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!
Friday, May 31, 2013
Saturday, May 18, 2013
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!
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!
Monday, May 6, 2013
Everest
Phoebe is over my shoulder, then grabbing the mouse and clicking her way around the site I'm on http://www.alanarnette.com/blog/everest-2013-coverage/. This is Everest season, the race to the summit is on as the weather breaks just enough to allow seasoned climbers to reach the highest peak in the world. I've loved Everest for years, and its peculiar that I do since I have absolutely no skill or interest in climbing. I like hiking ...the kind that needs no equipment. I'm not interested is scaling rock, crossing wide open, yawning spaces by ladder, loaded down with gear. But ...I absolutely love watching from afar, learning the strategies, reading the stories and learning more and more about the mountain itself and the people who climb. Most people who find out I have this interest chuckle ...because it is so not me.
My family chuckles too about my peculiar curiosity in not only Everest, but whaling too, another industry from long ago that draws a deep curiosity. But there is no real whaling season, except illegally, now, so I dabble here and there to learn or review some facts that peak my interest. But Everest is an ongoing, evolving story that keeps me searching for more. So I watch the teams as they make their way up, acclimating, then descending, resting for a few days only to go higher next time ....until, they are as sure as they can be that they are physically, mentally and emotionally ready to make their bid to the top ...as long as the weather cooperates and allows them to pass.
My oldest told me the other day how he's found himself over the years involved in discussions that either directly or indirectly involve Mt. Everest. He's been stunned as he's rattled off facts or offered clarification about the Khumbu Icefalls, the Lhotse Face, the different camps, the pace of acclimating ... Laughing he tells me he has no recollection of me telling him all this, but its been such a part of my own study and interest, that its a part of him too.
I check in to see where each team is, I tell Owen about the one's seeming to lag behind, assure him they will be the most successful and why. He asks questions in hushed tones, eyes wide as he looks at campsites on tiny rock peninsulas jutting into the sky, steep drops on either side. He listens as I tell him how the ice groans and moans during the night, changing the climb.
I continue to scroll around, reading blog entries, exploring the changing dynamic as more and more teams become part of this short season. My kids wander away, on to something else, but I feel her stay. She never followed me around, she found her own way. No hushed awe from Phoebe as I shared stories of what I knew, she challenged and found her own thoughts. She would see different things than me, she'd watch for body posture, facial expressions, she'd read between the lines. Not me, I'm a 'what you see is what you get' kind of girl. Phoebe could see deeper. I'd see the ladder crossing the ice falls, where she'd see the depth of blue ice, the danger, the excitement. I'd cross quickly, she'd gaze long and deep, figure it out. But she'd stay, interested, engaged, sharing this great love of mine. She'd pick a different team that would make it first, tell me why and how. She'd probably be right.
Last week a fight broke out between some Europeans and Sherpas. It made the news. I'd heard it from a patients room, sent a text to my son to find out for me. He shot a few facts back to me, said the conflict was over. Phoebe would tell me its not over, its the beginning of another struggle, another clash of cultures, both an unraveling and a building of something different. Funny how those conversations can go on in my head without her here.
But I find her just over my shoulder, interested like me, only climbing Everest might be something she'd actually do, prepare for.
I miss her, her mannerisms, her certainty, the way she thought ...who she is. Brief little moments like this, shared moments maybe, without seeing or touching or feeling ...just moments of a sense of her lighten this heavy heart.
She's laughing as I chase the summit from my kitchen. She's betting on a different team. And she's telling me not to bore people with my own interest. "When their eyes start to glaze over Mom ...stop talking!"
I miss her ...
My family chuckles too about my peculiar curiosity in not only Everest, but whaling too, another industry from long ago that draws a deep curiosity. But there is no real whaling season, except illegally, now, so I dabble here and there to learn or review some facts that peak my interest. But Everest is an ongoing, evolving story that keeps me searching for more. So I watch the teams as they make their way up, acclimating, then descending, resting for a few days only to go higher next time ....until, they are as sure as they can be that they are physically, mentally and emotionally ready to make their bid to the top ...as long as the weather cooperates and allows them to pass.
My oldest told me the other day how he's found himself over the years involved in discussions that either directly or indirectly involve Mt. Everest. He's been stunned as he's rattled off facts or offered clarification about the Khumbu Icefalls, the Lhotse Face, the different camps, the pace of acclimating ... Laughing he tells me he has no recollection of me telling him all this, but its been such a part of my own study and interest, that its a part of him too.
I check in to see where each team is, I tell Owen about the one's seeming to lag behind, assure him they will be the most successful and why. He asks questions in hushed tones, eyes wide as he looks at campsites on tiny rock peninsulas jutting into the sky, steep drops on either side. He listens as I tell him how the ice groans and moans during the night, changing the climb.
I continue to scroll around, reading blog entries, exploring the changing dynamic as more and more teams become part of this short season. My kids wander away, on to something else, but I feel her stay. She never followed me around, she found her own way. No hushed awe from Phoebe as I shared stories of what I knew, she challenged and found her own thoughts. She would see different things than me, she'd watch for body posture, facial expressions, she'd read between the lines. Not me, I'm a 'what you see is what you get' kind of girl. Phoebe could see deeper. I'd see the ladder crossing the ice falls, where she'd see the depth of blue ice, the danger, the excitement. I'd cross quickly, she'd gaze long and deep, figure it out. But she'd stay, interested, engaged, sharing this great love of mine. She'd pick a different team that would make it first, tell me why and how. She'd probably be right.
Last week a fight broke out between some Europeans and Sherpas. It made the news. I'd heard it from a patients room, sent a text to my son to find out for me. He shot a few facts back to me, said the conflict was over. Phoebe would tell me its not over, its the beginning of another struggle, another clash of cultures, both an unraveling and a building of something different. Funny how those conversations can go on in my head without her here.
But I find her just over my shoulder, interested like me, only climbing Everest might be something she'd actually do, prepare for.
I miss her, her mannerisms, her certainty, the way she thought ...who she is. Brief little moments like this, shared moments maybe, without seeing or touching or feeling ...just moments of a sense of her lighten this heavy heart.
She's laughing as I chase the summit from my kitchen. She's betting on a different team. And she's telling me not to bore people with my own interest. "When their eyes start to glaze over Mom ...stop talking!"
I miss her ...
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