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.