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.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Monday, October 28, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, October 25, 2013
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
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.
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.
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