Two nights ago Nantasket Beach was in its full glory. The moon, still full, meant an exceptionally low tide, leaving sandbars and tidal pools exposed. A storm had just raged through leaving the sky with spectacular clouds rimmed in bursts of orange and pink as the sun set over Boston. In this little town of Hull, a 7 mile peninsula jutting into the Atlantic, arching back towards Boston, we get the full view sunrise and sunset. Nantasket Beach is my beach, it feels like home to me. I have lots of familiar places and spaces, my home is my home, and lots of fond memories are conjured up and remembered from places all over. But it is with my feet in this sand where I feel most settled. And its a night to be settled.
Mary Claire makes her sand castles just beyond the tiny ripples of wave. One of them stands tall, surrounded by a moat. Another surrounds the small pool, I say it looks like a sea turtle. Owen makes a run for a tennis ball, perfects it to a smooth track giving speed as the ball heads towards the ocean. Lucy meanders between the two younger siblings helping, offering tips ...making things happen. They are happy and free ...and here, on this sand, so am I.
It is the day after my sisters surgery, a double mastectomy. Already, she is home, a brazen move on her part to get back into life as soon as she can. She is halfway across the country, and I am here. My life as a nurse causes me to worry even more. Under this sky, I can imagine life less complicated, where the constant rolling in of waves isn't quite so rough.
My sister's life has not been easy. None of us sisters has had an easy life, and yet we've lived some great adventure ...even amidst the mundane. This is another hard chapter for her. She will survive it, because that's what we do. And we've survived lots of ugly things.
How much of our lives do we plan, do all we can to ensure nothing will go off track? We tend, nurture, revise, research ...all in an effort to do things, whether parenting, professional, social, physical ...to do them all the 'right' way. And if we can just do them the 'right' way, nothing bad will happen. Our children will thrive, our careers ascend, friendships will be genuine and loyal, and if we do all the things we're supposed to do to prevent breast cancer ...we won't get it. But that isn't how it works. We can do all the right things, and still 'bad' things happen. Essential for our survival is an optimism that transcends what the world defines as good or bad. Despite the odds, despite the losses, the surgeries, the need to rebuild ....start over, a healthy, hopeful optimism that God is here and there ...that His plan is perfect, will win over all the worldly realities. He won already for us, and we live in this valley of tears, but not forever.
My sister's story is still being written, and she has a journey ahead of her. Please pray for her, pray that she be well.
We gather our things to leave the beach as night falls. Mary Claire shouts 'wait' and heads down towards the water. She picks up a shell and by each sandcastle carves 'Do not touch' deep into the sand. The tide has turned and the waves edge closer. She is certain her sign will preserve her castles, that she will come back to find them.
She's ready to leave the beach.
How many times have I written that sign around my life, my children, my home, my husband ...all the things I want to preserve and protect? I write it over and over, thinking I can stave off the harm, the danger. But I can't. Life will take its own course, the one meant for each of us. Some seem to live a life on smooth pavement, while others are given more treacherous routes. In the past, I've shared about my mother, our mother, and her resilience, perseverance ...her utter mission to survive. Her life wasn't easy either. She readied us for the challenges to come. And her faith remained strong and constant all throughout. Some days it doesn't makes sense to me that some should be burdened with so much, so often in this lifetime.
In a moment of pondering a friend sends this to me http://www.sacred-texts.com/chr/ioc/ioc013.htm and then this http://www.sacred-texts.com/chr/ioc/ioc038.htm. The second one is long, took me several times through to begin to grasp it, and I will go back to it too. The are both an exact answer to questions I'd prayerfully, but urgently, posed to God during Mass hours earlier. This faithful, loyal, enormous hearted friend was prompted to send this to me in perfect timing, without knowing the moments of my own struggle.
My 'Do not touch' signs, are just that, signs ...of my fear, my uncertainty, my desire to protect and preserve. We can take all the steps we want, and we often should, even being sure to surround ourselves with people we think are of like mind ...and it can all turn. And that's where we fail, in the trusting in our own steps, failing to trust in Gods, thinking we know better ....thinking we are as wise, or wiser than God. But if He wants to bring about our own individual salvation, or those of someone we love ...He will choose the best path, and then our struggle is to give thanks in all things ...all things ...even the most despairing!
I don't want my sister to struggle or suffer. I don't want her to live with fear of the unknown. I want Mary Claire's beautiful sandcastles to be intact when she returns to the beach ....
But more, I want every cell of my sister to trust in God's way, to be free from fear (which is so, so hard, and a constant struggle! I know, I live it!) I want Mary Claire to see the flattened sand where her castles once stood and see the opportunity to rebuild, to make new ..and she will, because that's her way! And she is still young enough to fully know that God makes all things new.
I would so appreciate any prayers for my sister, Betsy ...she would too!
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Father's Day
These days the sky stays light well past nine. It's finally dark, the day officially done. Hard, hard day. Harder for me than Mother's Day. Every child has their own relationship with each parent beyond the family dynamic. You can see mothers and daughters so in sync when there together, they don't miss a beat. Others navigate tension and misunderstanding, often even when they think the same way or have the same goal, but they bond. There's all different ways to bond. Fathers and son's, mothers and son's. Father's and daughters. A father ...and his daughter ...his girl ...his Phoebe.
Like two peas in a pod, they shared a world view and a draw to the power of nature, the overwhelming strength of God's creation ...and found peace in their own smallness in relation to that power. Their season is here now. And I am at sea ...I want that back for them to share. I want it back for me to watch. I miss their relationship ...their way, together, a dad and his girl.
There is wonder and joy in every other child/dad relationship, and I love watching those too. But it is the one gone missing that tugs the heartstrings most. I know he misses her. He knows I miss her, and the words become less and less. Maybe we just share a glance or a sigh. He paints the house and I say I wonder if Phoebe will recognize it when she comes home. And he tells me she picked the color ....because she did pick one similar a few years back. I'd forgotten.
We talk surfing, and it is below the surface of the words, another child using the boards with friends, the proper care and use etc ... He navigates it from work and our oldest steps in too, making sure everyone's on the same page. But we both know who would have run the show. She would stand shorter than three of her younger sisters now, but she would have ruled over them, and she would have protected the prized surfboards while giving tips for maximum fun. But she doesn't stand shorter than them, and she doesn't rule over them. But sometimes her death rules over our hearts, and today is one of those times.
I bumped into one of her friends in the parking lot today. I'd stopped to get a few things for Stephen to have at work. Forty hours straight is a long time to work, and at least on Father's Day, a delivery of treats is in order. She peeks in the bag sees the cookies, "I'd rather chocolate chip myself." Her nose scrunches up "me too, but Phoebe told me he goes all healthy sometimes, empties out the sugar bowl." We both laugh, it's true. But I share it because she is one of the very few people who speaks about Phoebe with ease, with the sense that her friendship with Phoebe is still very real, just different. I like that, appreciate it. Phoebe's name didn't get caught in her throat, wasn't said with hushed tones, or droopy eyes ...it was just there, as it should be ...present and real. And you know, it's so fitting that it's this girl I bump into on the journey of making the delivery to Phoebe's dad. He'd loved watching them together. Maybe a little wink.
I don't really understand how God weaves such things, such a loss, into our lives. I know few men who could have continued living and loving the way Phoebe's dad has. He's all in ...a phrase we used for many years amidst the activity of a house full of little kids. We were all in ...we took no short-cuts. He still is all in ...even when he doesn't feel like it ....even when his heart is dragging. His heart hasn't given out. He just gives more. And that's the witness for me ...the endless giving, the willingness to serve, the willingness to walk this life with a shattered heart, hidden, striving to make other's lives whole and full.
Bless him, this man, on Father's Day.
Like two peas in a pod, they shared a world view and a draw to the power of nature, the overwhelming strength of God's creation ...and found peace in their own smallness in relation to that power. Their season is here now. And I am at sea ...I want that back for them to share. I want it back for me to watch. I miss their relationship ...their way, together, a dad and his girl.
There is wonder and joy in every other child/dad relationship, and I love watching those too. But it is the one gone missing that tugs the heartstrings most. I know he misses her. He knows I miss her, and the words become less and less. Maybe we just share a glance or a sigh. He paints the house and I say I wonder if Phoebe will recognize it when she comes home. And he tells me she picked the color ....because she did pick one similar a few years back. I'd forgotten.
We talk surfing, and it is below the surface of the words, another child using the boards with friends, the proper care and use etc ... He navigates it from work and our oldest steps in too, making sure everyone's on the same page. But we both know who would have run the show. She would stand shorter than three of her younger sisters now, but she would have ruled over them, and she would have protected the prized surfboards while giving tips for maximum fun. But she doesn't stand shorter than them, and she doesn't rule over them. But sometimes her death rules over our hearts, and today is one of those times.
I bumped into one of her friends in the parking lot today. I'd stopped to get a few things for Stephen to have at work. Forty hours straight is a long time to work, and at least on Father's Day, a delivery of treats is in order. She peeks in the bag sees the cookies, "I'd rather chocolate chip myself." Her nose scrunches up "me too, but Phoebe told me he goes all healthy sometimes, empties out the sugar bowl." We both laugh, it's true. But I share it because she is one of the very few people who speaks about Phoebe with ease, with the sense that her friendship with Phoebe is still very real, just different. I like that, appreciate it. Phoebe's name didn't get caught in her throat, wasn't said with hushed tones, or droopy eyes ...it was just there, as it should be ...present and real. And you know, it's so fitting that it's this girl I bump into on the journey of making the delivery to Phoebe's dad. He'd loved watching them together. Maybe a little wink.
I don't really understand how God weaves such things, such a loss, into our lives. I know few men who could have continued living and loving the way Phoebe's dad has. He's all in ...a phrase we used for many years amidst the activity of a house full of little kids. We were all in ...we took no short-cuts. He still is all in ...even when he doesn't feel like it ....even when his heart is dragging. His heart hasn't given out. He just gives more. And that's the witness for me ...the endless giving, the willingness to serve, the willingness to walk this life with a shattered heart, hidden, striving to make other's lives whole and full.
Bless him, this man, on Father's Day.
Friday, May 31, 2013
May's ending
May is closing, just hours away and it will be June.
May has been a very hard, arduous month ...in many ways. It will always be Phoebe's month. Over time, maybe it will be someone elses too ...maybe a grandchild will be born in this month, lots of possibilities to soften the harshness of the loss tied to her.
I've pushed toward this day ....seems funny to me, that I would race through a beautiful month, as if I could make its passing come with earnest.
There's lots I'd like to say, and little time to write, but there are a few thoughts that close this month for me. It ends with all my living kids home on a hot Friday night ...temps in the 90's. I like that, them here, the buzz of life ...laughing, fighting, settling in and finding a way to cool off. Close enough to the ocean, we can sense and feel a distant breeze ...fleeting, but bringing a moment of relief. I'm glad for that!
I see all of us finding a way to make this month something other than what it is ...an exclamation point for Phoebe. Intensity describes all of us well, intentionally, inadvertently, subconsciously.
The last time I approached a period of my life in a similar way was several years ago when our oldest was heading off to the Air Force Academy. We would be out of touch for six or more weeks. The thought of that overwhelmed me, thinking I might not be able to survive it. The severing of a child from my life in such an abrupt way seemed harsh, irrational. I invested myself full on into the prerequisites for nursing school. It kept me focused, forward thinking. I did well.
It's funny to look back on that time and see how God prepared me, us for the real severing, the real brutality of separation that would always be ...the loss of Phoebe. He cares for us, crafts our lives so that we might survive it, because we've practiced.
Stephen didn't stay at the Academy, and for lots of reasons I'm glad. At first when he left, I thought of it only as a loss. Now, I see the gain, the benefit, the rightness of it all. I see a young man heading off with his little brother, rubber boots on all four feet to find the secret pond, abundant with frogs for catching. I see the smiles on both, and the days of enjoyment with frogs hopping around our backyard, until set free back into their natural home. I see a young man who asks me about my day. I get to watch him build a life.
Quite honestly, I don't know how I would have fared had he stayed in such a highly structured life, away from us. Little did I know when he decided to leave the Academy, a dream of his for years, that it was an enormous gift ...one that didn't feel like or appear to be one at all. I'm grateful.
A long day of work closed with a sweet encounter, a witness of great love and devotion ...of marriage.
Our marriage has been stretched and pinched, pushed, shoved, pulled, twisted since losing Phoebe. How could it not be? Our missing is both united and very separate. At times of my greatest frustration and despairing I've wondered what good could possibly come from this. How could God make this new, even though He makes all things new? When I'm settled, in moments of peace, I've thought that all this ...all of it ...is the writing of a great love story. Because love stories that are truly beautiful do not look like Hollywood, but rather they appear tattered and frayed lots of times. And surely, we are tattered and frayed. I've looked at this man of mine, and known that the depths of his sorrow are deep in a way different than mine, and yet the same. This girl, this great, magnificent girl, was ours for such a short time ....but an extraordinary time, and our years sharing her were woven with golden thread that will last for all time.
As my work day came to a close nearing 7PM, the calendar caught my eye, someone mentioned tomorrow would be June. Inside, I sighed relief. May would soon be over, I could breath. We all could breath a bit easier.
A little man, about 5'1" passed me pushing his wife in a wheelchair. I greeted them, she waved, he smiled. "Where are you two lovebirds off to?" They giggled and looked at each other, their eyes twinkling. On they went to enjoy their time together. Everyday he visits her, holds juice to her mouth, adjusts her napkin, pushes her. Moments later, I'm asked to bring something for pain to someone else. I find the patient and his wife sitting in the sunroom along with another couple. Both husbands are in special reclining wheelchairs, both suffer with dementia, both are there with their wives. A double date. The wives beam as they smile and chat with each other. It is not the two of them sharing this moment. It's a foursome, two wives, two husbands, two marriages that have survived long years. I chat for a moment, wanting to ask them to tell me their stories ...their love stories. This snapshot would likely be seen by the world as sad, depressing ...ugly even. But it's not, it's a tapestry, a beautiful weaving of a life ...of lives. This is a love story.
God helps us write stories woven with sorrow, pain, suffering, disappointment loss ...and he makes it all new. He helps us write our love stories ....without revisions, do-overs ....it is raw and real ....it is blessed.
And so May closes, and my hope soars ...that we are living and writing a love story of gigantic proportion with amazing chapters and characters, events ....it is an epic, and Phoebe, like each of our children, has helped us write it.
I thought I'd close May with relief ...but instead, six little old people, tired and worn out, showed me the true meaning of springtime ...of new life ....of true love.
God is amazing in His generosity!
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!
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 ...
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Boston
It's been a long week in Boston. It will take time to process all that's happened.
No one in my family, no loved one, no friend was harmed. Some I know, not in my inner circle, are affected, but I feel extremely blessed that all is safe and sound in this house.
The Marathon is part of every Bostonians' life. We are not runners, but we know plenty who are. IN the past we've gone to cheer people along. I'm not a lover of crowds so I rarely go. Last year, we were traveling south to Maryland while some good friends ran in extreme heat. Texting, calling kept us posted on what was happening. As if a prelude to the following years, lots of people were injured due to the heat ...and that was the story, the breaking news.
The story this year is radically different. Monday night our Compassionate Friends group met as scheduled. We sat for a time in silence. Our own loss is always present, but what took our breath away was knowing the agony of those who lost a child that day. How do you cross over and tell them they will survive? How do you assure them they can go on? Even still, I need reminders of that, but I've had moments when I've believed it and can fall back on them. But in the early moments of horror ...that's all there is ....the sheer horror and disbelief. We gathered and knew, all of us, the agonizing horror people were, would be experiencing. Pray for them, please.
It is so, so hard to make sense out of things and why God would allow them to happen. Our faith is challenged, our whole lives change, we live by different rules, know a different reality. How would God allow an innocent event to turn evil?
And our priests reach out to guide parents and families through the ugliness, they hold on to the faith when we can't carry it ourselves. Right now, one priest is present round the clock for a family affected by loss and injury ...devastation. Along with that, several other parish concerns are under his care. He is a good friend of two very dear friends of ours. He's offered several Masses for our beloved Phoebe, and though we are remote to him, he has reached out, checked in to see if we are okay and if there is anything he could do for us. I can only imagine his care for this family ...and his parish, deeply affected by all that's happened. Pray for them please.
Pray for this priest, because while he tends and shepherds so well, he grieves too ...he's lost something very dear.
No one in my family, no loved one, no friend was harmed. Some I know, not in my inner circle, are affected, but I feel extremely blessed that all is safe and sound in this house.
The Marathon is part of every Bostonians' life. We are not runners, but we know plenty who are. IN the past we've gone to cheer people along. I'm not a lover of crowds so I rarely go. Last year, we were traveling south to Maryland while some good friends ran in extreme heat. Texting, calling kept us posted on what was happening. As if a prelude to the following years, lots of people were injured due to the heat ...and that was the story, the breaking news.
The story this year is radically different. Monday night our Compassionate Friends group met as scheduled. We sat for a time in silence. Our own loss is always present, but what took our breath away was knowing the agony of those who lost a child that day. How do you cross over and tell them they will survive? How do you assure them they can go on? Even still, I need reminders of that, but I've had moments when I've believed it and can fall back on them. But in the early moments of horror ...that's all there is ....the sheer horror and disbelief. We gathered and knew, all of us, the agonizing horror people were, would be experiencing. Pray for them, please.
It is so, so hard to make sense out of things and why God would allow them to happen. Our faith is challenged, our whole lives change, we live by different rules, know a different reality. How would God allow an innocent event to turn evil?
And our priests reach out to guide parents and families through the ugliness, they hold on to the faith when we can't carry it ourselves. Right now, one priest is present round the clock for a family affected by loss and injury ...devastation. Along with that, several other parish concerns are under his care. He is a good friend of two very dear friends of ours. He's offered several Masses for our beloved Phoebe, and though we are remote to him, he has reached out, checked in to see if we are okay and if there is anything he could do for us. I can only imagine his care for this family ...and his parish, deeply affected by all that's happened. Pray for them please.
Pray for this priest, because while he tends and shepherds so well, he grieves too ...he's lost something very dear.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Holy Thursday
Some days I fight back the tears for hours on end. Not most days, but some days. Something is said, or heard, or seen, or felt ...or thought, and the waves roll in. And when those days come, when it takes all I can find to stay composed and move through the day, someone who loves me very much appears the instant I need scooping up. I'm grateful for those times.
This season of Lent has brought more of those days, loaded my plate with a lot of sadness and uncertainty. The season started with a really sad thing ...and set the tone for the forty days of repentance and restoration in Christ. And it has just kept on.
A friend reminded me the other day how often I say that we must be thankful to God, most especially in the hardest moments of our lives, the ones that horrify us, rob us of our very selves, the ones we 'know' we can't handle. It's helped me to hear that I say that, spread that ...even though I don't 'feel' like saying thank you. But if we really believe in eternal life with God, then we must also believe in the story of the crucifixion and the great cost of believing and trusting that our chance for Heaven comes from the gift of suffering. Without the crucifixion there is no resurrection.
I've come to believe that though it is good and right to offer our own sacrifices and mortification, God will offer us the best way to participate in the Passion. He will offer us our own Lent. And some have longer Lents than others. I once heard it said at the funeral of a man who suffered, long and hard, the disease of addiction that his life was a long Good Friday. Some people suffer more than others. Many have suffered far more than I ever will ...which makes me deeply sad, because my own pain is quite heavy.
Holy Thursday reminds all of us of the greatest suffering of all. And where are we, where am I? Have I scurried away and hidden myself from association with Christ? Have I been oblivious all along? Am I willing to stay until the end when all seems despairing? Or will I show up, only for the accolades when I can be seen and deemed holy? What price am I willing to pay to be a true follower of Him? I have to ask those questions over and over ...and sometimes struggle for the answer. This Lent has been hard. I've begged for grace to see my way through.
Grace finds us in miraculous ways. As I struggled to get out of my own way, climb over my own despairing, I was able to hold the hand of a dear old woman. I am amazingly blessed with the job that I have and the people I get to care for. My old friend has buried more than one child, and so few words are needed between us, we understand each other, the searing pain that can come from nowhere, anytime. Her pain surfaced several weeks ago, and while we all grew concerned, she seemed to start slipping into another place. I know that place, a place I've often longed to go, but my kids and my life keep me away. It's a place of longing and yearning, where all you want is to delve in the waiting for that reunion ...that physical sense and awareness of your lost child. Without my other kids and knowing what they deserve, I would have gone there long ago ...just slipped away. And that's where I could see my friend was going.
We've laughed a lot together, but the laughter had gone. I'd tell her I wouldn't leave her until I got a smile ...and she would muster the tiniest upward curve of her mouth. Today I sat next to her on her bed and held her hand. "You've been living Lent," I said to her. "Is that what you think it is, I'm beginning to wonder?" she answered back. I reminded her that today we begin our journey to Calvary, we are on the road. She shook her head "oh, not me, I'm not worthy of that," she said. I told her none of us are or ever will be worthy of that journey, but we are all invited. That time with her was a great grace, a reminder of how broken hearts, together, can find moments of wholeness, moments of fulfillment. We smiled together knowing the Resurrection will find us ...one day.
This night, the night of the Last Supper, the night of Jesus praying while his Apostles fell asleep and one betrayed Him, the night when the promise of Heaven's gates being opened began its fulfillment ...this night, we are all invited to join Him, to convert ourselves, our hearts and souls to living only in Him. We're invited again to reject the glitter, glam and empty promises of this world, and follow the son of a carpenter to His death. It is a tough road, but worth the climb.
And where is Phoebe in all of this? In my stillness, I hear her telling God, "She's my mom, she can take this!" And she turns to me "C'mon Mom, you know you can ...don't be a slacker." Not the warm and fuzzies, but certainly Phoebe through and through!
Blessings and grace to you during these holiest of days!
This season of Lent has brought more of those days, loaded my plate with a lot of sadness and uncertainty. The season started with a really sad thing ...and set the tone for the forty days of repentance and restoration in Christ. And it has just kept on.
A friend reminded me the other day how often I say that we must be thankful to God, most especially in the hardest moments of our lives, the ones that horrify us, rob us of our very selves, the ones we 'know' we can't handle. It's helped me to hear that I say that, spread that ...even though I don't 'feel' like saying thank you. But if we really believe in eternal life with God, then we must also believe in the story of the crucifixion and the great cost of believing and trusting that our chance for Heaven comes from the gift of suffering. Without the crucifixion there is no resurrection.
I've come to believe that though it is good and right to offer our own sacrifices and mortification, God will offer us the best way to participate in the Passion. He will offer us our own Lent. And some have longer Lents than others. I once heard it said at the funeral of a man who suffered, long and hard, the disease of addiction that his life was a long Good Friday. Some people suffer more than others. Many have suffered far more than I ever will ...which makes me deeply sad, because my own pain is quite heavy.
Holy Thursday reminds all of us of the greatest suffering of all. And where are we, where am I? Have I scurried away and hidden myself from association with Christ? Have I been oblivious all along? Am I willing to stay until the end when all seems despairing? Or will I show up, only for the accolades when I can be seen and deemed holy? What price am I willing to pay to be a true follower of Him? I have to ask those questions over and over ...and sometimes struggle for the answer. This Lent has been hard. I've begged for grace to see my way through.
Grace finds us in miraculous ways. As I struggled to get out of my own way, climb over my own despairing, I was able to hold the hand of a dear old woman. I am amazingly blessed with the job that I have and the people I get to care for. My old friend has buried more than one child, and so few words are needed between us, we understand each other, the searing pain that can come from nowhere, anytime. Her pain surfaced several weeks ago, and while we all grew concerned, she seemed to start slipping into another place. I know that place, a place I've often longed to go, but my kids and my life keep me away. It's a place of longing and yearning, where all you want is to delve in the waiting for that reunion ...that physical sense and awareness of your lost child. Without my other kids and knowing what they deserve, I would have gone there long ago ...just slipped away. And that's where I could see my friend was going.
We've laughed a lot together, but the laughter had gone. I'd tell her I wouldn't leave her until I got a smile ...and she would muster the tiniest upward curve of her mouth. Today I sat next to her on her bed and held her hand. "You've been living Lent," I said to her. "Is that what you think it is, I'm beginning to wonder?" she answered back. I reminded her that today we begin our journey to Calvary, we are on the road. She shook her head "oh, not me, I'm not worthy of that," she said. I told her none of us are or ever will be worthy of that journey, but we are all invited. That time with her was a great grace, a reminder of how broken hearts, together, can find moments of wholeness, moments of fulfillment. We smiled together knowing the Resurrection will find us ...one day.
This night, the night of the Last Supper, the night of Jesus praying while his Apostles fell asleep and one betrayed Him, the night when the promise of Heaven's gates being opened began its fulfillment ...this night, we are all invited to join Him, to convert ourselves, our hearts and souls to living only in Him. We're invited again to reject the glitter, glam and empty promises of this world, and follow the son of a carpenter to His death. It is a tough road, but worth the climb.
And where is Phoebe in all of this? In my stillness, I hear her telling God, "She's my mom, she can take this!" And she turns to me "C'mon Mom, you know you can ...don't be a slacker." Not the warm and fuzzies, but certainly Phoebe through and through!
Blessings and grace to you during these holiest of days!
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