They spent the days of his convalescence reading together and taking slow, leisurely walks in the sunshine. She remembered the days of his beginning, when they first brought him home. He fit so perfectly in her arms then. She distinctly remembered the curve of his baby cheek. And how he would cry if she left him. This brief illness had reduced him somehow--brought back some of that vulnerability. He wanted to be near her again. What began as inconvenience had grown into something beautiful. The slow pace of the past couple days reminded her how tender she had once been.
And now she is shocked by his shadow beside hers--the bigness of it. And she wonders…Where did the time go?
This man-child and I. He, peaky from the flu, and I…well I just tired.
We needed to walk in the sun, step out into that light. The autumn winds joined in our play and we found beauty.
We found Him.
The meadow is alive with delights and we slowly savored each one.
The Common Groundsel has let loose her crown and everywhere we walked feathery white seeds danced on the breeze around us. When we were agile enough to catch these elusive tricksters, we made our wishes and blew them back into the wind--watching them soar to the heavens, carrying our prayer-wishes with them.
This yawning chestnut gave up its fruit long ago. These spiky burs protect what is theirs fiercely, but they always evoke a tender feeling in me. My grandfather used to have dishes of chestnuts set around his house to snack on at will. I never could stomach the things, but they will always remind me of him.
This Possum Haw set the meadow aflame.
Simple Fleabane--the meadow's wedding gown.
Bush honeysuckle? Not sure. But gorgeous.
Then, down to the creek for that magic healing that comes with sun-kissed ripples.
We went looking for God, only to find, He was right here with us all along.
“Since Teddy is sick, may we walk to school this morning?”
I look at our littlest one with weary eyes, then look out the window at the dark, wet morning settling in.
Walking a couple of miles in this dreariness after dealing with a sick child for two days is the last thing I want to do.
We used to walk to school frequently, when both boys were in elementary. But since Teddy’s middle school is a few miles down the road, I simply do not have time to walk one and drive the other. A fact that our Little Man frequently bemoans.
This boy always has a plan. Usually it involves bucking the status quo. Usually it inconveniences his mother tremendously. Today, it involves taking advantage of his brother’s flu.
My aching body prepares to give him false regrets, then I remember this:
I encountered this fragile leaf print in the road on my way to the bus stop the other day. Something in its faint impression touched me deeply.
This boy, who has created his own flavor of milkshake (marshmallow cream, chocolate syrup, and crumbled pop tart), loves anything tie-dyed in his wardrobe, and cries over puppies and babies…this boy is a pretty unique character.
Celebrating the differences in my children sounds good in theory, but these little quirks do not always raise their heads at opportune times.
He would be fine if I told him no. Would still be his sweet sparkly self. Perhaps a tiny bit less sparkly, though.
Is that what I want to leave behind?
I look at his expectant face…the little twinkle in those blue eyes, and suppress a sigh.
“Sure, sweetie. Why not?”
He places his hand in mine and we trudge off into this rain-misted morning.
And I’m so grateful.
I'm so grateful for a sick child to make me appreciate the well one.
I'm grateful for the uniqueness of both of my boys.
I'm grateful for the way his hand still fits in mine, after ten years of holding it.
I'm grateful for the slowing of time that comes with these temporary ills.
Oh, yes. I'm grateful for what has been left behind.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The mornings are darker now when I arise. Ghost-trees float in the fog. Watercolor landscapes surround me—the mist dilutes, laying down the wash.
And I am worrying—again.
The future is uncertain; all I see is this fog ahead. I am having trouble navigating through. I grope around blindly…stumble, fall.
I know in my heart the way to go, but I am lost in this tangle of fear.
Reach out…
Which way to go?
Then, there is this that rings through the mist…coming from inside of me, it seems:
“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you.”
Father?
I will wait. I will wait on You.
If you are interested in going on a self-journey, being whisked away by nature’s calling, join us over here for a good read. We start Oct. 5th.
Despite what the wizened calendar says, I cannot shake her. I drop a grain of her here, a speck of her there…
Her heat still pursues me.
Even now the hills are plush with green finery. Wildflowers remain in bloom. Flip flops lay carelessly by the door. The birds whisper in the trees and tomatoes ripen on the window sill.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to summer.
As much as I love autumn, the departure of summer has always symbolized a loss of freedom to me. A new school year begins, programs start up, and businesses wind up for the coming holidays. Gone are the days of sleeping in, lazy afternoon walks, and piddling. Life begins to move at a frantic pace and time slips through my fingers like water.
Despite my best efforts at denial, however, the earth continues its lean away from the sun. The mornings are darker, and the air a bit cooler. The squirrels move about freely, preparing for their coming slumber.
Last night, we did our evening sitting. The insect symphony seemed poised for crescendo when something struck me.
Not a single firefly.
They’ve all gone.
I felt the sadness of days gone by in their absence. Marveled that we had arrived to this place already.
Then I looked up.
God had plucked up the firefly lights and placed them in His sky.
Oh, there’s nothing like a fall night sky, beloveds. Gone is the haziness of humid summer air and it seems one can see every star in the heavens.
The clarity of the night lights made me heady.
We sat, side by side, both gazing up into the stars. Silenced by beauty.
From glory to glory, friends. That’s what He does.
Happy Autumn to you all.
photo: summer's final glory, Bumblebee on Goldenrod, by Laura
The Chicks and Chocolate party is winding down. The Southern Living presentation is over and orders are being placed. I am considering a second chocolate martini, but know that could be dangerous.
That’s when she appears in the hallway.
“The Moon Fwower’s bwooming!”
She stands on her toes and reaches both hands up to the ceiling, then lets them fall in a big circle around her small body as she gives a little exclamation hop.
This girl.
I believe that all little girls are beautiful.
But this girl.
She shines.
And right now she wants us to come and see her moon flower.
I look questioningly at her father, who had ventured from his exile upstairs to say hello to all these women.
She came down too--summer rain falling in the desert.
“The Moon Fwower’s bwooming, Daddy!”
He closes his eyes briefly and then meets hers with his.
“We’ll go see it in a little bit. Right now, Daddy wants to talk.”
I watch her excitement deflate, but she accepts his words gracefully.
We mingle more.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
Moon flower.
What in the world?
“They bloom at night,” her mother tells me. “We thought they were all dead, but then this one little plant came up. She’s been waiting for it to bloom.”
I go to find her.
“Chloe? Will you show me your moon flower?”
She runs to the door, her mother and I follow close behind.
And there it is, tucked in green leafy bed: moon flower.
“Her dad used to grow these with his mom when he was little. She gave us the seeds.”
The lonely white face turns up to me. Is it catching moonbeams?
I imagine her daddy as a boy, crouching over this nighttime secret…just as she is now.
And I remember these:
These white irises that now slumber in my back yard. In early spring, they lift sleepy beards and brighten my garden with their light. Once, they grew in the garden of my husband’s grandmother. They were passed on to me by my mother-in-law…grace in a tuber. The matriarch died long before I met her grandson. But a little piece of her is with me when these flowers bloom.
I imagine diaphanous petals preening under her aging hands—hands that must have held my husband as a babe—fingers that touched his cherubic cheeks. And I feel her ghost.
God breathes down my neck. Whispers that love never passes away.
This moon flower…this is evidence of the truth of this.
Chloe looks up at me with moon face—luminescent.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
She shifts her gaze back to the flower—can barely take her eyes off of it. She feels it: the power of her roots.
And I can't help asking myself: What am I leaving behind?
"It's just work," he said, looking up at me from under sweat-misted brow.
I was staring at the boards, stacked one on top of another; each pried up, pulled with his gloved hands.
"Can't you saw through them--make it a little easier? Would it work better with a crowbar, or maybe…"
I offered suggestions...there must be an easier way. It was hard to stand by and watch as he worked so hard.
My father-in-law blinked at me and smiled as if talking to a child.
"It's just work, Laura. That's all it is."
His words come back to me now as I look down on this bed.
She seems so small.
Injured body curled around empty womb...seeking comfort there from her days of pain.
Yet, she works through.
"I'll be all right," she smiles weakly, unconvincingly.
So I walk down the hall, away from her room--sobered by her strength, humbled that I am allowed the privilege of entering into this pain.
It is hard to stand by and watch her work so hard.
And I wonder: what do I know of work?
What do I know of pushing through a pain, a hurt so deep it takes breath away, a pain so torturous there is nothing to compare it too…not a scratch, not a bruise--but cavernous loss that leaves one with limited choices?
Give up.
Or go on.
“I was sitting right beside her in the seminar. I hadn’t seen her for so long and I…I just asked how her family was and she became very quiet.”
Tears well in my friend’s eyes as she relates this story.
“Laura, she lost her daughter. Fifteen years old. And here I am sitting beside her…”
She lifts her hands in a gesture that says it all.
How?
How does a mother work through that?
Yet, we go on. Pretend we’re okay. Because to admit otherwise would be unthinkable. It would disrupt lives, break rhythms.
Life goes on, after all.
And we walk around with hurt so devastating that to go on we must cease to feel.
And it is work.
It’s work to breathe in and breathe out when we feel as if we are dying inside. Carrying burdens that life never prepared us for.
How?
How does the human spirit recover from devastating loss? And how do I--as a mental health professional--better help? What do I have to offer someone who has lost his leg, someone who is paralyzed from the neck down? Someone who has lost a husband through change in personality from a traumatic brain injury?
Grief may be brought on by any of these circumstances. They all describe a death of sorts.
This—grief, bereavement—was the topic of a moving conference I attended on Friday. The presenters: Ravi Isaiah, D. Min., LPC--Director of Pastoral Care for our hospital system-- and Linda Cooper, RN-CS, MSN, LPC--hospice worker, bereavement counselor, adjunct faculty WVU School of Medicine.
Together, these two individuals have held the hands of countless others as they pass from this life. This alone brings me to my knees.
They shared their knowledge. Gave us these bits of wisdom and compassion…helped to mold us into better counselors, better people.
“When you are dancing with another,” says Ravi, “whose music do you hear? Whose music do you listen to when you think you are helping someone else? We misstep when we listen to different music.”
We let our discomfort discount their sorrow. Without intending to, we send the message that this grief reaction is wrong. We listen to different music. And we stumble.
When we are faced with raw grief in another, he says, we often try to “pat it down”. “There, there,” he says, gesturing as if patting a shoulder.
“Just be with them,” he says. “This is what matters.”
Linda spoke of countertransference, and how our “stuff” can make us miss an opportunity to comfort. We have to deal with our “stuff” first, she says. Know yourself. This is invaluable when counseling others.
“When we are not comfortable—they in fact, become alone—even though we are there…” she says. And then she echoes what Ravi said earlier, “Trust in the resilience of the human spirit. Don’t feel you have to fix. You don’t even have to touch someone to be with them. Hold them with your eyes. Just be with them.”
In other words, it is their work to do.
Sometimes, it’s just work. Lifelong work. Hard work.
But their work to do.
I am learning how to dance—how to hold someone with my eyes. I have learned these things before…I am no stranger to grief. But for some reason, these things I must learn over and over. They are not comfortable, no matter how many times I try them on.
I dip my toes in this river called Loss, slowly plant both feet below the surface. I am standing up to my ankles, Lord. Every once in a while, I dip at the knees and scoop Your Love into my cup.It helps me to dance. Then a wave crashes over, exhilarating momentarily…but then, as tide pulls…I am left still standing up to my ankles, empty cup in hand. Help me to plunge in, Lord.
Taking long walks with Lucy Mae, sitting out back and star gazing each night, sharing stories, and just…dreaming.
It awakens desire, this living in the now. Nothing stirs my sehnsucht like a change of season.
Strange, how this emptiness fills.
I have been thinking a lot about the fruit of my life lately.
It is no accident. He is reminding me.
Last night, Little Jeffrey asked me, “What is the thing you are most afraid of?”
It was time for the Tucking In—the time after nightly prayers when soul questions rise up to fill the quiet.
I pulled the blankets up around him and ran my hands down his bare arms.
When did he get so big?
“Hmmm,” says I. “That’s a tough one. I suppose…the thing that I am most afraid of is that something bad might happen to someone I love.”
He thought about it for a moment, but I could tell it wasn’t the answer he wanted.
“What is the thing you are most afraid of for yourself?”
It should not have surprised me; I knew where he was headed. I could see the book he had been reading open, face down on the bed beside him—the one about the Titanic. But still, I found myself groping around inside for an answer.
What was I most afraid of?
Being a bad parent?
Bad wife?
Being alone?
Flying?
None of these seemed to ring true in my head.
But I took too long in answering and he was moving on.
“Do you want to know what I’m most afraid of?”
I glanced at the book beside him.
I think I could guess.
“Sure, if you want to share.”
“I’m scared of being on a boat out in the middle of the ocean.”
His eyes grew large, his voice hushed with awe.
What ensued was a discussion on nautical safety and modern rescue methods.
Little man digested my reassuring facts, but I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes still seemed to be bugging out of his head.
The Titanic is, after all, a very traumatic story.
“You know what?” I say, as I scoot under the covers beside him and turn out the lamp. “I don’t think much about things I’m afraid of anymore. You know why?”
He shook his head in the dark as I enveloped him in my arms.
“Because I know that God is bigger than any fear I could ever have, and I belong to Him. Even if something bad happens, He’ll help me through it. And He’ll never leave me.”
He turned on his side and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
“He’ll never leave me.”
He said it in that same hushed tone he had voiced his fear in.
Awe.
His body relaxed beside me. I gave him one last kiss and slid out from under the covers, away from the warmth of him.
I went on with the night, but his question lingered.
What am I most afraid of? For me?
I thought of this ache inside my belly—this empty place. I thought of my broken childhood.
And I knew.
I am most afraid that I won’t matter.
That the fruit of the way I choose to live the thing will spoil and rot.
Occasionally, I let this fear grip me. Will any of this matter in the end?
And it feels as if I am going down with the ship.
There is no life boat for this kind of fear.
Only truth.
I know where to take this.
And I do.
I go to the Captain; send out an SOS.
I’m not just singing a happy tune as the ship goes down. I’m not just coping.
I am rescued.
Only He can do that.
Because He is bigger than any fear I could ever have.
And He will never leave me.
Never.
Lay it down. Again, and again. Lay it down, Beloved.
He is bigger than whatever it is.
For a very powerful testimony on overcoming fear, visit Melanie...and please pray for her son, Andrew, while you are there.
On that day, when your tiny lungs at last expanded with their first airy breath, Chubby arms flailing about swimming in the air— milk-blue eyes gazing about in awed wonder…
On that day-- the day that you were born, my heart had not yet started beating. And though, a few years would pass before my newborn infant cries would pierce the air,
Every milestone marked, every step traveled Only brought you closer to me…
To that day when our hearts would collide.
each mark deeply embedded each scar you endured every joy your spirit soared through further molded for a perfect fit…
lovingly wrought, intricately sculpted no detail overlooked
Created by a Master Who wrote the Master Plan.
You are more beautiful now with lines on your face silver subtly nesting on your chin…
You take my breath away. The years we collect together further mold our hearts join them into one. You were made for me.
And I’m so glad.
Happy birthday, My Love.
Doodle inspired by birthday celebration with Jeff's family...for more doodle fun and the writing prompt, visit High Calling Blogs.
