all the things we're supposed to do to prevent breast cancer ...we won't get it.  But that isn't how it works.  We can do all the right things, and still 'bad' things happen.  Essential for our survival is an optimism that transcends what the world defines as good or bad.  Despite the odds, despite the losses, the surgeries, the need to rebuild ....start over, a healthy, hopeful optimism that God is here and there ...that His plan is perfect, will win over all the worldly realities.  He won already for us, and we live in this valley of tears, but not forever.
My sister's story is still being written, and she has a journey ahead of her.  Please pray for her, pray that she be well.
We gather our things to leave the beach as night falls.  Mary Claire shouts 'wait' and heads down towards the water.  She picks up a shell and by each sandcastle carves 'Do not touch' deep into the sand.  The tide has turned and the waves edge closer.  She is certain her sign will preserve her castles, that she will come back to find them.
She's ready to leave the beach.
How many times have I written that sign around my life, my children, my home, my husband ...all the things I want to preserve and protect?  I write it over and over, thinking I can stave off the harm, the danger.  But I can't.  Life will take its own course, the one meant for each of us.  Some seem to live a life on smooth pavement, while others are given more treacherous routes.    In the past, I've shared about my mother, our mother, and her resilience, perseverance ...her utter mission to survive. Her life wasn't easy either.  She readied us for the challenges to come.  And her faith remained strong and constant all throughout.  Some days it doesn't makes sense to me that some should be burdened with so much, so often in this lifetime.
 In a moment of pondering a friend sends this to me http://www.sacred-texts.com/chr/ioc/ioc013.htm  and then this http://www.sacred-texts.com/chr/ioc/ioc038.htm. The second one is long, took me several times through to begin to grasp it, and I will go back to it too.  The are both an exact answer to questions I'd prayerfully, but urgently, posed to God during Mass hours earlier.  This faithful, loyal, enormous hearted friend was prompted to send this to me in perfect timing, without knowing the moments of my own struggle.
My 'Do not touch' signs, are just that, signs ...of my fear, my uncertainty, my desire to protect and preserve. We can take all the steps we want, and we often should, even being sure to surround ourselves with people we think are of like mind ...and it can all turn.  And that's where we fail, in the trusting in our own steps, failing to trust in Gods, thinking we know better ....thinking we are as wise, or wiser than God.  But if He wants to bring about our own individual salvation, or those of someone we love ...He will choose the best path, and then our struggle is to give thanks in all things ...all things ...even the most despairing!
I don't want my sister to struggle or suffer.  I don't want her to live with fear of the unknown.  I want Mary Claire's beautiful sandcastles to be intact when she returns to the beach ....
But more, I want every cell of my sister to trust in God's way, to be free from fear (which is so, so hard, and a constant struggle!  I know, I live it!)  I want Mary Claire to see the flattened sand where her castles once stood and see the opportunity to rebuild, to make new ..and she will, because that's her way!   And she is still young enough to fully know that God makes all things new.
I would so appreciate any prayers for my sister, Betsy ...she would too!

Father's Day

These days the sky stays light well past nine.  It's finally dark, the day officially done.  Hard, hard day.  Harder for me than Mother's Day.  Every child has their own relationship with each parent beyond the family dynamic.  You can see mothers and daughters so in sync when there together, they don't miss a beat.  Others navigate tension and misunderstanding, often even when they think the same way or have the same goal, but they bond.  There's all different ways to bond.  Fathers and son's, mothers and son's.  Father's and daughters.  A father ...and his daughter ...his girl ...his Phoebe.
Like two peas in a pod, they shared a world view and a draw to the power of nature, the overwhelming strength of God's creation ...and found peace in their own smallness in relation to that power.  Their season is here now.  And I am at sea ...I want that back for them to share.  I want it back for me to watch.  I miss their relationship ...their way, together, a dad and his girl.
There is wonder and joy in every other child/dad relationship, and I love watching those too.  But it is the one gone missing that tugs the heartstrings most.  I know he misses her.  He knows I miss her, and the words become less and less.  Maybe we just share a glance or a sigh.  He paints the house and I say I wonder if Phoebe will recognize it when she comes home.  And he tells me she picked the color ....because she did pick one similar a few years back.  I'd forgotten. 
We talk surfing, and it is below the surface of the words, another child using the boards with friends, the proper care and use etc ...  He navigates it from work and our oldest steps in too, making sure everyone's on the same page.  But we both know who would have run the show.  She would stand shorter than three of her younger sisters now, but she would have ruled over them, and she would have protected the prized surfboards while giving tips for maximum fun.  But she doesn't stand shorter than them, and she doesn't rule over them.  But sometimes her death rules over our hearts, and today is one of those times.
I bumped into one of her friends in the parking lot today.  I'd stopped to get a few things for Stephen to have at work.  Forty hours straight is a long time to work, and at least on Father's Day, a delivery of treats is in order.  She peeks in the bag sees the cookies, "I'd rather chocolate chip myself."  Her nose scrunches up "me too, but Phoebe told me he goes all healthy sometimes, empties out the sugar bowl."  We both laugh, it's true.  But I share it because she is one of the very few people who speaks about Phoebe with ease, with the sense that her friendship with Phoebe is still very real, just different.  I like that, appreciate it.  Phoebe's name didn't get caught in her throat, wasn't said with hushed tones, or droopy eyes ...it was just there, as it should be ...present and real.  And you know, it's so fitting that it's this girl I bump into on the journey of making the delivery to Phoebe's dad.  He'd loved watching them together.  Maybe a little wink.
I don't really understand how God weaves such things, such a loss, into our lives.  I know few men who could have continued living and loving the way Phoebe's dad has.  He's all in ...a phrase we used for many years amidst the activity of a house full of little kids.  We were all in ...we took no short-cuts. He still is all in ...even when he doesn't feel like it ....even when his heart is dragging.  His heart hasn't given out.  He just gives more.  And that's the witness for me ...the endless giving, the willingness to serve,  the willingness to walk this life with a shattered heart, hidden, striving to make other's lives whole and full.
Bless him, this man, on Father's Day.  

May's ending

May is closing, just hours away and it will be June.
May has been a very hard, arduous month ...in many ways.  It will always be Phoebe's month.  Over time, maybe it will be someone elses too ...maybe a grandchild will be born in this month, lots of possibilities to soften the harshness of the loss tied to her.
I've pushed toward this day ....seems funny to me, that I would race through a beautiful month, as if I could make its passing come with earnest.
There's lots I'd like to say, and little time to write, but there are a few thoughts that close this month for me.  It ends with all my living kids home on a hot Friday night ...temps in the 90's.  I like that, them here, the buzz of life ...laughing, fighting, settling in and finding a way to cool off.  Close enough to the ocean, we can sense and feel a distant breeze ...fleeting, but bringing a moment of relief.  I'm glad for that!
I see all of us finding a way to make this month something other than what it is ...an exclamation point for Phoebe.  Intensity describes all of us well, intentionally, inadvertently, subconsciously.
The last time I approached a period of my life in a similar way was several years ago when our oldest was heading off to the Air Force Academy.  We would be out of touch for six or more weeks.  The thought of that overwhelmed me, thinking I might not be able to survive it.  The severing of a child from my life in such an abrupt way seemed harsh, irrational.  I invested myself full on into the prerequisites for nursing school.  It kept me focused, forward thinking.  I did well.
It's funny to look back on that time and see how God prepared me, us for the real severing, the real brutality of separation that would always be ...the loss of Phoebe.  He cares for us, crafts our lives so that we might survive it, because we've practiced.
Stephen didn't stay at the Academy, and for lots of reasons I'm glad.  At first when he left, I thought of it only as a loss.  Now, I see the gain, the benefit, the rightness of it all.  I see a young man heading off with his little brother, rubber boots on all four feet to find the secret pond, abundant with frogs for catching.  I see the smiles on both, and the days of enjoyment with frogs hopping around our backyard, until set free back into their natural home.  I see a young man who asks me about my day.  I get to watch him build a life.
Quite honestly, I don't know how I would have fared had he stayed in such a highly structured life, away from us.  Little did I know when he decided to leave the Academy, a dream of his for years, that it was an enormous gift ...one that didn't feel like or appear to be one at all.  I'm grateful.
A long day of work closed with a sweet encounter, a witness of great love and devotion ...of marriage.
Our marriage has been stretched and pinched, pushed, shoved, pulled, twisted since losing Phoebe.  How could it not be?  Our missing is both united and very separate.  At times of my greatest frustration and despairing I've wondered what good could possibly come from this.  How could God make this new, even though He makes all things new?  When I'm settled, in moments of peace, I've thought that all this ...all of it ...is the writing of a great love story.  Because love stories that are truly beautiful do not look like Hollywood, but rather they appear tattered and frayed lots of  times.  And surely, we are tattered and frayed.  I've looked at this man of mine, and known that the depths of his sorrow are deep in a way different than mine, and yet the same.  This girl, this great, magnificent girl, was ours for such a short time ....but an extraordinary time, and our years sharing her were woven with golden thread that will last for all time.
As my work day came to a close nearing 7PM, the calendar caught my eye, someone mentioned tomorrow would be June.  Inside, I sighed relief.  May would soon be over, I could breath.  We all could breath a bit easier.
A little man, about 5'1" passed me pushing his wife in a wheelchair.  I greeted them, she waved, he smiled.  "Where are you two lovebirds off to?"  They giggled and looked at each other, their eyes twinkling.  On they went to enjoy their time together.  Everyday he visits her, holds juice to her mouth, adjusts her napkin, pushes her.   Moments later, I'm asked to bring something for pain to someone else.  I find the patient and his wife sitting in the sunroom along with another couple.  Both husbands are in special reclining wheelchairs, both suffer with dementia, both are there with their wives.  A double date.  The wives beam as they smile and chat with each other.  It is not the two of them sharing this moment.  It's a foursome, two wives, two husbands, two marriages that have survived long years.   I chat for a moment, wanting to ask them to tell me their stories ...their love stories.  This snapshot would likely be seen by the world as sad, depressing ...ugly even.  But it's not, it's a tapestry, a beautiful weaving of a life ...of lives.  This is a love story.
God helps us write stories woven with sorrow, pain, suffering, disappointment loss ...and he makes it all new.  He helps us write our love stories ....without revisions, do-overs ....it is raw and real ....it is blessed.
And so May closes, and my hope soars ...that we are living and writing a love story of gigantic proportion with amazing chapters and characters, events ....it is an epic, and Phoebe, like each of our children, has helped us write it.
I thought I'd close May with relief ...but instead, six little old people, tired and worn out, showed me the true meaning of springtime ...of new life ....of true love.
God is amazing in His generosity!

Happy Birthday!

Phoebe would have turned 20 yesterday.  I'd like to celebrate with her.  This is her third birthday away from us.  The day was busy with the rush of life.  Pause.  It's her birthday, a time to remember and celebrate and share.  What would she be like now?  Where would she be in her life?  What would her day had been like if she was here?  I wonder those things and yet know wholeheartedly, none of it was ever meant to be.  Phoebes life was known, the beginning and the end, well before she breathed in her lungs that very first, difficult time.  So my wonder is just that ...wonder, because there was and is no 'what might be' ....just what was and what is.It's how God makes things.
I've been in an intense training in a room with no windows all week.  It's a nails scraping the chalkboard type experience.  Mandated information that must be delivered, received, tested, confirmed whirs around my eyes and ears.  I talk to God in this small space, wonder the real necessity of it all, my mind drifts and I ask what I'm doing here, how much longer can I bear this.  I play games with the clock.  It's an opportunity I pursued and was offered.  It's not like I landed here by happenstance ...it's a good thing, but the training material repeats over and over.  The teacher is wonderful and warm, keenly aware that we are trudging through.  We all share blank stares, our eyes plead with each other for a means of escape.  As life has it, someone knows someone who knows me, and bits and pieces of my story float in the air.  Why here I ask God?  Why now, why in this closed space?  I don't want the pitied sideway glances, the curiosity ...I want to be free, I've had enough of being kicked around by meddlers, disingenuousness folks.  I try to avoid those encounters.
When we get a break I head outside, away from the group.  I need sunshine.  I sit with a woman, unwrap my sandwich...and her story spills.  And in that moment, I know why I'm here, in the sunshine with this lovely lady.  And I know why Phoebe is where she is and the work she likely does.  And together, me and my girl, we reach out to the beautiful hurting hidden behind the smile and laughter, behind the ego and animation is a brokenness and fear that needs soothing, assurance ....compassion.  In this space under the sun there is no competition for who hurts or suffers more ....there is just the listening and sharing the broken hearted do ....the giving of stories and losses and hopes and trust.  Tears give way to weak smiles, assurances ...it will all be well.
Moments like these speak of our lives entwined with those we love and have seemingly lost.  If our lives are eternal, then why wouldn't we still be together in moments.  What will I do on birthday,  is answered with tending another broken soul ....offering a smile and assurance that all will be well ....because all will be well, as God ordaines it ...regardless of what the world says.
God is good and gracious, generous even ...in seemingly odd ways.  To say He invites us to carry His cross seems indulgent, pompous even ...who am I to touch the means of our salvation?  I am not worthy to carry it with Him, I know that.  But I can offer a sip of water to one who does ...can't I?  I can wipe a tear, cheer her on, tell her He's just ahead ...waiting.
Phoebe turned 20 yesterday ...and I celebrate with a heavy heart, trusting she is near because she sat with me on a picnic bench holding the heart of another mom with a smile that brightens a room and sprinkles happiness. But deep down, or not even so deep  she helped me see the ache of fear. 
Life is a broken landscape, and we pick our way through, holding each other up, making our way through the debris ....it's in the giving and reaching out, it's in the willingness to share and listen that we find our own footing ...solid ground.
Happy birthday sweet girl!