There is such comfort to walk where she walked, sit where she sat, see what she saw, gaze at the stars, and to know she never leaves. I keep expecting to see that approaching body, with the broad beamed smile, the wide steps taken, or the sauntering stagger, the body and legs of a strong and solid being. She was all that and more. Perhaps that is why it is so comforting to be in the places she occupied, the rooms, the streets, the seawall, the bay, the camp, the view, and oh, what a view. To take steps on the solid ground where she once visited makes her come so alive. So much so that I just know she is going to bound up the steps and announce her arrival. But she doesn't. And she won't. No more, in the same way. Never to be touched or to hear that voice. It's a pain that gnaws and eats away, and hasn't subsided. Maybe someday. I won't know until I know.
So, as I head for home, back to the many reminders, back to the room she occupied, the photographs, the memories, I have found my reason for being here. I am taking baby steps in the journey of grief. This trip to her haven by the sea was another step. Small, but mighty. She is in the energy of a sea breeze, the wind over the camp where she worked, the path leading her home to her aunt and uncle's house, the images of a place where she felt safe, comfortable and loved. It is no wonder that there is still pain for all who loved her, knew her and want her here. As the season changes and summer comes, we must take solace that she is in the stars, in the moon, in the pink skies; her vision will approach us in ways we cannot understand, and I say WE because for many of us, it is the same. Yes, different for me as her mother, but our conversations help me to know that others walk in pain as they still, and forever, mourn. WE try not to stay consumed, what good will that do? Where would that take us? Most likely to places we do not need to stay, for we don't get more than what is promised today.
I think of the scripture we included in her memorial cookbook, and of course, I thank God for this day, this new part of the "grief work", to walk where she has walked and to find comfort. God blesses us with His own words that show us we can do this in the book of Psalms, Verse 119, Chapter 105: Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. May He lead us where He wants us to be, light our way through the pain, and help us to keep at it, at this thing called life. I will walk where she walked and know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Holding Her Up
She taught us many things that cannot be measured. Many things that could never even be explained. One important, vital crutch to her last days, was she taught us how to hold her up, and in doing so, now, she holds us up. She is our strength and our pilar and we are strong. Yes, weak, but strong.
It came when the body could no longer function well. It came when she was weak and pain had over taken her limbs. It came when she could not even roll herself over in bed. It came when she could no longer lift her dog to the bed or maneuver her way to privacy. And it came when we least expected it. Cancer had taken over a body that was never to be more than a shell. But we still didn't know. Because there was still life and as long as there is life there is hope. And we learned, that hope goes beyond this life, and in to the next.
She taught us how to not only get her up, but to hold her up. We were the parents, weren't we supposed to know how to do that? But no, we knew, by then, that any touch in the wrong place, any fabric that wasn't comfortable, any scent, any change could be the wrong one for her ailing body. Still, she ever so gently would let us know that those things weren't comfortable and that it wouldn't work for her at that moment. Subject to change, of course, always, subject to change for the next minute, life would take a different course, and she wanted that familiar blanket, that scented candle, the aroma of bubble bath.
So there she was, showing Joe and I how to lift her, how to stand at the bedside in makeshift fashion, to serve as her anchor and let her pull herself up. She taught us how to hold her as she shuffled to and from the places in the house or the hospital. And we held her up in comfort as best we could, two parents desperately wishing and praying that this was a dream, a momentary inconvenience, a nightmare. But it wasn't, and still isn't. But she taught us how to hold her up. And now, she holds us up, she gives us strength to hold ourselves up, and each other. As an individual, as a couple, as a family, she is leading the way. In learning how to hold her up, we have learned how to hold ourselves up, and shuffle, sometimes slowing down, sometimes changing course, often, resolved to tears, but finding laughter and purpose and strength and wisdom, and living in God's grace. A grace that is there for the asking and the taking, a grace that is His greatest gift. And there is enough for all of us. It will never run dry. He will never forsake. We will never forget. And we have today to put the lessons to good use. We held her up, and now, unexpectedly, and very brilliantly, she is doing the same for us. What could be more beautiful?
It came when the body could no longer function well. It came when she was weak and pain had over taken her limbs. It came when she could not even roll herself over in bed. It came when she could no longer lift her dog to the bed or maneuver her way to privacy. And it came when we least expected it. Cancer had taken over a body that was never to be more than a shell. But we still didn't know. Because there was still life and as long as there is life there is hope. And we learned, that hope goes beyond this life, and in to the next.
She taught us how to not only get her up, but to hold her up. We were the parents, weren't we supposed to know how to do that? But no, we knew, by then, that any touch in the wrong place, any fabric that wasn't comfortable, any scent, any change could be the wrong one for her ailing body. Still, she ever so gently would let us know that those things weren't comfortable and that it wouldn't work for her at that moment. Subject to change, of course, always, subject to change for the next minute, life would take a different course, and she wanted that familiar blanket, that scented candle, the aroma of bubble bath.
So there she was, showing Joe and I how to lift her, how to stand at the bedside in makeshift fashion, to serve as her anchor and let her pull herself up. She taught us how to hold her as she shuffled to and from the places in the house or the hospital. And we held her up in comfort as best we could, two parents desperately wishing and praying that this was a dream, a momentary inconvenience, a nightmare. But it wasn't, and still isn't. But she taught us how to hold her up. And now, she holds us up, she gives us strength to hold ourselves up, and each other. As an individual, as a couple, as a family, she is leading the way. In learning how to hold her up, we have learned how to hold ourselves up, and shuffle, sometimes slowing down, sometimes changing course, often, resolved to tears, but finding laughter and purpose and strength and wisdom, and living in God's grace. A grace that is there for the asking and the taking, a grace that is His greatest gift. And there is enough for all of us. It will never run dry. He will never forsake. We will never forget. And we have today to put the lessons to good use. We held her up, and now, unexpectedly, and very brilliantly, she is doing the same for us. What could be more beautiful?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Grief Work
Grieving is work, very hard, demanding, encompassing, sometimes lonely, exhausting, painful WORK. When we hear the phrase "grief work" it means to me, now, that those who are undergoing such a journey in their lives have to "work" at it to get up, find their way, maneuver, breathe, live, embrace, and accept. When we mesh all the facets of grief together God only knows the "work" it takes to keep keeping on, to show up, to be present with oneself, to carry on the traditions, while making new ones, to gaze into the new photographs with the missing person so prevalent in our hearts, the once family of four, or the new parents who don't hold the baby for the first photographs, or the couple who have now become one. Yet, here it is, part of life. Grief. And loss. And it can consume you, me, others, if we let it. We try not to, don't we? We try to continue on as if everything is "normal", yet what is normal any more?
My grief work, as I call it, consists of many layers. The readings, the praying, the time spent in solitude, time spent with others, walking, moving, the travels, the visits to my sister and brother in law's home, where cancer has invaded with a vengeance. That is where I sit this morning, with a soft breeze outside the window, the chimes are ringing, the seagulls are chirping (do they chirp??), the air indicates a beach day, hallelujah, a beach day in May! Yet, in all the beauty, here they go, Karen and Michael, off for another round of radiation, doctor appointments, consultations, blood work, and today, they will live their cancer journey one more time. They have now joined the ranks of so many others whose paths they will cross and fight today, to live.
The object of GOOD grief is to remember and not relive, so I have been told. God knows how many times I come to Him to ask me NOT to relive the moments, the diagnosis, the shaving of her head, the sister bond that was physically broken for life, the struggle to simply breathe (something most of us take for granted), the words she had to hear, the pain, the fast growing and all consuming cancer, the side effects, the all knowing look in her eyes that her days with us were coming to a halt. It takes a conscious effort, almost daily, to send those thoughts to a place they can be shelved, and to focus on her life. Here, I can do that with a little more ease. I can remember the days at the beach, the cousins playing in the sand, the first crush on a young man, the camp counselor she became, the woman she was destined to be, I can remember and hear her laughter, feel the comfort of her soul as she could be what she wanted to be, right here in her haven by the sea.
I can do all these things at home, too. But it takes a bit more effort at times because the pain and the moments are in my daily walk. They are in the bedroom, in the pile of items from her Chicago apartment, in the whirlpool tub, in the car, on the deck. My grief work is never fully done, I can't lay my head down at night and say that it is over for this day, and I will start anew tomorrow. It never leaves me, my side, my shadow, my heart, my being. My grief work takes twists and turns as I strive to remember and not relive. What purpose will that serve anyway? Yet, in the depths of the subconscious part of my soul, there it comes again, and the work begins anew, fresh and raw, and I go to work, again and again and again.
My grief work consists of putting her life front and center, recalling the time we had, ever so grateful for it, and slowly but surely, some of the cancer journey that took her from us way too soon, is fading, a bit, and the life she lived is taking front stage. I have prayed the prayer so often that I hope God does not tire of hearing it, the prayer of being healed of the power that those memories had over me. Lord, help me remember her life, her spirit, her laughter, her scent, her plans, and not what took her from us. And God, I know you are perfect, nature is not, and I know you cry for me, as I cry for myself. But the beauty is you give me a new day, a continued reason to live, a fight within that tells me this is all for your own purpose, and that one day I will fully understand. As Karen and Michael walked out the door today to fight the cancer, to live, I saw that glimmer of why and how God is using Allison in such powerful ways.
My grief work is a work in progress. It has its ups and downs. It changes like the weather. But it is my work and I will make it my life's mission to keep keeping on, showing up when I can, following my spirit, and remembering, with God's grace, the beauty of a life that changed many, forever.
My grief work, as I call it, consists of many layers. The readings, the praying, the time spent in solitude, time spent with others, walking, moving, the travels, the visits to my sister and brother in law's home, where cancer has invaded with a vengeance. That is where I sit this morning, with a soft breeze outside the window, the chimes are ringing, the seagulls are chirping (do they chirp??), the air indicates a beach day, hallelujah, a beach day in May! Yet, in all the beauty, here they go, Karen and Michael, off for another round of radiation, doctor appointments, consultations, blood work, and today, they will live their cancer journey one more time. They have now joined the ranks of so many others whose paths they will cross and fight today, to live.
The object of GOOD grief is to remember and not relive, so I have been told. God knows how many times I come to Him to ask me NOT to relive the moments, the diagnosis, the shaving of her head, the sister bond that was physically broken for life, the struggle to simply breathe (something most of us take for granted), the words she had to hear, the pain, the fast growing and all consuming cancer, the side effects, the all knowing look in her eyes that her days with us were coming to a halt. It takes a conscious effort, almost daily, to send those thoughts to a place they can be shelved, and to focus on her life. Here, I can do that with a little more ease. I can remember the days at the beach, the cousins playing in the sand, the first crush on a young man, the camp counselor she became, the woman she was destined to be, I can remember and hear her laughter, feel the comfort of her soul as she could be what she wanted to be, right here in her haven by the sea.
I can do all these things at home, too. But it takes a bit more effort at times because the pain and the moments are in my daily walk. They are in the bedroom, in the pile of items from her Chicago apartment, in the whirlpool tub, in the car, on the deck. My grief work is never fully done, I can't lay my head down at night and say that it is over for this day, and I will start anew tomorrow. It never leaves me, my side, my shadow, my heart, my being. My grief work takes twists and turns as I strive to remember and not relive. What purpose will that serve anyway? Yet, in the depths of the subconscious part of my soul, there it comes again, and the work begins anew, fresh and raw, and I go to work, again and again and again.
My grief work consists of putting her life front and center, recalling the time we had, ever so grateful for it, and slowly but surely, some of the cancer journey that took her from us way too soon, is fading, a bit, and the life she lived is taking front stage. I have prayed the prayer so often that I hope God does not tire of hearing it, the prayer of being healed of the power that those memories had over me. Lord, help me remember her life, her spirit, her laughter, her scent, her plans, and not what took her from us. And God, I know you are perfect, nature is not, and I know you cry for me, as I cry for myself. But the beauty is you give me a new day, a continued reason to live, a fight within that tells me this is all for your own purpose, and that one day I will fully understand. As Karen and Michael walked out the door today to fight the cancer, to live, I saw that glimmer of why and how God is using Allison in such powerful ways.
My grief work is a work in progress. It has its ups and downs. It changes like the weather. But it is my work and I will make it my life's mission to keep keeping on, showing up when I can, following my spirit, and remembering, with God's grace, the beauty of a life that changed many, forever.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Silenced
I have been silenced, and I am asking God to help me figure out why...well, I know why, but I want to do more. I want to attend some of the functions we get invited to, I want to respond to e-mails, I want to dance again, sing again, FEEL something again. This numbness comes over me and lasts for days and days, and sometimes weeks and weeks. What is it? Is it a new phase of grief, of mourning, of the desperate soul of a mother who goes to the cemetery to lay tulips on her child's grave for Mother's Day, is it the time of year when young adults her age are graduating, setting course for their own lives, is it looking into the faces of family photos and still seeking to find that smile? Is it the reminder that just seven short years ago she received her diploma and graduated from high school, and within four years she was gone? Where does the complexity come from and how can I keep going on when I am numb, stuck, whirling and restless? Is it May or is it the threshold of summer?
I waver. I find strength to do the things I must, and to do the things I choose to do. And even in that I have never known such emotional exhaustion. I watch the television realizing that I have to rewind or finish it later because I haven't heard a thing. I ask God every day, more than once, to help me "be present", right where I am, not looking back, not looking ahead. Being present is a gift to myself and I work very diligently at it, and have since the moment her hand fell from my heart, her last breath taking the very life away. I strive to be where I am, at that moment, for I know like I never thought I would, that the next minute is not promised. Still, as "present" as I am, I am numb and I am weak, and I need God to help me breathe.
As the celebrations intensify, the graduations, the weddings, the parties, the summer plans, Mother's Day and Father's Day, my birthday, her dad's birthday, I know I will move through them. But as I do so, each day is different, each time is different. I have those who have shared that I was so strong for so long and now it is time to grieve. I want them to know I have been grieving all along, it just looks different along the way. It looks different on any given day, any given circumstance, any given moment. It rips you to shreds one moment, and in the next allows you to understand why God works the way He does, that I am alive for a purpose, and that she is gone for hers, for His, really.
Still, I am silenced. And others do not understand. Because I have participated, shown up, attended, laughed, appeared strong, now, there is confusion. And I understand. Because I am confused! I don't know this stage. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I can barely select a gift for the baby shower, the wedding reception, the graduation, the retirement. I can only pray that those who mean so much to me don't look at my silence as rejection. I can only hope they don't take it personally. I can only hope they never, ever know this pain, this cry of the heart that never stops, this silence. It is my desire that they never know how much energy it takes to pick up the phone, answer a complete thought, write the e-mail, or attend the function. God knows I hope they don't know, but in some small way, I wish they did, not by losing a child, but just by asking me, for if they did, then the comments wouldn't come, the judgments wouldn't be made, the statements wouldn't hurt.
I don't want to be silenced. But I am, at times. Other times, I am not. I don't know about living with this thing called grief, and I certainly don't know anything about living without my child. In my silence, there is much to say, my heart holds so much. I am weak but I am strong, isn't that what God knows us to be? I pray for strength during times of silence, and I know that I will find my voice, my spirit, my will, God will see to that.
I waver. I find strength to do the things I must, and to do the things I choose to do. And even in that I have never known such emotional exhaustion. I watch the television realizing that I have to rewind or finish it later because I haven't heard a thing. I ask God every day, more than once, to help me "be present", right where I am, not looking back, not looking ahead. Being present is a gift to myself and I work very diligently at it, and have since the moment her hand fell from my heart, her last breath taking the very life away. I strive to be where I am, at that moment, for I know like I never thought I would, that the next minute is not promised. Still, as "present" as I am, I am numb and I am weak, and I need God to help me breathe.
As the celebrations intensify, the graduations, the weddings, the parties, the summer plans, Mother's Day and Father's Day, my birthday, her dad's birthday, I know I will move through them. But as I do so, each day is different, each time is different. I have those who have shared that I was so strong for so long and now it is time to grieve. I want them to know I have been grieving all along, it just looks different along the way. It looks different on any given day, any given circumstance, any given moment. It rips you to shreds one moment, and in the next allows you to understand why God works the way He does, that I am alive for a purpose, and that she is gone for hers, for His, really.
Still, I am silenced. And others do not understand. Because I have participated, shown up, attended, laughed, appeared strong, now, there is confusion. And I understand. Because I am confused! I don't know this stage. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I can barely select a gift for the baby shower, the wedding reception, the graduation, the retirement. I can only pray that those who mean so much to me don't look at my silence as rejection. I can only hope they don't take it personally. I can only hope they never, ever know this pain, this cry of the heart that never stops, this silence. It is my desire that they never know how much energy it takes to pick up the phone, answer a complete thought, write the e-mail, or attend the function. God knows I hope they don't know, but in some small way, I wish they did, not by losing a child, but just by asking me, for if they did, then the comments wouldn't come, the judgments wouldn't be made, the statements wouldn't hurt.
I don't want to be silenced. But I am, at times. Other times, I am not. I don't know about living with this thing called grief, and I certainly don't know anything about living without my child. In my silence, there is much to say, my heart holds so much. I am weak but I am strong, isn't that what God knows us to be? I pray for strength during times of silence, and I know that I will find my voice, my spirit, my will, God will see to that.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
So Sad, So Glad
It's Mother's Day. How can one soul and spirit be so sad, yet so glad? So sad for what once was and what was supposed to be, now lost, now walking foreign territory that I don't even know how to stay the course. So sad for a life lost, my child, my vibrant, healthy, spirited daughter who entered a cancer journey, an unexpected fate, a twist in the walk of life, who fought and fought, only to lay her head down and exhale a final breath, all of it over, all too soon, yet not soon enough.
But oh, so glad. Glad for that life. Glad for the life of a big sister, an older daughter, one who inspires and takes charge, and loves life. One who used to complain about many things, transformed, now into beauty that goes beyond what we see on the outside. Beauty that is so deep that it is as if Jesus walks and breathes in her soul. And He does. She knows, now, that He will take care of it all, all of our troubles, our annoyances, our pain, our trials, our sorrow. So glad, while sad, for this day, to spend with her, to venture out of the house and capture the sunshine and brisk day. Not a complaint in sight. We are blessed beyond words. So glad, yet, so sad. So sad because our family is not complete in the physical sense. So sad that the physical has to take over sometimes, and no matter how many affirmations, prayers, scriptures I read and recite, I stand in blatant and desperate confusion over the puzzle that is being put together. I would give my life to have the missing piece connect us all once again. I am so sad that I cannot touch her, talk to her, whisper in her ear, hear her laughter. But I am so glad that she lives with us in every move, decision, action we make and take. I am so glad that she will never die, and that she will live on in a new way, taking this mother/child relationship to new levels.
I am so glad I have family to spend the day with, diversions, and people who care. I am so glad for a husband who stands by my side, listens, gently holds my hand and sheds a tear with me. I am so glad I am not alone. I am so glad I had a mother who I can remember with fondness, even though I miss her to this day. And I am so glad for the one, treasured relationship of a sister, who, when neither of us has words, doesn't need them. Who has never made this loss about her. Who feels what I feel, who is connected to me as one, who is a part of every Mother's Day, brought together by our own mother, connected, now by our own children.
I am so glad I gave birth to two amazing baby girls. I am so glad to be blessed with more love than some people have in a lifetime. I am so glad I had the time with them both, together, and now separately. I am so glad for the memories. They sustain me when my spirit is nothing but a puddle of tears. I am so glad for the future and I am so glad for this day.
I am so sad, yet so glad. How can that be? Perhaps that is why mourning, grief and the journey of healing is so emotionally exhausting, so confusing, perplexing and monumental. There is no place to start from, and no place to reach a destination. No beginning and no end. Days like this take you places that you may not want to go, places in a deep crevice of your soul that knows sadness, yet knows gladness.
I will celebrate. I will live. I will do this, I am glad that someone expects me to be someplace, I am glad for the greatest treasure of my life, my daughter who awaits a fun day, a day alive and well, when all is right with the world, when the sun will shine, maybe a cloud will come, create the darkness, but then it will move away, and create that moment where light will shine, providing hope and sustenance. I am sad, for sure, but I am so glad.
But oh, so glad. Glad for that life. Glad for the life of a big sister, an older daughter, one who inspires and takes charge, and loves life. One who used to complain about many things, transformed, now into beauty that goes beyond what we see on the outside. Beauty that is so deep that it is as if Jesus walks and breathes in her soul. And He does. She knows, now, that He will take care of it all, all of our troubles, our annoyances, our pain, our trials, our sorrow. So glad, while sad, for this day, to spend with her, to venture out of the house and capture the sunshine and brisk day. Not a complaint in sight. We are blessed beyond words. So glad, yet, so sad. So sad because our family is not complete in the physical sense. So sad that the physical has to take over sometimes, and no matter how many affirmations, prayers, scriptures I read and recite, I stand in blatant and desperate confusion over the puzzle that is being put together. I would give my life to have the missing piece connect us all once again. I am so sad that I cannot touch her, talk to her, whisper in her ear, hear her laughter. But I am so glad that she lives with us in every move, decision, action we make and take. I am so glad that she will never die, and that she will live on in a new way, taking this mother/child relationship to new levels.
I am so glad I have family to spend the day with, diversions, and people who care. I am so glad for a husband who stands by my side, listens, gently holds my hand and sheds a tear with me. I am so glad I am not alone. I am so glad I had a mother who I can remember with fondness, even though I miss her to this day. And I am so glad for the one, treasured relationship of a sister, who, when neither of us has words, doesn't need them. Who has never made this loss about her. Who feels what I feel, who is connected to me as one, who is a part of every Mother's Day, brought together by our own mother, connected, now by our own children.
I am so glad I gave birth to two amazing baby girls. I am so glad to be blessed with more love than some people have in a lifetime. I am so glad I had the time with them both, together, and now separately. I am so glad for the memories. They sustain me when my spirit is nothing but a puddle of tears. I am so glad for the future and I am so glad for this day.
I am so sad, yet so glad. How can that be? Perhaps that is why mourning, grief and the journey of healing is so emotionally exhausting, so confusing, perplexing and monumental. There is no place to start from, and no place to reach a destination. No beginning and no end. Days like this take you places that you may not want to go, places in a deep crevice of your soul that knows sadness, yet knows gladness.
I will celebrate. I will live. I will do this, I am glad that someone expects me to be someplace, I am glad for the greatest treasure of my life, my daughter who awaits a fun day, a day alive and well, when all is right with the world, when the sun will shine, maybe a cloud will come, create the darkness, but then it will move away, and create that moment where light will shine, providing hope and sustenance. I am sad, for sure, but I am so glad.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Amazing Grace
I love the quiet of the morning. The chimes on the deck, the birds singing, the leaves rustling. In my daily rush of nearly thirty years I don't think I knew sounds could be so energizing and restorative. I was too busy, getting the children ready, arriving to school for my early morning meetings, going at such a fast pace all day, rushing home to fix dinner and back out for meetings or functions or activities. Just so busy. But God has given me a reprieve. He has given me the gift of life. And I love it. Through the sadness and pain, I still love it. He is teaching me to savor. And just this morning, as I sat down to write a completely different thought, I heard it. Outside. Somewhere. A fluted version of "Amazing Grace". I'm serious. I had to stop clicking the keys to be sure. But there it was. I stopped everything because I didn't believe it was real. But it was. And I had a moment where I knew that it was and I knew why. It's a message from my mother.
I dreamt of her all night. Is it because of Mother's Day, or the journey my sister is taking right now...is it because of my prayers last night, is it because I desire the sweet assurance that she is finally happy and at peace in her soul? What was it? The dreams were fitful, restless, yet comforting in some odd way. I took them for what they were, not looking too deeply for a message. I knew God would reveal my answer. I trust Him like that. He has shown me there is reason to trust. He works it all out for good. In spite of the devastation and crumbling of my life at times, He is the giver of mercy and grace. And He did provide the answer! It came in the sound of a magical fluted version of His most amazing grace, in the form of a song, and not just any song. My mother's song! And my grandmother's song.
I heard but didn't believe for a moment. I didn't want to move, though, and break the spell. I said the words in my head as the flute played on...amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me....I once was lost, but now am found....the hour I first believed. I could even hear my mother, in her definite off-key voice, singing the words!
But the tangible, reality based side of me couldn't resist. Was this my imagination or a message from God, or even from my mother? I barely moved, and slowly moved the curtain over just a bit. I didn't even get up. I didn't want to break the spell. At first I couldn't see, but then, there he was, a young boy, at the corner stop sign, right in my yard, waiting for a ride to school, I suppose, with his flute out, playing ever so softly, right outside my window.
Oh, the gift of sounds, music, magic, love, grace, truly all amazing. Thank you God for bringing me to my computer at exactly the right time. I get the message. I truly do. You want me to "be present" and live and breathe and savor and enjoy. You don't want me to waste a moment in self-pity, focusing on my departed child, my mother in heaven. You want me to live. I get it. I am going to try to stay pleasing you, make you proud, enjoy the sounds, and heed the message. Amazing Grace indeed, the greatest gift this day, showing me you hold those most dear to my heart, in the palm of your hand, letting me know through the flute player, that all is right with the world.
I dreamt of her all night. Is it because of Mother's Day, or the journey my sister is taking right now...is it because of my prayers last night, is it because I desire the sweet assurance that she is finally happy and at peace in her soul? What was it? The dreams were fitful, restless, yet comforting in some odd way. I took them for what they were, not looking too deeply for a message. I knew God would reveal my answer. I trust Him like that. He has shown me there is reason to trust. He works it all out for good. In spite of the devastation and crumbling of my life at times, He is the giver of mercy and grace. And He did provide the answer! It came in the sound of a magical fluted version of His most amazing grace, in the form of a song, and not just any song. My mother's song! And my grandmother's song.
I heard but didn't believe for a moment. I didn't want to move, though, and break the spell. I said the words in my head as the flute played on...amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me....I once was lost, but now am found....the hour I first believed. I could even hear my mother, in her definite off-key voice, singing the words!
But the tangible, reality based side of me couldn't resist. Was this my imagination or a message from God, or even from my mother? I barely moved, and slowly moved the curtain over just a bit. I didn't even get up. I didn't want to break the spell. At first I couldn't see, but then, there he was, a young boy, at the corner stop sign, right in my yard, waiting for a ride to school, I suppose, with his flute out, playing ever so softly, right outside my window.
Oh, the gift of sounds, music, magic, love, grace, truly all amazing. Thank you God for bringing me to my computer at exactly the right time. I get the message. I truly do. You want me to "be present" and live and breathe and savor and enjoy. You don't want me to waste a moment in self-pity, focusing on my departed child, my mother in heaven. You want me to live. I get it. I am going to try to stay pleasing you, make you proud, enjoy the sounds, and heed the message. Amazing Grace indeed, the greatest gift this day, showing me you hold those most dear to my heart, in the palm of your hand, letting me know through the flute player, that all is right with the world.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
May Memories
I am posting some new photos so there is something joyful and refreshing to glance at as I write my post today. Actually, I don't have many words. Only images. Glances. Feelings. And my memories. Death will not take any of that away. If anything, they are all clearer, sharper, more vivid, and as they say, "a picture speaks a thousand words". So true.
So, I am capturing May in my mind, as the world celebrates proms, graduations, birthdays, summer, pending vacations, communions, confirmations, friendships, Cardinal baseball. The world keeps going and so shall I. It is still different. Nothing is tangible. There are no more plans such as these. There is no more life as I knew it. Those days and events and times are over. Now there is new life. New opportunities. New horizons. New everything. Yes, everything is new. And that is how it shall be, from now on. Oh yes, I am thankful for the days, months, years we had. Don't ever get me wrong. Is it selfish to have wanted more? I don't think so. I want it all back again. I want to help her select her prom dresses, prepare for graduation, and college, and go to the ballgame, and celebrate Mother's Day. I want it all back. But it's not coming back. She is not coming back. But as I find myself in a "new" place almost every day, and several times within that day, I know that I am going to be okay. Wherever I am it's okay. And wherever I go, I take these images, these moments, these captured seconds of a lifetime. And I smile. I look at her, whether in photographs or in my mind, or feel her in my heart or know her in my soul, and I smile.
So, I am capturing May in my mind, as the world celebrates proms, graduations, birthdays, summer, pending vacations, communions, confirmations, friendships, Cardinal baseball. The world keeps going and so shall I. It is still different. Nothing is tangible. There are no more plans such as these. There is no more life as I knew it. Those days and events and times are over. Now there is new life. New opportunities. New horizons. New everything. Yes, everything is new. And that is how it shall be, from now on. Oh yes, I am thankful for the days, months, years we had. Don't ever get me wrong. Is it selfish to have wanted more? I don't think so. I want it all back again. I want to help her select her prom dresses, prepare for graduation, and college, and go to the ballgame, and celebrate Mother's Day. I want it all back. But it's not coming back. She is not coming back. But as I find myself in a "new" place almost every day, and several times within that day, I know that I am going to be okay. Wherever I am it's okay. And wherever I go, I take these images, these moments, these captured seconds of a lifetime. And I smile. I look at her, whether in photographs or in my mind, or feel her in my heart or know her in my soul, and I smile.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
"Mommy, Why???"
This morning I awakened to a little voice in my head, my heart, so real it took my breath away. This is not the first "message" I have received this week, but this one, unlike the others, caused me a little more sadness. I dislike waking up sad. That means my agenda, my day, my cherished moments must be worked at all that much harder, just to get out of bed, maneuver, walk the dog, answer the phone, talk to others, resume so called "normal" functions. Can I just scream at this point that nothing is normal any more?!!
So, I listened to her cry, a little whimper, "mommy, why"? My first response in my head was, Allie, I just don't know why. But then in occurred to me, WHY WHAT? Why did I have to get cancer? Why did I have to give up doing all the things my friends were doing? Why did I have to relearn simple tasks like bathing and using the restroom? Why did this happen? Why did I die? When Allison was alive, she asked me this question when she was drifting in and out of sleep, and later, in and out of consciousness. I know she didn't expect an answer. She didn't wait for one. This question was not part of our conscious discussions about life and death, Jesus, God, family, love, sickness, life. But every now and then, in the slightest audible tone, the words escaped from her heart and soul, "mommy, why?"....she would ask it as she sweat through the after effects of chemotherapy, as she tossed and turned in discomfort after bouts of radiation, she would ask it as she rolled from side to side, tried every way to get comfortable, to relieve the pain, to try to lie down, sit up, lift her leg, walk. She would ask it, ever so quietly, of herself, of me, of God, and never waited for the answer, as if I would have HAD one. But there was no answer, no solid explanation, no reason to be explained to a question that had no real meaning.
I still cannot help but wonder what she was whispering to me this morning. I don't get frightened, disturbed, frantic, or worrisome. I now accept everything that occurs as it is, as it is supposed to be, knowing I have no comprehension of life in the ever after. I know her body is gone, but her soul is not, her spirit, her whispers, her love. Now I know that she is sending me a message, not one of doom, not one of panic, simply, a message of some sort. I wait to find out what it is, what the whisper means, what the question means, and as I wait, I feel blessed to have heard from her at all.
I want to whisper back, I want to make it all better, I want her back. I want the images of pain erased from my mind, and they are, ever so slowly, but then comes those physical reminders, then in the next breath comes the pure joy of knowing she needs not ask those questions any longer, there is no need to live through the pain, the peace is hers for eternity. I do want to ask her WHY WHAT as I did when she was here, but again, I will never know what the question meant this morning. Just like I never did really know what the question meant when she was here. So, I go about life as I do everyday, asking God for guidance, hope, grace and mercy. I ask Him to give meaning to the messages, the life she lived, the life I now live. I thank Him for His gift of grace, and that He created this child to live within me, breathe the air I breathed, be sustained from the food I ate, blending us as one who death does not part.
I will continue to listen to the sweetness of the whispers, hers, God's, the Holy Spirit's, the voice of a higher power that orchestrates in ways we can never truly understand. I will continue to ask God above to help me find my own peace so that I can live this day as He intended, and I trust Him to help me find the answers to my own questions. I will not be disturbed by her question as I was when she was here, when I tried with every ounce of strength and purpose to make her comfortable, to help explain, to help cope and persevere. I have learned to take it as it comes, respond, and capture the moment for what it is, in the meantime, thankful that I can still hear her voice, God's voice, and take heed from the message.
So, I listened to her cry, a little whimper, "mommy, why"? My first response in my head was, Allie, I just don't know why. But then in occurred to me, WHY WHAT? Why did I have to get cancer? Why did I have to give up doing all the things my friends were doing? Why did I have to relearn simple tasks like bathing and using the restroom? Why did this happen? Why did I die? When Allison was alive, she asked me this question when she was drifting in and out of sleep, and later, in and out of consciousness. I know she didn't expect an answer. She didn't wait for one. This question was not part of our conscious discussions about life and death, Jesus, God, family, love, sickness, life. But every now and then, in the slightest audible tone, the words escaped from her heart and soul, "mommy, why?"....she would ask it as she sweat through the after effects of chemotherapy, as she tossed and turned in discomfort after bouts of radiation, she would ask it as she rolled from side to side, tried every way to get comfortable, to relieve the pain, to try to lie down, sit up, lift her leg, walk. She would ask it, ever so quietly, of herself, of me, of God, and never waited for the answer, as if I would have HAD one. But there was no answer, no solid explanation, no reason to be explained to a question that had no real meaning.
I still cannot help but wonder what she was whispering to me this morning. I don't get frightened, disturbed, frantic, or worrisome. I now accept everything that occurs as it is, as it is supposed to be, knowing I have no comprehension of life in the ever after. I know her body is gone, but her soul is not, her spirit, her whispers, her love. Now I know that she is sending me a message, not one of doom, not one of panic, simply, a message of some sort. I wait to find out what it is, what the whisper means, what the question means, and as I wait, I feel blessed to have heard from her at all.
I want to whisper back, I want to make it all better, I want her back. I want the images of pain erased from my mind, and they are, ever so slowly, but then comes those physical reminders, then in the next breath comes the pure joy of knowing she needs not ask those questions any longer, there is no need to live through the pain, the peace is hers for eternity. I do want to ask her WHY WHAT as I did when she was here, but again, I will never know what the question meant this morning. Just like I never did really know what the question meant when she was here. So, I go about life as I do everyday, asking God for guidance, hope, grace and mercy. I ask Him to give meaning to the messages, the life she lived, the life I now live. I thank Him for His gift of grace, and that He created this child to live within me, breathe the air I breathed, be sustained from the food I ate, blending us as one who death does not part.
I will continue to listen to the sweetness of the whispers, hers, God's, the Holy Spirit's, the voice of a higher power that orchestrates in ways we can never truly understand. I will continue to ask God above to help me find my own peace so that I can live this day as He intended, and I trust Him to help me find the answers to my own questions. I will not be disturbed by her question as I was when she was here, when I tried with every ounce of strength and purpose to make her comfortable, to help explain, to help cope and persevere. I have learned to take it as it comes, respond, and capture the moment for what it is, in the meantime, thankful that I can still hear her voice, God's voice, and take heed from the message.
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