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.