Christmas arrived. A different journey this year for sure. Last year, with Phoebe gone just a few months, it was all about surviving. It felt as if at any moment I could die. I mean that. Life was so precious and the emotional pain was devastating, despairing. But the physical pain was piercing and blinding. It didn't feel possible to sustain that level of suffering. That particular aspect resisted words and stayed hidden deep inside, but it was there. Only now, a year later, I can name it. Grief moves through your body, settling differently over time, but always settling, making a home. This year making it through, living Christmas without Phoebe was almost harder. Early on there is that great hope that the nightmare will fade and life will resume as it was. But now there is no denying the reality of loss ...the simple, harsh fact that she is not to come home. I wanted her home last year, but wanted her home even more this year. Some of the fog has lifted and the stark reality she is gone takes root in my bones. I'm extraordinarily sad and wondering about God's great plan, still trusting, but not understanding the wisdom or the thread woven into the tapestry of eternity.
I see her friends and am glad. I see their own sagging hearts, waiting and hoping their great friend might return in some way, bring that freshness, that vibrant audacity to fully live back around them.
I look at Christmas cards, families robust and full, everyone there smiling. I love those cards. We compare them over the years, how people have grown and changed. I can't click my camera yet and capture my own crew without her. How do I say ..."this is my family ...here they are," when such a one is missing.
Last year I huddled by the manger, trying to catch a glimpse ....and I did. Generosity, open hearts of others in that time, brought that to me. I will never forget that soothing, peaceful day. But this year, I am behind the crowd and I don't have the fight in me to jump up and see above those taller than I am. He knows I am there, I trust that.
Life goes on, we all know that. I've learned so much this past year, so much my own daughter tried to teach me herself. Did she have to die so that I might see the truth of so many things? I would like to hold her hand, smell her freshly washed hair, make her a cup of tea she requests. I want to make that tea like I would and give it to her so she can once again set it on the counter, blow on it, take one sip ...and then leave it there until it is cold and I dump it out. I want things to be whole again, like it was. I want her back.
And so much of my life now is about accepting the unquenched wanting, living with a desire never to be filled. Maybe the message is that the quenching, the satisfaction, the balm, is only in the surrender and acceptance of losing. Maybe this great loss is really my great gain. I can see through worldly eyes ...or I can pray for God's lens to focus for me what it is He wants from me.
I look around me at these beautiful children and know the greatness of them. They are mine for so short a time. I watch their eyes twinkle, the giggles, the sneers even ... and strive to embrace it all in that moment, being grateful for even the little annoyances.
They remind us that grieving the loss of your child is the hardest work you'll ever do ...and I must remind myself of that. It is hard, hard work for sure. And I am tired through and through. I don't have great words or deep wisdom to share here. By a thread, I trust ...by a simple thread.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
New Friends
From the evening of Dec. 11th.
Tonight we went to the annual candle lighting service for Compassionate Friends, the place we go that has helped us survive. Everyone there has lost a child, everyone knows this walk ...and they know the challenge of living among so many others who, fortunately, haven't had to manage life without a child. So gathering together to specifically name and acknowledge our children is powerful, especially when two hundred or more names are read and candles are lit in one space. But more, that it is tied to a worldwide candle lighting for all the chapters throughout the world, and around the globe all these children are remembered. It is the largest candle lighting ceremony in existence ...and it is quite powerful. Lots and lots of tears fall, streaming the faces of big, strong, mighty men ...the dads. Its a safe place for them to miss their children. Us moms cry too, we all do.
One of the saddest aspects of living life without Phoebe is not being able to watch in wonder (and sometimes aggravation) the harmony of her and her dad. They were best friends, plain and simple. I knew that all along, but never put it to words until after she died. They shared lots of words, but few were actually needed. They just understood each other ...felt each others pulse ....loved each other deeply. I miss seeing them heading off to check the surf, discussing some idea, laughing about some quirky thing, scraping the last bit of mango off the rind, discussing the merits of apples over grapes ....all sorts of things. They debated hot topics too, but they both loved the intensity, the powerful search for the truth. Truly, in every moment they shared, they both gave their all, got as much out of it as they could.
I had my own closeness with Phoebe, our own way, but my role was to ground her, transition her through the process of life, take care of business. It wasn't always easy, but as she got older she began to recognize and appreciate all of that, knowing it was as important as the adventure and exploration. She was growing up and we were sharing more and more. I miss that too, that lost opportunity. But ...what catches me most often is the loss of father and daughter ...two peas in a pod, and how they found the essence of life in the simplest ways.
Like all the other parents there, we were sad. Songs were sung, lives were remembered, ornaments exchanged and candles lit. It was a somber time.
Last year, we blubbered through all of it, so new to the loss. How would we ever be able to live? We were shattered and splintered and searing with pain. Every day, every breath was agony. And yet somehow, a year later, with the same disbelief, still the pain, we have made it to another night of lighting a candle for our girl.
We muddle through to the social part of the night, with lots of hugs exchanged, anniversary's acknowledged.
"You made it, you did it, you survived?" I say to my new friend. Today marks the first anniversary of her son's death. "Yes, I did" and she smiles ..."I didn't think I would." Those are the simple exchanges that take place among us. Words don't manage to capture all that could be said.
The connection between our kids stops us in our tracks often. They've woven our lives together ...and perhaps theirs too. A few glitches with lighting, music, seating had one of the coordinators comment to me. "As that is happening all at the same time, I'm thinking of all of our kids and what they could be up to ...I figured for sure they were playing games with us, laughing it up." Perhaps.
New faces are in this room, people find me "Someone wants to meet you." Okay, I think, figuring they are someone's spouse, grown child ...and some are, but some have just asked around. I couldn't figure out why, until I make the rounds ...they don't want to meet me ...they want to meet Phoebe's mom. They hug me, these five or so different people, disconnected from each other ...but they all say the same thing ..."I don't know why, but I feel very connected to Phoebe, I think about her a lot ...tell me about her. There was something special about her." "Like all our kids," I say. "Of course" they tell me, but there was something about her. Yes, there is something very special about my Phoebe ...and if you knew her, really knew her, you'll nod your head. She was not a type, like no other ...she lived like no one else I know. And she died as few will. There is no romance or applause in her choice to die. But we can all learn a few lessons from her and how she lived.
New friends, we smile through the tears, laugh and share stories and usually finish with a long sigh and a hug ...for what might have been ...and for who we miss, glad to know our children can be together ...out of harms way now ...safe and free.
Light a candle one night for Phoebe if you care to.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tonight we went to the annual candle lighting service for Compassionate Friends, the place we go that has helped us survive. Everyone there has lost a child, everyone knows this walk ...and they know the challenge of living among so many others who, fortunately, haven't had to manage life without a child. So gathering together to specifically name and acknowledge our children is powerful, especially when two hundred or more names are read and candles are lit in one space. But more, that it is tied to a worldwide candle lighting for all the chapters throughout the world, and around the globe all these children are remembered. It is the largest candle lighting ceremony in existence ...and it is quite powerful. Lots and lots of tears fall, streaming the faces of big, strong, mighty men ...the dads. Its a safe place for them to miss their children. Us moms cry too, we all do.
One of the saddest aspects of living life without Phoebe is not being able to watch in wonder (and sometimes aggravation) the harmony of her and her dad. They were best friends, plain and simple. I knew that all along, but never put it to words until after she died. They shared lots of words, but few were actually needed. They just understood each other ...felt each others pulse ....loved each other deeply. I miss seeing them heading off to check the surf, discussing some idea, laughing about some quirky thing, scraping the last bit of mango off the rind, discussing the merits of apples over grapes ....all sorts of things. They debated hot topics too, but they both loved the intensity, the powerful search for the truth. Truly, in every moment they shared, they both gave their all, got as much out of it as they could.
I had my own closeness with Phoebe, our own way, but my role was to ground her, transition her through the process of life, take care of business. It wasn't always easy, but as she got older she began to recognize and appreciate all of that, knowing it was as important as the adventure and exploration. She was growing up and we were sharing more and more. I miss that too, that lost opportunity. But ...what catches me most often is the loss of father and daughter ...two peas in a pod, and how they found the essence of life in the simplest ways.
Like all the other parents there, we were sad. Songs were sung, lives were remembered, ornaments exchanged and candles lit. It was a somber time.
Last year, we blubbered through all of it, so new to the loss. How would we ever be able to live? We were shattered and splintered and searing with pain. Every day, every breath was agony. And yet somehow, a year later, with the same disbelief, still the pain, we have made it to another night of lighting a candle for our girl.
We muddle through to the social part of the night, with lots of hugs exchanged, anniversary's acknowledged.
"You made it, you did it, you survived?" I say to my new friend. Today marks the first anniversary of her son's death. "Yes, I did" and she smiles ..."I didn't think I would." Those are the simple exchanges that take place among us. Words don't manage to capture all that could be said.
The connection between our kids stops us in our tracks often. They've woven our lives together ...and perhaps theirs too. A few glitches with lighting, music, seating had one of the coordinators comment to me. "As that is happening all at the same time, I'm thinking of all of our kids and what they could be up to ...I figured for sure they were playing games with us, laughing it up." Perhaps.
New faces are in this room, people find me "Someone wants to meet you." Okay, I think, figuring they are someone's spouse, grown child ...and some are, but some have just asked around. I couldn't figure out why, until I make the rounds ...they don't want to meet me ...they want to meet Phoebe's mom. They hug me, these five or so different people, disconnected from each other ...but they all say the same thing ..."I don't know why, but I feel very connected to Phoebe, I think about her a lot ...tell me about her. There was something special about her." "Like all our kids," I say. "Of course" they tell me, but there was something about her. Yes, there is something very special about my Phoebe ...and if you knew her, really knew her, you'll nod your head. She was not a type, like no other ...she lived like no one else I know. And she died as few will. There is no romance or applause in her choice to die. But we can all learn a few lessons from her and how she lived.
New friends, we smile through the tears, laugh and share stories and usually finish with a long sigh and a hug ...for what might have been ...and for who we miss, glad to know our children can be together ...out of harms way now ...safe and free.
Light a candle one night for Phoebe if you care to.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Christmas Candy
I bumped into a friend the other night. She doesn't read here. But she mentioned she'd just received an invitation to a recipe exchange ...not even needing to prepare anything, just provide a recipe. She said she just couldn't take even that on right now. I laughed with her as we reflected on the busyness of now. We all get caught up in it somehow ...not even the shopping ...the frenzy in the air. I told her I'd posted a cookie recipe swap on my blog and only one responded ...maybe no one's really interested, or maybe it's that one little thing proving to be too much. So ...instead, I'll give you a few of our Christmas staples that will get made no matter what ...even if not until Christmas day.
Toffee
Back when I was a kid, a woman we knew would make us this delectable toffee that once opened would last about 1 minute and 42 seconds. For years we waited for this to come out on Christmas Eve. My mother hid it well. A few years after we stopped receiving this treasure, I found a recipe for toffee and started making it for my family. It has remained a staple of this season since then, being made to give as gifts or just devour ourselves. I taught Phoebe how to make it, so she became the maker of toffee, and held that role with serious protection. Two years ago, I taught my next oldest daughter the tricks of perfect timing, only to be discovered by Phoebe who immediately took command and let us all know no one was to take her rightful place as commander of toffee. We all obliged. She had wanted that one little thing to be hers ....and so it was. Last year, our first Christmas without her, still deep in fog and confusion and bitter sadness, a few batches were made, but half heartedly ...and so not well.
This season, Olivia stirs and waits, stirs and waits ...with Lucy standing by waiting her turn to make a batch for some of her teachers. Hannah lingers close by, snatching pieces of chocolate, making comments on color and timing. It's a new season, a shared season of toffee making in our house.
I've shared the recipe lots of times, and most report being unable to make it.
The trick is in the timing ...and in cooking it until you're pretty sure it will burn and the pan will catch on fire.
I don't use a thermometer, though I am sure there are plenty of recipes out there that do, and if you are all about precision then perhaps this isn't a recipe for you. I have a choleric temperament, naturally impatient, so when I write to cook over medium heat, know that I am constantly nudging that dial up to high ...but it works for me.
One cup of butter (2 sticks)
One cup of sugar
1tbs water
1 large candy bar, broken into pieces ( I use symphony bars with toffee and nuts)
pecans (though any nuts you want)
Use a regular saucepan and wooden spoon
Melt butter over medium heat, add sugar and tbs. of water.
Stir continuously over heat
Gradually, it will turn tan to caramel.
When it starts to have darker, coffee colored streaks as you stir, whisk it very fast, pause three seconds, whip again and pour immediately onto a cookie sheet (ungreased).
Spread around to make a nice sheet
Sprinkle choc. on top, let sit about 2 minutes, spread with knife
Sprinkle with nuts
Put in fridge, or even freezer to harden.
Break into bite size pieces.
Another regular, which is time consuming, so reserved for just a few who are far away ... well worth the effort. Olivia is my official helper with these tasty treats.
From Rosie's Bakery (Boston based)
Cappuccino Shortbread Sales
2 Tbs. instant coffee powder
1 3/4 c. plus 2 Tbs. flour
1/8 tsp. baking powder
3/4 tsp. salt
6 Tbs. sugar
3 Tbs. light brown sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 cup unsalted butter, cold, cut into 1" thick chunks
1 Tbs. strong brewed coffee
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
Glaze
7 oz. bittersweet choc. (I use semi-sweet)
1 1/2 cups finely chopped, toasted almonds
Place instant coffee, flour, baking powder, salt, sugars, and cinnamon in food processor and process 5 seconds.
Distribute butter over flour mixture and process until mixture resembles coarse meal, 10 secs.
While processor is running, pour coffee and vanilla, process about 45 seconds
Place dough between two sheets of parchment paper and roll out to make a 10 inch square, 3/8 inch thick
Slide square onto baking sheet and put in fridge for 45 minutes.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees,
Cut dough into 25 squares, then cut diagonally to make triangles.
Carefully transfer squares to baking sheet, bake until lightly golden and firm to touch ..25 to 30 minutes.
Prepare glaze over double boiler, melt choc.
Dip one edge of cooled cookie into choc., then into nuts.
Let harden for several hours
Ginger cookies
Not much ginger in these cookies, but they are a staple and well loved by anyone whose tried them. I think my kids like these even better than chocolate chip ...which says a lot. I've been making these cookies for fifteen years, at least, and they are still a favorite.
2/3 cup corn oil
1 cup sugar
1 egg
4 Tbs. molasses
2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
3/4 tsp ginger
Mix all together, roll into balls, roll in sugar
Bake on greased cookie sheet, 350 degrees, 10 - 12 minutes.
So from our kitchen to yours ...maybe this will add a little sweetness.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Toffee
Back when I was a kid, a woman we knew would make us this delectable toffee that once opened would last about 1 minute and 42 seconds. For years we waited for this to come out on Christmas Eve. My mother hid it well. A few years after we stopped receiving this treasure, I found a recipe for toffee and started making it for my family. It has remained a staple of this season since then, being made to give as gifts or just devour ourselves. I taught Phoebe how to make it, so she became the maker of toffee, and held that role with serious protection. Two years ago, I taught my next oldest daughter the tricks of perfect timing, only to be discovered by Phoebe who immediately took command and let us all know no one was to take her rightful place as commander of toffee. We all obliged. She had wanted that one little thing to be hers ....and so it was. Last year, our first Christmas without her, still deep in fog and confusion and bitter sadness, a few batches were made, but half heartedly ...and so not well.
This season, Olivia stirs and waits, stirs and waits ...with Lucy standing by waiting her turn to make a batch for some of her teachers. Hannah lingers close by, snatching pieces of chocolate, making comments on color and timing. It's a new season, a shared season of toffee making in our house.
I've shared the recipe lots of times, and most report being unable to make it.
The trick is in the timing ...and in cooking it until you're pretty sure it will burn and the pan will catch on fire.
I don't use a thermometer, though I am sure there are plenty of recipes out there that do, and if you are all about precision then perhaps this isn't a recipe for you. I have a choleric temperament, naturally impatient, so when I write to cook over medium heat, know that I am constantly nudging that dial up to high ...but it works for me.
One cup of butter (2 sticks)
One cup of sugar
1tbs water
1 large candy bar, broken into pieces ( I use symphony bars with toffee and nuts)
pecans (though any nuts you want)
Use a regular saucepan and wooden spoon
Melt butter over medium heat, add sugar and tbs. of water.
Stir continuously over heat
Gradually, it will turn tan to caramel.
When it starts to have darker, coffee colored streaks as you stir, whisk it very fast, pause three seconds, whip again and pour immediately onto a cookie sheet (ungreased).
Spread around to make a nice sheet
Sprinkle choc. on top, let sit about 2 minutes, spread with knife
Sprinkle with nuts
Put in fridge, or even freezer to harden.
Break into bite size pieces.
Another regular, which is time consuming, so reserved for just a few who are far away ... well worth the effort. Olivia is my official helper with these tasty treats.
From Rosie's Bakery (Boston based)
Cappuccino Shortbread Sales
2 Tbs. instant coffee powder
1 3/4 c. plus 2 Tbs. flour
1/8 tsp. baking powder
3/4 tsp. salt
6 Tbs. sugar
3 Tbs. light brown sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 cup unsalted butter, cold, cut into 1" thick chunks
1 Tbs. strong brewed coffee
1/4 tsp vanilla extract
Glaze
7 oz. bittersweet choc. (I use semi-sweet)
1 1/2 cups finely chopped, toasted almonds
Place instant coffee, flour, baking powder, salt, sugars, and cinnamon in food processor and process 5 seconds.
Distribute butter over flour mixture and process until mixture resembles coarse meal, 10 secs.
While processor is running, pour coffee and vanilla, process about 45 seconds
Place dough between two sheets of parchment paper and roll out to make a 10 inch square, 3/8 inch thick
Slide square onto baking sheet and put in fridge for 45 minutes.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees,
Cut dough into 25 squares, then cut diagonally to make triangles.
Carefully transfer squares to baking sheet, bake until lightly golden and firm to touch ..25 to 30 minutes.
Prepare glaze over double boiler, melt choc.
Dip one edge of cooled cookie into choc., then into nuts.
Let harden for several hours
Ginger cookies
Not much ginger in these cookies, but they are a staple and well loved by anyone whose tried them. I think my kids like these even better than chocolate chip ...which says a lot. I've been making these cookies for fifteen years, at least, and they are still a favorite.
2/3 cup corn oil
1 cup sugar
1 egg
4 Tbs. molasses
2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
3/4 tsp ginger
Mix all together, roll into balls, roll in sugar
Bake on greased cookie sheet, 350 degrees, 10 - 12 minutes.
So from our kitchen to yours ...maybe this will add a little sweetness.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Cookie Swap
For years we participated in cookie swaps, sometimes more than one each Christmas season. We all enjoyed it, loved seeing and tasting the different cookies. Often even the wrapping of some cookies were so lovely we didn't want to open the package. The funnest part for all us though was my husband's self appointment as official cookie taster. He would award the top three ...in our own home, and it was the rare person who knew the cookies were under such scrutiny. We laughed so much as we watched him line the cookies in front of him with a big glass of milk. He hammed it up discussing presentation, texture, flavor, size, originality. One friend would call me the next day and find out where she placed after the judging. She wasn't a natural baker, so she was often relieved to find her cookie in the top three. My girls have talked about doing it again, but I haven't initiated one. Maybe they're still happening out there. I hope they are since they're such a nice event to prepare for and enjoy.
I'm not up for hosting one yet, but I thought ...well, why not here. No actual cookies perhaps, but we could certainly share recipes of a favorite cookie that has established itself as part of the Christmas tradition in our own homes. If you want to participate, write your recipe in the comments, or email it to me at carolynwalshpiw@gmail.com, and I'll post it here for everyone.
Phoebe loved our cookie swaps ...and I'm sure she'll enjoy this one too!
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I'm not up for hosting one yet, but I thought ...well, why not here. No actual cookies perhaps, but we could certainly share recipes of a favorite cookie that has established itself as part of the Christmas tradition in our own homes. If you want to participate, write your recipe in the comments, or email it to me at carolynwalshpiw@gmail.com, and I'll post it here for everyone.
Phoebe loved our cookie swaps ...and I'm sure she'll enjoy this one too!
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Remembering St. Joseph
A friend sent this along. It is a beautiful reminder of this quiet saint and his life with Christ.
St. Joseph:
How awesome a gift to be given, to raise the Savior of the world. The fear in your heart must have been tremendous, but trusting in God, you took on such a seemingly impossible task.
You were chosen to be the only one to help your beloved wife with the birth of the Blessed Infant. Surrounded by rejection, what fear must have pierced your own heart as you watched Mary struggle, while searching for anywhere for Jesus to be born. What conflicting feelings you must have experienced as you found a shelter, but only in the most humble of places.
What joy much have filled your heart as you held the tiny Savior in your arms. The trust and faith He had in your strong arms must have been an incomprehensible comfort to you. God trusted you with His Son, a helpless Newborn.
Holding His unharmed hand as He took His first steps. Placing a hammer and nail carefully in His hand to teach Him your trade. Patting His back as you laughed with Him and His Mother. Growing in holiness under the Hand of the Father. Clinging to the Hand of your Son as you took your last breaths. And finally kissing the pierced Hand of Jesus as He welcomed you into the kingdom, where you remain with Him for all eternity.
Teach us also, St. Joseph. Teach us to trust in God's plan for each of our lives. As you learned, our lives all have a purpose, one beyond our own comprehension.
St. Joseph pray for us.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
St. Joseph:
How awesome a gift to be given, to raise the Savior of the world. The fear in your heart must have been tremendous, but trusting in God, you took on such a seemingly impossible task.
You were chosen to be the only one to help your beloved wife with the birth of the Blessed Infant. Surrounded by rejection, what fear must have pierced your own heart as you watched Mary struggle, while searching for anywhere for Jesus to be born. What conflicting feelings you must have experienced as you found a shelter, but only in the most humble of places.
What joy much have filled your heart as you held the tiny Savior in your arms. The trust and faith He had in your strong arms must have been an incomprehensible comfort to you. God trusted you with His Son, a helpless Newborn.
Holding His unharmed hand as He took His first steps. Placing a hammer and nail carefully in His hand to teach Him your trade. Patting His back as you laughed with Him and His Mother. Growing in holiness under the Hand of the Father. Clinging to the Hand of your Son as you took your last breaths. And finally kissing the pierced Hand of Jesus as He welcomed you into the kingdom, where you remain with Him for all eternity.
Teach us also, St. Joseph. Teach us to trust in God's plan for each of our lives. As you learned, our lives all have a purpose, one beyond our own comprehension.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Old Friends
Today one of Phoebe's friends turned 18. I learned about her coming the day after Phoebe was born when my friend came to see me and told me she would have her first baby the following December. We were both excited our children would be close in age, and I secretly wished for a girl. I didn't know then that my friend would move far away five years later, and I didn't know then that my girl wouldn't make it to 18, and that this precious girl would. And back then I didn't know the heartbreak we would all feel one beautiful October day. I didn't know back then how much our lives would change.
The more days that pass, the more I come to know how love stories are lived and written, and that even when they seem to end, they don't really, they just start another chapter, equal in love, intensity, desire. Back when I was new to high school, I blended with two other girls and our lives intertwined, we shared history, adventure, broken hearts. And we still do. It's a story that won't end ...we're just too far in. I've been blessed with friendships like that. These two have been part of my life for over thirty years ...that's a long time to walk this life together.
Today we laugh and remember and shake our heads at how we celebrate this milestone so quickly. There's no cost to either one of us ...there never is with genuine friendship, where we can just be. We can mourn Phoebe's absence while celebrating Annie's life. It hovers between us that Phoebe never turned 18. She was the first girl of all our girls, the leader so to speak, the one who went first. I know their plan to celebrate and send off my birthday wishes. I check in, excited to hear any news about after graduation ...what she's looking toward, what she's up to ...all the good stuff. My friend knows this, that even though I lost out on that, I still want for her, I still care. New phases and challenges come along, launching a child into adulthood can be scary business, things come up, choices get made a parent might not like ...it brings up fear, frustration. Our other friend is in on all of it too ...not quite there yet, she will be in a few years when her first is ready to head out. We see things differently than we thought we would ...before we stood in that place of our child becoming an adult. "She's smart and wise, you've taught her well, given her the tools ....trust her," I tell my friend. "I would give anything to struggle through this, to have Phoebe back." And she knows, she would too. Phoebe is so much a part of who we are. Our first girl. And she's gone.
How does this love story continue? How does she still hold so much of my moment to moment? How can it be that my other kids are such an active and dynamic part of my life, so full of life and joy, growing and thriving, demanding and insistent ...and yet I seem almost present in two places? I think it is just part of God's mystery and generosity, that He can expand time and moments ....and hearts.
Tonight I started my Christmas shopping, I'm wearing her coat as I walk the aisles of these familiar stores. Her scarf is around my neck, the one from this store. She had asked me for it, I said no, she had enough, and somehow there it was at the register along with her twinkly eyes ..."pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease" she'd said. She didn't wear it long, so now I do. Phoebe took charge at Christmas, ordering me about, telling me what to do, who needed what, who should get what. "Are you kidding mom?" I can hear her saying to me as I look at pajamas for her sisters. I put them back ...they're too fuddy duddy ...to momish. Phoebe knew her siblings, understood them. Now I'm on my own, missing her as I pull it together, figure out how to make it all happen. I talk to her through the store, imagine her there with me, remember what it was like ...and miss her ....a lot.
This year is different than last, when it was so new. They told us this, the others before us, that the pain wouldn't go away, it would just be different. I didn't want to hear that then, I wanted to be told I'd hurt less, feel better. They were right too in telling us that it couldn't be described, but we would come to understand. And we do.
Our lives are lived fully today. And if you looked at us from the outside, you likely wouldn't suspect any great loss. We smile, laugh, live, embrace. I write it here, but I don't wear it on my sleeve. I carry it, but I don't often hunch over. And isn't that the Christian walk, that our burdens should not be obvious as we go about our lives ...isn't it that we should be a witness to God's great love, a witness to trusting and hoping in Him through all things. It's just that sometimes, when life is still, and milestones are reached, and children who laughed and played ...and couldn't wait until they could burst out of the car to run and find Phoebe, of all the other kids ...it's when they grow up and beyond where Phoebe reached, that I feel weak and terribly sad. Does she know the greatest missing of all?
We've been outrageously blessed with so many who love us ...they walk side by side as this story continues to be written. There are no shoulds or coulds, there is just the moment. I have my old friends who know that beneath the smile and laughter ...there is great pain. I have old friends too, who haven't been on the scene as long as my two from high school, but I consider them 'old friends' because I know our friendship transcends time. They come from all walks of life, some of them with tremendous burdens you would never know they had because they simply radiate joy ...they lead me ...these remarkable women. Like a posse, they've surrounded and guarded me when my heart staggers, protected and carried me when ignorant people toss hurt at me or my family. These women do not pose as something they are not. Their stories are true, real, forever. They watch my daughters, love them through the heavy path they travel. They delight in my youngest and oldest, checking in, observing ...caring. And strangely, in all the tending of us they do, they know I do all I can, in my great weakness, to tend to them too. That is true, pure, lasting friendship. It's not about praising each other, building each other's ego. It's about carrying each other through the treacherous path ...and not calculating the cost. True friendship is free. Without living the death of their own child, they know, somehow, the price, and expect nothing more from me. They do not assess or evaluate us, suggest we should be different than who we are, indicate we lack authenticity or true faith. They are not mean-spirited, all knowing. They just are. They don't even have to be physically present, or even touch base all that often. And I am so, so grateful for that in a world so contrived, so fixed on image, they are there.
No book teaches you to be a good friend, teaches you how to lose a child and grieve them in the "proper" way. No book has the answers on an authentically good heart ...that comes when you are open enough, when you've surrendered your life, your whole life, even the aberrations of your life to God. I've learned it's only in gratitude, especially in the darkest moments, the most grueling heartbreak, that my heart will be open to His grace.
And so as this day closes, and my little friend crosses that milestone, I pray she is blessed with the kind of friends that her mother is ....authentic, generous ...at no cost. And I pray that somehow, Phoebe celebrates with her old friend ...the one who loved the great adventure of being with her ...the one who simply loved Phoebe as she was, delighted in her feisty personality ...always.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
The more days that pass, the more I come to know how love stories are lived and written, and that even when they seem to end, they don't really, they just start another chapter, equal in love, intensity, desire. Back when I was new to high school, I blended with two other girls and our lives intertwined, we shared history, adventure, broken hearts. And we still do. It's a story that won't end ...we're just too far in. I've been blessed with friendships like that. These two have been part of my life for over thirty years ...that's a long time to walk this life together.
Today we laugh and remember and shake our heads at how we celebrate this milestone so quickly. There's no cost to either one of us ...there never is with genuine friendship, where we can just be. We can mourn Phoebe's absence while celebrating Annie's life. It hovers between us that Phoebe never turned 18. She was the first girl of all our girls, the leader so to speak, the one who went first. I know their plan to celebrate and send off my birthday wishes. I check in, excited to hear any news about after graduation ...what she's looking toward, what she's up to ...all the good stuff. My friend knows this, that even though I lost out on that, I still want for her, I still care. New phases and challenges come along, launching a child into adulthood can be scary business, things come up, choices get made a parent might not like ...it brings up fear, frustration. Our other friend is in on all of it too ...not quite there yet, she will be in a few years when her first is ready to head out. We see things differently than we thought we would ...before we stood in that place of our child becoming an adult. "She's smart and wise, you've taught her well, given her the tools ....trust her," I tell my friend. "I would give anything to struggle through this, to have Phoebe back." And she knows, she would too. Phoebe is so much a part of who we are. Our first girl. And she's gone.
How does this love story continue? How does she still hold so much of my moment to moment? How can it be that my other kids are such an active and dynamic part of my life, so full of life and joy, growing and thriving, demanding and insistent ...and yet I seem almost present in two places? I think it is just part of God's mystery and generosity, that He can expand time and moments ....and hearts.
Tonight I started my Christmas shopping, I'm wearing her coat as I walk the aisles of these familiar stores. Her scarf is around my neck, the one from this store. She had asked me for it, I said no, she had enough, and somehow there it was at the register along with her twinkly eyes ..."pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease" she'd said. She didn't wear it long, so now I do. Phoebe took charge at Christmas, ordering me about, telling me what to do, who needed what, who should get what. "Are you kidding mom?" I can hear her saying to me as I look at pajamas for her sisters. I put them back ...they're too fuddy duddy ...to momish. Phoebe knew her siblings, understood them. Now I'm on my own, missing her as I pull it together, figure out how to make it all happen. I talk to her through the store, imagine her there with me, remember what it was like ...and miss her ....a lot.
This year is different than last, when it was so new. They told us this, the others before us, that the pain wouldn't go away, it would just be different. I didn't want to hear that then, I wanted to be told I'd hurt less, feel better. They were right too in telling us that it couldn't be described, but we would come to understand. And we do.
Our lives are lived fully today. And if you looked at us from the outside, you likely wouldn't suspect any great loss. We smile, laugh, live, embrace. I write it here, but I don't wear it on my sleeve. I carry it, but I don't often hunch over. And isn't that the Christian walk, that our burdens should not be obvious as we go about our lives ...isn't it that we should be a witness to God's great love, a witness to trusting and hoping in Him through all things. It's just that sometimes, when life is still, and milestones are reached, and children who laughed and played ...and couldn't wait until they could burst out of the car to run and find Phoebe, of all the other kids ...it's when they grow up and beyond where Phoebe reached, that I feel weak and terribly sad. Does she know the greatest missing of all?
We've been outrageously blessed with so many who love us ...they walk side by side as this story continues to be written. There are no shoulds or coulds, there is just the moment. I have my old friends who know that beneath the smile and laughter ...there is great pain. I have old friends too, who haven't been on the scene as long as my two from high school, but I consider them 'old friends' because I know our friendship transcends time. They come from all walks of life, some of them with tremendous burdens you would never know they had because they simply radiate joy ...they lead me ...these remarkable women. Like a posse, they've surrounded and guarded me when my heart staggers, protected and carried me when ignorant people toss hurt at me or my family. These women do not pose as something they are not. Their stories are true, real, forever. They watch my daughters, love them through the heavy path they travel. They delight in my youngest and oldest, checking in, observing ...caring. And strangely, in all the tending of us they do, they know I do all I can, in my great weakness, to tend to them too. That is true, pure, lasting friendship. It's not about praising each other, building each other's ego. It's about carrying each other through the treacherous path ...and not calculating the cost. True friendship is free. Without living the death of their own child, they know, somehow, the price, and expect nothing more from me. They do not assess or evaluate us, suggest we should be different than who we are, indicate we lack authenticity or true faith. They are not mean-spirited, all knowing. They just are. They don't even have to be physically present, or even touch base all that often. And I am so, so grateful for that in a world so contrived, so fixed on image, they are there.
No book teaches you to be a good friend, teaches you how to lose a child and grieve them in the "proper" way. No book has the answers on an authentically good heart ...that comes when you are open enough, when you've surrendered your life, your whole life, even the aberrations of your life to God. I've learned it's only in gratitude, especially in the darkest moments, the most grueling heartbreak, that my heart will be open to His grace.
And so as this day closes, and my little friend crosses that milestone, I pray she is blessed with the kind of friends that her mother is ....authentic, generous ...at no cost. And I pray that somehow, Phoebe celebrates with her old friend ...the one who loved the great adventure of being with her ...the one who simply loved Phoebe as she was, delighted in her feisty personality ...always.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Immaculate Conception
I love this feast day. I love thinking of the Blessed Mother in her first moments ...becoming a girl, so pure and holy, so prepared to carry Christ. I imagine the angels singing, the bending of their knees as Christ's first tabernacle formed and grew. One of God's most beloved angels fell and roams the earth seeking our ruin, all because of the thought that Christ Himself would be born to us through a mere human. I tell the kids I go to her often, because she is so perfect, and they can rest assured when I am not at my best, when I drop the ball, get frustrated, overtired, overwhelmed, I call on her to step in and take over. Maybe they can lean on that when I am remote, not as I could be. I know for sure she was there as Phoebe died, and she held her for me. That brings me tremendous comfort. Phoebe had two Masses offered for her on this day, actually three. I like having them offered on feast days, it seems as though the bridge between her and us gets traveled both ways...that I can be with her for just a bit.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. Juan Diego, three days before Our Lady of Guadalupe. One of the many blessings of a large family is getting to watch them all learn about these great stories and truths of our faith ...as the years go by. For my older kids it's almost like "yeah, yeah, heard that, we know ...enough already." But for Owen and Mary Claire, each time they hear it they are amazed and awed. This morning I told them the story again and the questions led us to looking up the basilica on line, examining the tilma with Our Lady's image. I get to tell this story over and over, and hear their eagerness and amazement. It mirrors back to me the awe I should live every day. Shows me the awe great faith cultivates. I have a ways to go, I know.
I think about Phoebe and know she lives in a time structured so differently from what we know, and I imagine her living these days of saints' lives, understanding them fully, seeing their purpose. I see her ahead of us, exploring, uncovering, examining and being so well pleased with all she sees and knows. I wish she could tell me everything, share it with us, assure us.
I think about what Phoebe knows fully about God, what she experiences. I want all my children to be with Him one day, forever. I just didn't want it for Phoebe this way. I miss her.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. Juan Diego, three days before Our Lady of Guadalupe. One of the many blessings of a large family is getting to watch them all learn about these great stories and truths of our faith ...as the years go by. For my older kids it's almost like "yeah, yeah, heard that, we know ...enough already." But for Owen and Mary Claire, each time they hear it they are amazed and awed. This morning I told them the story again and the questions led us to looking up the basilica on line, examining the tilma with Our Lady's image. I get to tell this story over and over, and hear their eagerness and amazement. It mirrors back to me the awe I should live every day. Shows me the awe great faith cultivates. I have a ways to go, I know.
I think about Phoebe and know she lives in a time structured so differently from what we know, and I imagine her living these days of saints' lives, understanding them fully, seeing their purpose. I see her ahead of us, exploring, uncovering, examining and being so well pleased with all she sees and knows. I wish she could tell me everything, share it with us, assure us.
I think about what Phoebe knows fully about God, what she experiences. I want all my children to be with Him one day, forever. I just didn't want it for Phoebe this way. I miss her.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Advent revisited
Last year I threw myself headfirst into Advent. Generally, I love Advent, the march towards Bethlehem, the readying for Christ's birth, making room for Him in our souls, ridding ourselves of clutter, possessiveness. I followed the Blessed Mother through the trails of my backyard so many times, trusting she would lead me forward. And she did, walking the paths my daughter had treaded. Advent last year salvaged me in so many ways, on so many levels ...and Christmas arrived with new hope, joy ...a chance for peace and stillness in this mother's restless soul. As I remember, it was agony, each step ...hard to capture in words. I needed to make Christmas promising and new for my other children ...Phoebe's siblings. I needed to show them our life was wounded indeed, our family was deeply wounded ...but we were not broken. More than anything, I wanted them to trust God. I know as much as I wanted that for them ... they didn't. These trusting souls, listening to us, watching us put God at the Center ...were shattered.. Why would this God we believed in above all things, allow ...or even cause, Phoebe to end her life? A fair question ...they're still asking. I let them be, still do ...just trusting that God, who does not force us to love Him, is working on them in His way ...in their way. So it was more about seeing them smile on Christmas morning to assure me they still could. It was a Christmas I will always remember ...because Phoebe wasn't with us for the first time, but more ...because of all the graces that came that season, that day. It resonates still, the meeting of Joy's mother, the invitation to feed the animals at the stable Christmas night, the relics of the Holy Family. No human could possibly orchestrate that great journey of Advent for me last year. I don't ever expect it will come close to that again for me. I found peace then ...if only for a bit, but I remember how it was ...it stays with me still.
This year, Advent is different. It's more about being present with God ...with my kids, than it is about searching. This year it seems to me the peace will come in moments when I can be truly present, in the moment, giving thanks and praising God for every bit of it ...even the hardest of moments, the one's we most dislike. I try it in simple, obvious ways ...a demand from a child that seems unreasonable and yet they are convicted they deserve some thing, some opportunity beyond their years. Often this would prompt me to bite back, now I try to stay still and listen. I fail most times, but every once in a while I can really pause and be present with them in their own struggle and absorb that great earnest friction like a bath, a grace that permeates me, so I can see them as they grow right before me, I can see them become. It offers me a chance to be better than I was just a moment ago. That desire to be present also allows me to let go of people, places and things that clutter our lives, my life. And hopefully, allows others to let go of me too, if I clutter and disturb their lives
I've chased the perfect life most of my days, the one marked by chronic peace, with minimal disruption. In my simple mind I've thought if I was obedient and faithful ...a good girl, I could find a groove that would protect me and my family from serious struggle. I thought thriving meant avoiding struggle, hurt, broken hearts, loss. I thought in my simple mind I could stave off hardship ...if I just lived and prayed the right way, When you live that way, it's hard to be grateful most of the time because you tend to be disappointed a lot. Losing Phoebe has taught me to take the moments, let go of the fear ...to watch and listen far more than I act and talk ...with my kids anyway. And with others too. As I do this, with a lot of begging for God's guidance, I see so much more of who they are ...each one, and as that happens I appreciate the moments ...the tossing of the hair, the snarly attitude, the retelling of a playground antic, the unreasonable demand ...I begin to see all of it more and more as a gift, a great grace. Where before I saw grace only where I saw peace ...I see even more grace in the moments of struggle, where it costs me the most, takes more of me than I think I can give ...than I think I have ...is in fact God's most generous grace. And believe me, in a house with plenty of preteen and teenage girls, there are many, many moments of grace ...in a single minute.
How can I possibly be present with God, allow Him to be present with me, if I can't be in the moment with my own children? And how can I possibly appreciate and be united, physically united with Christ through the Eucharist, be present ...if in the moments of my day I fail to truly be in that moment. I'm realizing what a slow learner I am. I've lived with a true desire to know God for a long time now, but I'm a restless soul, unsettled and I think perhaps I'm one of His harder cases, so to speak.
Last Advent, my gaze fixed on the manger, the baby born to save us. Though my eyes darted about, looked down, wept ...my purpose was to make it to Bethlehem and offer back my baby girl ...give her to God freely and lovingly. I did that as best I could. But this year, I won't race ahead, I will be with the people around me. Where last year, I made that journey to catch a glimpse of her ...this year I'm set on catching a glimpse of the one's right around me, the one's I miss too often. Moments can't be taken back, earned back ...we all know that, but the death of a child proves that in a new way. I'll take as many moments with the living as I can, because each moment is only once, fleeting. I'll arrive at the manger on Christmas ...I'm sure of that, but my route is different this year. And I'm fairly certain I'll catch a glimpse of that feisty girl ...the one with the gorgeous eyes and floppy bun. And for now, that has to be enough.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
This year, Advent is different. It's more about being present with God ...with my kids, than it is about searching. This year it seems to me the peace will come in moments when I can be truly present, in the moment, giving thanks and praising God for every bit of it ...even the hardest of moments, the one's we most dislike. I try it in simple, obvious ways ...a demand from a child that seems unreasonable and yet they are convicted they deserve some thing, some opportunity beyond their years. Often this would prompt me to bite back, now I try to stay still and listen. I fail most times, but every once in a while I can really pause and be present with them in their own struggle and absorb that great earnest friction like a bath, a grace that permeates me, so I can see them as they grow right before me, I can see them become. It offers me a chance to be better than I was just a moment ago. That desire to be present also allows me to let go of people, places and things that clutter our lives, my life. And hopefully, allows others to let go of me too, if I clutter and disturb their lives
I've chased the perfect life most of my days, the one marked by chronic peace, with minimal disruption. In my simple mind I've thought if I was obedient and faithful ...a good girl, I could find a groove that would protect me and my family from serious struggle. I thought thriving meant avoiding struggle, hurt, broken hearts, loss. I thought in my simple mind I could stave off hardship ...if I just lived and prayed the right way, When you live that way, it's hard to be grateful most of the time because you tend to be disappointed a lot. Losing Phoebe has taught me to take the moments, let go of the fear ...to watch and listen far more than I act and talk ...with my kids anyway. And with others too. As I do this, with a lot of begging for God's guidance, I see so much more of who they are ...each one, and as that happens I appreciate the moments ...the tossing of the hair, the snarly attitude, the retelling of a playground antic, the unreasonable demand ...I begin to see all of it more and more as a gift, a great grace. Where before I saw grace only where I saw peace ...I see even more grace in the moments of struggle, where it costs me the most, takes more of me than I think I can give ...than I think I have ...is in fact God's most generous grace. And believe me, in a house with plenty of preteen and teenage girls, there are many, many moments of grace ...in a single minute.
How can I possibly be present with God, allow Him to be present with me, if I can't be in the moment with my own children? And how can I possibly appreciate and be united, physically united with Christ through the Eucharist, be present ...if in the moments of my day I fail to truly be in that moment. I'm realizing what a slow learner I am. I've lived with a true desire to know God for a long time now, but I'm a restless soul, unsettled and I think perhaps I'm one of His harder cases, so to speak.
Last Advent, my gaze fixed on the manger, the baby born to save us. Though my eyes darted about, looked down, wept ...my purpose was to make it to Bethlehem and offer back my baby girl ...give her to God freely and lovingly. I did that as best I could. But this year, I won't race ahead, I will be with the people around me. Where last year, I made that journey to catch a glimpse of her ...this year I'm set on catching a glimpse of the one's right around me, the one's I miss too often. Moments can't be taken back, earned back ...we all know that, but the death of a child proves that in a new way. I'll take as many moments with the living as I can, because each moment is only once, fleeting. I'll arrive at the manger on Christmas ...I'm sure of that, but my route is different this year. And I'm fairly certain I'll catch a glimpse of that feisty girl ...the one with the gorgeous eyes and floppy bun. And for now, that has to be enough.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunrise
From my kitchen I can look towards the neighborhood dock. This time of year, with all the leaves gone from the trees I can see towards the water a bigger patch of sky. Like life itself, the seasons expose different beauty, particular and special. I look at the sky, the sun just risen and take in the pink, the beautiful beginning of day. Each rising of the sun catches my breath since that morning last year, the day after Phoebe died. My husband and I watched the sky lighten and wondered at how the sun could rise again when such a girl was no longer here. We were stunned by that fact, and yet so grateful. For me, the sunrise is a great message of hope, starting new and fresh ...every day. No day, or moment for that matter, is ever the same. And God of a trillion chances, gives us an undeniable new beginning with each rising of the sun, each lightening of the sky after dark.
I'm learning, and relearning, this new life, the one that leaves me wanting Phoebe so badly. And each morning, I am reminded to begin again. At first, it took so much to do that without her. Now, I do it for her and with her in a very different way. I consult with her on so many things, and though she doesn't answer me, I believe she is right here.
When I look at the mother so new to this loss, my heart breaks again, not for me, but for her. I listen to her words, the greatest missing of all. We've all been there, those of us in this room ...we know the relentless, stabbing, biting, burning pain that takes over every cell in your body. She will forget him she is certain, she will forget his hands, the way they move ...she can't go on if it means forgetting him. We know. But what we also know now too, is that even in the horror, the nightmare which holds captive that initial phase of grieving (which can be as long as two years for a parent) you will never, ever forget. I tell her about Phoebe's hairline, the touch of her cheeks under my fingertips, her smell, the way she wiggles her hand while directing me. I tell her the burst of laughter, the shaking of her head in such a way, her toes in my hand as I shake her awake. I hear her, see her, smell her, feel her ....still. It doesn't take away the missing, but it holds the memory, keeps them close and remembered in a vibrant way, far different than remembering a child still alive. I tell her she will never forget her son, and each head nods, and she smiles for a shadow of a second. The tissues get passed as we cry for our own, but more in this moment, tears spill for the one so new in this place, this group no one wants to be part of. Words come out garbled, erratic ...and we know, we understand. Grief is not linear, tidy, composed. Someone is here she knows, worked side by side with through their own loss. She is reminded how she helped by being kind, not judging, staying...speaking his name, the child gone. She thought she knew she says, thought she understood, but now knows ...she had no idea the pain of this. Neither did we, no matter how we thought we could imagine, until we walked this path. Whether we realize it or not, God's grace, pulls us along, shapes us and molds us into the person who can carry it. Through prayers and offerings of all kinds God builds the bridge. We watch people come, people leave, people stay ...all as it should be, all as people can. Some can stay with us, but some have to leave ...and in each coming, each staying and even each leaving you see the sunrise, the gift, the tapestry of your life. You see the struggle, the pain, the losing, the losing again and again as a treasure that will form us into the person, the people our children now know we were meant to be all along. Sadly, their passing is part of that. We had to lose them ...to become, to rise with the sun.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I'm learning, and relearning, this new life, the one that leaves me wanting Phoebe so badly. And each morning, I am reminded to begin again. At first, it took so much to do that without her. Now, I do it for her and with her in a very different way. I consult with her on so many things, and though she doesn't answer me, I believe she is right here.
When I look at the mother so new to this loss, my heart breaks again, not for me, but for her. I listen to her words, the greatest missing of all. We've all been there, those of us in this room ...we know the relentless, stabbing, biting, burning pain that takes over every cell in your body. She will forget him she is certain, she will forget his hands, the way they move ...she can't go on if it means forgetting him. We know. But what we also know now too, is that even in the horror, the nightmare which holds captive that initial phase of grieving (which can be as long as two years for a parent) you will never, ever forget. I tell her about Phoebe's hairline, the touch of her cheeks under my fingertips, her smell, the way she wiggles her hand while directing me. I tell her the burst of laughter, the shaking of her head in such a way, her toes in my hand as I shake her awake. I hear her, see her, smell her, feel her ....still. It doesn't take away the missing, but it holds the memory, keeps them close and remembered in a vibrant way, far different than remembering a child still alive. I tell her she will never forget her son, and each head nods, and she smiles for a shadow of a second. The tissues get passed as we cry for our own, but more in this moment, tears spill for the one so new in this place, this group no one wants to be part of. Words come out garbled, erratic ...and we know, we understand. Grief is not linear, tidy, composed. Someone is here she knows, worked side by side with through their own loss. She is reminded how she helped by being kind, not judging, staying...speaking his name, the child gone. She thought she knew she says, thought she understood, but now knows ...she had no idea the pain of this. Neither did we, no matter how we thought we could imagine, until we walked this path. Whether we realize it or not, God's grace, pulls us along, shapes us and molds us into the person who can carry it. Through prayers and offerings of all kinds God builds the bridge. We watch people come, people leave, people stay ...all as it should be, all as people can. Some can stay with us, but some have to leave ...and in each coming, each staying and even each leaving you see the sunrise, the gift, the tapestry of your life. You see the struggle, the pain, the losing, the losing again and again as a treasure that will form us into the person, the people our children now know we were meant to be all along. Sadly, their passing is part of that. We had to lose them ...to become, to rise with the sun.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Shining lights
Second night in a row my house is quiet earlier than usual. I get time to just be in my thoughts, press these keys. We started early, bundled up, though some of us not enough and headed to the road race that last year had Phoebe's team. Last year we were there because it was our lifeline, pulled us forward. This year we were there to be with friends, start the official day of giving thanks with people we could never thank enough. Last year I was desperate, raw, completely broken, doing everything I could to make it to the next minute. Every second was spent gauging each child, my husband, myself. We were on the brink, so early on, too early to tell the path we would take. I saw her face over and over on the t-shirts crossing the finish line ....and it had to be enough that day. This year, this day, like every other, first thought is of her, greeting her, looking for her ... and though the pain is still there, it's not as raw. We can go, want to go, so we can laugh and enjoy ...and we did. And all through this day, little gifts sprinkled themselves on us.
I see this young woman approach, beaming ..this young women who wept while she cut my hair for me the day I waked my daughter. I sat on my porch in disbelief that I needed to get my hair done so I looked better for Phoebe. Julie stood behind me snipping away, as she had done before, but this was different ...it was for Phoebe. One time she cut my hair and straightened it. When I returned home my kids cried. I have fuzzy hair ...sometimes I'm lucky and its curly, most of the time it is just a fuzzy ball that I can bend in different directions. Straightening it is an extreme detour from the norm. My kids usually remind Julie of that time she nearly destroyed their love for their mother. This morning she didn't have any scissors with her, but she had a big smile, and after a big hug "guess what Mrs. Walsh..." and as she reaches for her glove I shout as the ring on her finger shows itself. Me and my girls ...along with so many others, of course, are wide with smiles ...we're just happy, plain happy. She tells me I can be 'second mother of the bride,' and I tell her I'm maid of honor, or I can be both. This big family shares and gives ...and takes so little, expects nothing and just keep pouring out love and care and joy ... Other friends were there too, lamp lights, just like we're supposed to be for each other ....witnesses to me of how we can love each other well, through hardship, through joy and celebration ...through life.
Messages come my way ...remembering us, this day without our girl. On the other end of the line is a voice so full of gratitude and we jabber on about being in her own kitchen, setting her own pace, music, cooking, being. She laughs as she tells me the river runs through her yard, under her house. No stranger to hardship, to loss and pain ...she laughs, not a cynical laugh, but one that speaks of God's grace and gifts. Where she could complain and whine, ask "why me?" she speaks of this place, her home, her life ...with such joy, with eyes always on God, always with gratitude. She's checking on me, always does. She laughs with me, plays with me ....but every once in a while she'll tell me she cannot imagine, and yet she watches me go on, watches me smile and live life with my kids ...but says she knows it is hard ...knows I miss my girl ....and so does she.
We remember her together, talk about our kids, send off hugs and kisses ...and carry on.
My sister arrives. I haven't spent a holiday with her in years ...her daughter too. She hands me a box. "Phebes" it reads ...we called her that. A candle, a bedtime melody it says. "I think Phoebe wants you to get some rest." Probably ...I really don't sleep anymore, fading in and out all night. We keep watch over our children. We wait for the last one to come home, until each pillow holds a head, and I just can't seem to find that rest, that rhythm a mom has when her kids are safe and sound. She isn't here, won't ever be in the way I like best.
The day is soft and sweet, the air is crisp, the food is good ...and there is much to be grateful for. I think of these people gracing our lives today and hope I can be like them too. These generous, so generous souls, who give, expecting nothing in return ...no debit sheets, no ulterior motive, no waiting for us to mess up and do the wrong thing ...I think much like God does. Their faith is strong, solid, a compass ...full of love, not fear, full of giving and freedom and joy. Lives that are not easy or simple ...and yet filled with radiating joy and gratitude. Crosses carried with joy ...even the heaviest, bear the greatest witness. I hope one day I can get there ...to a place I can radiate joy, even through my loss and my great missing. I have great examples surrounding me ...and I am very grateful for their witness.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I see this young woman approach, beaming ..this young women who wept while she cut my hair for me the day I waked my daughter. I sat on my porch in disbelief that I needed to get my hair done so I looked better for Phoebe. Julie stood behind me snipping away, as she had done before, but this was different ...it was for Phoebe. One time she cut my hair and straightened it. When I returned home my kids cried. I have fuzzy hair ...sometimes I'm lucky and its curly, most of the time it is just a fuzzy ball that I can bend in different directions. Straightening it is an extreme detour from the norm. My kids usually remind Julie of that time she nearly destroyed their love for their mother. This morning she didn't have any scissors with her, but she had a big smile, and after a big hug "guess what Mrs. Walsh..." and as she reaches for her glove I shout as the ring on her finger shows itself. Me and my girls ...along with so many others, of course, are wide with smiles ...we're just happy, plain happy. She tells me I can be 'second mother of the bride,' and I tell her I'm maid of honor, or I can be both. This big family shares and gives ...and takes so little, expects nothing and just keep pouring out love and care and joy ... Other friends were there too, lamp lights, just like we're supposed to be for each other ....witnesses to me of how we can love each other well, through hardship, through joy and celebration ...through life.
Messages come my way ...remembering us, this day without our girl. On the other end of the line is a voice so full of gratitude and we jabber on about being in her own kitchen, setting her own pace, music, cooking, being. She laughs as she tells me the river runs through her yard, under her house. No stranger to hardship, to loss and pain ...she laughs, not a cynical laugh, but one that speaks of God's grace and gifts. Where she could complain and whine, ask "why me?" she speaks of this place, her home, her life ...with such joy, with eyes always on God, always with gratitude. She's checking on me, always does. She laughs with me, plays with me ....but every once in a while she'll tell me she cannot imagine, and yet she watches me go on, watches me smile and live life with my kids ...but says she knows it is hard ...knows I miss my girl ....and so does she.
We remember her together, talk about our kids, send off hugs and kisses ...and carry on.
My sister arrives. I haven't spent a holiday with her in years ...her daughter too. She hands me a box. "Phebes" it reads ...we called her that. A candle, a bedtime melody it says. "I think Phoebe wants you to get some rest." Probably ...I really don't sleep anymore, fading in and out all night. We keep watch over our children. We wait for the last one to come home, until each pillow holds a head, and I just can't seem to find that rest, that rhythm a mom has when her kids are safe and sound. She isn't here, won't ever be in the way I like best.
The day is soft and sweet, the air is crisp, the food is good ...and there is much to be grateful for. I think of these people gracing our lives today and hope I can be like them too. These generous, so generous souls, who give, expecting nothing in return ...no debit sheets, no ulterior motive, no waiting for us to mess up and do the wrong thing ...I think much like God does. Their faith is strong, solid, a compass ...full of love, not fear, full of giving and freedom and joy. Lives that are not easy or simple ...and yet filled with radiating joy and gratitude. Crosses carried with joy ...even the heaviest, bear the greatest witness. I hope one day I can get there ...to a place I can radiate joy, even through my loss and my great missing. I have great examples surrounding me ...and I am very grateful for their witness.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Thanksgiving
Tomorrow I'll take my place once again in my kitchen on this day of gratitude. Last year we were whisked up, cared for, tended to ...distracted and loved through our first holiday without her. It was hard, I remember. We gave it our all and rallied ...we survived. This year, our day will start with some of those same friends and then we'll gather round our table in honor of gratitude. My house is quiet now and much of the work done. I'll rise early and put the turkey in the oven, we'll head out to the outdoors and I will know full well it is our second day of giving thanks without her. I miss her, I really do, deep down and hard ...and how do I say 'thank you' for that? Somehow I do because I believe through and through God is to be trusted, if not understood.
Owen came home the other day from school, backpack full. I headed out with my two youngest for an evening walk. Only one star shone at first. I listened to him tell me all about William Bradford, the trip over on the Mayflower, then Squanto. Without a beat missed he discussed Wayne Groetsky (sp?) and how he had always wanted to be a baseball player but ended up playing hockey. From there he told me about water being found on Pluto and the possibility of us living there one day, about the size of stars. We looked up and the sky was full of them by now. Phoebe had loved all her siblings, but Owen was special to her ...and I think about how she'd enjoy hearing how he saw the world, all he was discovering, all that excited him ...made him think. And I wonder, does she listen, does she know how wonderful he is today?
At home, his cheeks red, he pulls a placemat from his backpack he's made at school. I laugh while I read what he is grateful for and look at the picture he's drawn of us gathered round the table. Only eight ...she isn't there, because to him, day to day, she isn't there, here. It's how he sees the world now, without her ...and it stings, not because it should be any different for him, but because for me she will always be my day to day. I share this later with other parents who know, who've lost, and they nod. That wound, that hole will never leave ...and I know they know my missing, how I long for her just once more ...please. Can I be grateful when it hurts so bad? When all I want is to be pulling into our driveway right about now, returning from gathering her from her dorm room. She would have insisted on driving and controlling the music ...but we had grown more likeminded, and the songs would have been pleasing to me. I wanted the chance to wave and see her big smile and twinkly eyes after missing her. I wanted the chance for the missing to stop for a bit. That will never be, its part of my life now ...and it weakens me a bit, pulls me away from people and places who will never understand ...even though they think they do. It's no one's fault, just a simple reality.
Owen writes his letter to Santa, works diligently ...a list of fifty things. "Mom, will you read my letter to Santa?" he smirks. He's let on he knows the real deal ...he thinks, but about ten percent of him isn't positive. Santa could be real ...so he's going along to make sure he covers his bases. I take it in hand, and we first talk about the real meaning of Christmas, and then I read ...and laugh. "Dear Santa, how are you this year? I hope you're ready? I have a BIG list this year. Well, enough of the chit chat, let's get down to business" ...and he asks for some ridiculous things ...one of Santa's reindeer, a king size bed. His big brother tells him he might not want to be so casual, while so demanding with Santa. He asks me later to read it, and I do, tell him I love it, I think Santa will too. And again he asks me, and I do. "Read all of it" he says. I tell him I did. "No, read ALL of it." It's not until this morning, first one up, alone in my kitchen, I pick it up again and see the tiny letters at the bottom "please look on the back." I turn it over and the tears spill as I read his final request #51 ..."and for Phoebe to be home for Christmas." He misses her, my little boy, all of eight just wants her home. He gets up and brings it to me again. "I saw it Owen, me too." And he smiles that boy smile that's meant to hold back tears .."you missing her?" He nods his head.
How does it feel for a little boy to miss his big sister, his biggest sister, the one who taught him to ride a bike, swing high on the rope swing, jump off the cliff?
Mom's make things better, we sooth wounds, settle upset tummies, turn frowns to smiles ...but sometimes we can't. He doesn't live in his sadness, but it is still there, his own missing.
So we'll gather round our table, and each in our own way, remember the girl who should be sitting there. We're the family missing Phoebe, but we're also the family who had the great blessing of loving her.
I'm thirteen months closer to seeing her and I have many more ahead, but moment by moment I take the grace God offers to pull me along ...and I am grateful. I'm grateful for these kids who make my house loud and lively, who knock things over and leave their socks in random places. I'm grateful for Phoebe's sisters who wear some of her shoes and clothes, then leave them lying in places they don't belong, just as she would have, making me feel like she still might be just around the corner. I'm grateful I am so sad ...because it means I loved her well. I'm grateful for the friends who understand, who get it, who let me be and are kind, gentle, loving, patient.
I'm grateful God is wider and deeper than I can imagine ...I'm just grateful ...even in my crankiness for the weight of all this sadness and missing, longing and wishing ....because I trust Him, and I trust He has her close and that she is well.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Owen came home the other day from school, backpack full. I headed out with my two youngest for an evening walk. Only one star shone at first. I listened to him tell me all about William Bradford, the trip over on the Mayflower, then Squanto. Without a beat missed he discussed Wayne Groetsky (sp?) and how he had always wanted to be a baseball player but ended up playing hockey. From there he told me about water being found on Pluto and the possibility of us living there one day, about the size of stars. We looked up and the sky was full of them by now. Phoebe had loved all her siblings, but Owen was special to her ...and I think about how she'd enjoy hearing how he saw the world, all he was discovering, all that excited him ...made him think. And I wonder, does she listen, does she know how wonderful he is today?
At home, his cheeks red, he pulls a placemat from his backpack he's made at school. I laugh while I read what he is grateful for and look at the picture he's drawn of us gathered round the table. Only eight ...she isn't there, because to him, day to day, she isn't there, here. It's how he sees the world now, without her ...and it stings, not because it should be any different for him, but because for me she will always be my day to day. I share this later with other parents who know, who've lost, and they nod. That wound, that hole will never leave ...and I know they know my missing, how I long for her just once more ...please. Can I be grateful when it hurts so bad? When all I want is to be pulling into our driveway right about now, returning from gathering her from her dorm room. She would have insisted on driving and controlling the music ...but we had grown more likeminded, and the songs would have been pleasing to me. I wanted the chance to wave and see her big smile and twinkly eyes after missing her. I wanted the chance for the missing to stop for a bit. That will never be, its part of my life now ...and it weakens me a bit, pulls me away from people and places who will never understand ...even though they think they do. It's no one's fault, just a simple reality.
Owen writes his letter to Santa, works diligently ...a list of fifty things. "Mom, will you read my letter to Santa?" he smirks. He's let on he knows the real deal ...he thinks, but about ten percent of him isn't positive. Santa could be real ...so he's going along to make sure he covers his bases. I take it in hand, and we first talk about the real meaning of Christmas, and then I read ...and laugh. "Dear Santa, how are you this year? I hope you're ready? I have a BIG list this year. Well, enough of the chit chat, let's get down to business" ...and he asks for some ridiculous things ...one of Santa's reindeer, a king size bed. His big brother tells him he might not want to be so casual, while so demanding with Santa. He asks me later to read it, and I do, tell him I love it, I think Santa will too. And again he asks me, and I do. "Read all of it" he says. I tell him I did. "No, read ALL of it." It's not until this morning, first one up, alone in my kitchen, I pick it up again and see the tiny letters at the bottom "please look on the back." I turn it over and the tears spill as I read his final request #51 ..."and for Phoebe to be home for Christmas." He misses her, my little boy, all of eight just wants her home. He gets up and brings it to me again. "I saw it Owen, me too." And he smiles that boy smile that's meant to hold back tears .."you missing her?" He nods his head.
How does it feel for a little boy to miss his big sister, his biggest sister, the one who taught him to ride a bike, swing high on the rope swing, jump off the cliff?
Mom's make things better, we sooth wounds, settle upset tummies, turn frowns to smiles ...but sometimes we can't. He doesn't live in his sadness, but it is still there, his own missing.
So we'll gather round our table, and each in our own way, remember the girl who should be sitting there. We're the family missing Phoebe, but we're also the family who had the great blessing of loving her.
I'm thirteen months closer to seeing her and I have many more ahead, but moment by moment I take the grace God offers to pull me along ...and I am grateful. I'm grateful for these kids who make my house loud and lively, who knock things over and leave their socks in random places. I'm grateful for Phoebe's sisters who wear some of her shoes and clothes, then leave them lying in places they don't belong, just as she would have, making me feel like she still might be just around the corner. I'm grateful I am so sad ...because it means I loved her well. I'm grateful for the friends who understand, who get it, who let me be and are kind, gentle, loving, patient.
I'm grateful God is wider and deeper than I can imagine ...I'm just grateful ...even in my crankiness for the weight of all this sadness and missing, longing and wishing ....because I trust Him, and I trust He has her close and that she is well.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Identity II
Secondary loss. I didn't know what that was in the beginning. But I've become very familiar with it over these past thirteen months. It's like the aftershocks of an earthquake ...just as you think you've found some stable footing, you're jolted, dislodged. No area of your life is exempt ...it's part of the gig of losing a child, as if to reaffirm the gravity of loss. So we thought we'd pretty much covered most aspects until a note from the IRS.
Imagine other adults stealing your child's name and claiming her as their own. Identity. Three other people have laid claim to Phoebe ...called her their daughter so they could get a tax credit. Imagine.
My identity is fused with Phoebe as my daughter, alive or dead ...she is mine, ours ...God's. Yet others, like vultures, lay claim to her. And the trail of making sure she is protected ...falls on us. The IRS, FTC, Social Security, along with a list of others, send us to the next phone number, forms ...off we go, still fighting to name her our own. We have to prove she is ours ...and I wonder, should I take them to her grave, show them her sneakers, her hand print ... my heart.
What kind of person lays claim on another's child?
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Imagine other adults stealing your child's name and claiming her as their own. Identity. Three other people have laid claim to Phoebe ...called her their daughter so they could get a tax credit. Imagine.
My identity is fused with Phoebe as my daughter, alive or dead ...she is mine, ours ...God's. Yet others, like vultures, lay claim to her. And the trail of making sure she is protected ...falls on us. The IRS, FTC, Social Security, along with a list of others, send us to the next phone number, forms ...off we go, still fighting to name her our own. We have to prove she is ours ...and I wonder, should I take them to her grave, show them her sneakers, her hand print ... my heart.
What kind of person lays claim on another's child?
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Identity
Probably for most people someone close dying forces us to question who we are, what we're about ...maybe even figure out where we're headed. That's certainly been true for me since Phoebe died. And that experience, the gleaning out, the defining ...has to be ours alone. But its hard, hard stuff, to figure yourself out. So much of that has focused on my relationship with Phoebe, at first primarily surrounding her death by suicide, and then, as time passes, it branches out into the bigger picture of life with this girl. My life isn't a composite of days spent with Phoebe, the year mourning her ...it's far more than that. Each child shapes me, my marriage too. But mostly for me, it's been a struggle to say who I am with God. And that is, I think, the most intimate, personal questioning of all. So intimate words could not possibly express, so personal, exposing my greatest vulnerabilities, it could only be whispered between God and myself. We can speak in generalities, give suggestions, for enhancing, embracing a life in God ...but we can never, ever assess another's relationship with God. We can pray for another, beseech God to enter a person's life, to open one's heart ...but to presume we understand or 'know' another persons relationship with God, really know it ...I pray I don't go there. That struggle for my identity, who I am, before God will be lifelong. It's meant to be. For me there was my relationship with God the moments before Phoebe died, and then there is the one now that began the moment I knelt beside my lifeless daughter and held her for the last time. In that moment I said goodbye to her ....and with my whole heart I told God I would trust Him, no matter what, that I would choose Him always. We all have moments where we choose God ...ignore Him, reject Him outright. That is the challenge of our fallen nature. But I know with every inch of me that from the second of that panicked phone call, my voice and my heart went straight to God and the Blessed Mother. And I know as I pressed my own shattered heart against the silent one of my daughters and moaned and screamed in utter brokenness, He was there, and I held His hand and trusted Him as best I could. That doesn't mean I haven't, or won't again, shake my fist at God, question Him. It doesn't mean every step is one of peace and ease. I stumble ...a lot. And in every argument I have with Him, He reveals Himself just a bit more ...and I can go on. I wish I could remember where I've read that the further away you seem from God, when you are striving to live in Him, the closer you actually are. Even the most ardent atheist, in the hidden recesses of his or her heart, might speak with God and question Him unceasingly ....like a child. And only God and each person knows the whispers they share ...no one can assume they know that ...its the most intimate and holy aspect of a person's life ...not to be shared, assessed or critiqued. It's the very essence of each soul ...so precious and delicate ....a gift ...a pure grace from God. And it is also a hope ...our purest, truest identity.
The other morning, when I actually had a few moments of quiet, I read again the story of the Last Supper. How many times have I read or heard that story told, re-told? I remember hearing it from Sister Charlotte who told me in first grade with her sweet voice, Sister Anne Catherine told me in third grade, Sister Mary Florence matter of fact told all of us in sixth grade and we really listened because she used to be Mother Superior, Sister Mary yelled it at us in seventh and Sister John Francis read it to us in eighth and then left the room. My mother, Fr. Callahan, Fr. Chain. told me countless times too. And these recollections are just a fraction of how many times I've heard this story told. But when I read it just recently I saw something I hadn't fully realized ...Christ knew, fully and wholly, what was to come just hours later. He knew the brutality, ultimate cruelty mankind would inflict on Him. He knew He would be kicked, spit upon, chained, whipped ...that flesh would hang from His bones ....and that every drop of blood would poor out from His body. He knew He would redeem us, that the price was high ...and yet, because of His divine love for us and His unyielding desire for our salvation ...He chose us. Christ chose to suffer and die for each and everyone ...even me ...amazingly. And fully knowing this, He broke the bread, the first Eucharist, His body and blood was shared that night, and forevermore with those of us who partake ...even while He knew what was to come. He knew I would hurt Him, knew the cruelty of humanity on that night and the following days, but also the long years ahead ...and He still gave every last drop ....and a lifetime of moments to choose Him again and again. He is not a God of second chances ....He is a God of trillions of chances to choose Him. He knows each of us so well, so intimately, He knows we need an infinite number of moments to say yes, and that not one of us follows a straight line diligently after Him ...just read the lives of the saints. Christ is not a God of resentment. He does not smile upon us, all the while keeping a debit log of how many times we've said things to Him He didn't like when we've bared our soul ...only to whip it out and use it against us later, change its meaning. He is not a God who sits silent and misconstrues what we say to throw it back at us when we're not looking, hitting our most precious aspects of our lives, casting a blow to our greatest vulnerabilities ...That is not the God I know. And if I do those very things to another, then I am not a follower of Christ ... in that moment. I want my identity closely linked with Him. Do I spread the kind of love He wants me to, the kind that shows His infinite love all the while remaining steadfast in Truth? Can I speak the Truth without wounding a soul ...making God seem out of reach? Sometimes we speak the Truth and people are offended ...that's part of discipleship ...but there is never a need to wound. Christ does not wound us ...and when we wound another, hurt their soul, we are not working with Him? I don't want to be that person. I want to be a window or at least a door to Christ.
I've looked back at so many moments with Phoebe and see plenty I wish were different. Could I have been more patient? For sure. Listened better? yes. Watched that movie she wanted me to see with her? Of course. Could I have loved her more, with a fuller heart? No. I loved my girl with so much, I pulled it from the bottom of my toes ...I loved her with intensity and passion, but I am imperfect. And that imperfection is part of my identity ...and God sees it all, every bit of it ...and still He loves me, still He gives me chance after chance, moment after moment ...and pulls me along and away from the distractions. God knows my ways, and He knows my hurt, the sleeplessness, the sadness ...the missing. In the midst of the laughter and silliness of this household ...He sees me. When people ask me to tell them about Phoebe and they respond back over and over how they can see her, hear her, feel her by the way I tell them about her, and that they can see how much I loved her ....God sees. When people say things that sting and hurt, when they are cruel or clueless, and my heart drops, but I still smile ...God sees. When my husband and I share a million words with just a look ...and he says silently "she's still not here" God sees. When I grow angry and tired, when the wounds burn and I am drained ...God sees. He sees an imperfect women striving to love Him and thank Him for everything, to even smile at the loss because I trust Him.
I struggle to figure out who I am everyday, but I know the things most important to me that have been the same, in the same order for years now: God, striving to know Him, love Him and serve Him always comes first for me. My family is second ...my kids, my husband, caring for them, serving them ...enjoying them with as much laughter as possible (which isn't always easy!). Third are my friends, of which I've been blessed with extraordinary ones in my life. Other things are there, but these are central and unchanging. They anchor me, let me see myself clearly, even while bombs get tossed my way, I can see where I'm rooted.
And have I figured out where I'm heading ...I'm hoping to one day be with God ...and once again chase after my girl, Phoebe, while she looks back at me with her big blue eyes, bun flopping to and fro, giggling. I want lots of stories to tell her, lots of laugh lines, and as little wasted time as possible. I want Phoebe, and all my kids, to remember me for the love I showed them and others. Today I'm headed to a day of joy and laughter, even with the weight of sorrow I'll always carry. Today, I hope my eyes twinkle, I hope I see the cardinals eat the berries on my holly tree. I hope I stop for a moment to see our resident squirrel dine once again on the pumpkin, chasing his friends away. Today, I'll put a finger up the middle of Mary Claire's bouncy curls, and answer the kitchen door she knocks on with a basket full of dolls, begging for a place to rest as she travels with her babies to New York City. I'll be the innkeeper, and I'll say yes. Today, I'll greet my husband after a long nights work, and hold his hand as he looks around for her. Today, I'll pour the ginger ale, make tea, and hold my precious Olivia, as she sweats out her fever. I'm headed toward today, with a mission to give ...not counting, keeping a log, of what I get. I guess really I'm heading to the place where my heart isn't broken anymore ...and there is only one place for it to be made whole again ...and that is in Christ ...who makes all things new.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
The other morning, when I actually had a few moments of quiet, I read again the story of the Last Supper. How many times have I read or heard that story told, re-told? I remember hearing it from Sister Charlotte who told me in first grade with her sweet voice, Sister Anne Catherine told me in third grade, Sister Mary Florence matter of fact told all of us in sixth grade and we really listened because she used to be Mother Superior, Sister Mary yelled it at us in seventh and Sister John Francis read it to us in eighth and then left the room. My mother, Fr. Callahan, Fr. Chain. told me countless times too. And these recollections are just a fraction of how many times I've heard this story told. But when I read it just recently I saw something I hadn't fully realized ...Christ knew, fully and wholly, what was to come just hours later. He knew the brutality, ultimate cruelty mankind would inflict on Him. He knew He would be kicked, spit upon, chained, whipped ...that flesh would hang from His bones ....and that every drop of blood would poor out from His body. He knew He would redeem us, that the price was high ...and yet, because of His divine love for us and His unyielding desire for our salvation ...He chose us. Christ chose to suffer and die for each and everyone ...even me ...amazingly. And fully knowing this, He broke the bread, the first Eucharist, His body and blood was shared that night, and forevermore with those of us who partake ...even while He knew what was to come. He knew I would hurt Him, knew the cruelty of humanity on that night and the following days, but also the long years ahead ...and He still gave every last drop ....and a lifetime of moments to choose Him again and again. He is not a God of second chances ....He is a God of trillions of chances to choose Him. He knows each of us so well, so intimately, He knows we need an infinite number of moments to say yes, and that not one of us follows a straight line diligently after Him ...just read the lives of the saints. Christ is not a God of resentment. He does not smile upon us, all the while keeping a debit log of how many times we've said things to Him He didn't like when we've bared our soul ...only to whip it out and use it against us later, change its meaning. He is not a God who sits silent and misconstrues what we say to throw it back at us when we're not looking, hitting our most precious aspects of our lives, casting a blow to our greatest vulnerabilities ...That is not the God I know. And if I do those very things to another, then I am not a follower of Christ ... in that moment. I want my identity closely linked with Him. Do I spread the kind of love He wants me to, the kind that shows His infinite love all the while remaining steadfast in Truth? Can I speak the Truth without wounding a soul ...making God seem out of reach? Sometimes we speak the Truth and people are offended ...that's part of discipleship ...but there is never a need to wound. Christ does not wound us ...and when we wound another, hurt their soul, we are not working with Him? I don't want to be that person. I want to be a window or at least a door to Christ.
I've looked back at so many moments with Phoebe and see plenty I wish were different. Could I have been more patient? For sure. Listened better? yes. Watched that movie she wanted me to see with her? Of course. Could I have loved her more, with a fuller heart? No. I loved my girl with so much, I pulled it from the bottom of my toes ...I loved her with intensity and passion, but I am imperfect. And that imperfection is part of my identity ...and God sees it all, every bit of it ...and still He loves me, still He gives me chance after chance, moment after moment ...and pulls me along and away from the distractions. God knows my ways, and He knows my hurt, the sleeplessness, the sadness ...the missing. In the midst of the laughter and silliness of this household ...He sees me. When people ask me to tell them about Phoebe and they respond back over and over how they can see her, hear her, feel her by the way I tell them about her, and that they can see how much I loved her ....God sees. When people say things that sting and hurt, when they are cruel or clueless, and my heart drops, but I still smile ...God sees. When my husband and I share a million words with just a look ...and he says silently "she's still not here" God sees. When I grow angry and tired, when the wounds burn and I am drained ...God sees. He sees an imperfect women striving to love Him and thank Him for everything, to even smile at the loss because I trust Him.
I struggle to figure out who I am everyday, but I know the things most important to me that have been the same, in the same order for years now: God, striving to know Him, love Him and serve Him always comes first for me. My family is second ...my kids, my husband, caring for them, serving them ...enjoying them with as much laughter as possible (which isn't always easy!). Third are my friends, of which I've been blessed with extraordinary ones in my life. Other things are there, but these are central and unchanging. They anchor me, let me see myself clearly, even while bombs get tossed my way, I can see where I'm rooted.
And have I figured out where I'm heading ...I'm hoping to one day be with God ...and once again chase after my girl, Phoebe, while she looks back at me with her big blue eyes, bun flopping to and fro, giggling. I want lots of stories to tell her, lots of laugh lines, and as little wasted time as possible. I want Phoebe, and all my kids, to remember me for the love I showed them and others. Today I'm headed to a day of joy and laughter, even with the weight of sorrow I'll always carry. Today, I hope my eyes twinkle, I hope I see the cardinals eat the berries on my holly tree. I hope I stop for a moment to see our resident squirrel dine once again on the pumpkin, chasing his friends away. Today, I'll put a finger up the middle of Mary Claire's bouncy curls, and answer the kitchen door she knocks on with a basket full of dolls, begging for a place to rest as she travels with her babies to New York City. I'll be the innkeeper, and I'll say yes. Today, I'll greet my husband after a long nights work, and hold his hand as he looks around for her. Today, I'll pour the ginger ale, make tea, and hold my precious Olivia, as she sweats out her fever. I'm headed toward today, with a mission to give ...not counting, keeping a log, of what I get. I guess really I'm heading to the place where my heart isn't broken anymore ...and there is only one place for it to be made whole again ...and that is in Christ ...who makes all things new.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Power of a Smile
One early morning, caught in my own thoughts, I walked into a familiar shop to grab a cup of coffee on my way to work. I had been there enough to recognize the people behind the counter, younger than me they mark the sign of our times with tattoos and piercings, interestingly maintained facial hair, low hung pants ...styles that at times disturb me. I'm just not as open to all of these expressions as some might be. And in my limited world, without meaning to, without even being aware of it, I might judge or dismiss these individuals for being 'sucked in by the culture', or choosing a less desirable path. I don't like to admit I do this ...but I do. "Not my child," I've thought. Even in the wake of Phoebe's death, I've found myself thinking those things. Amazing and sad that I still do just that. I've been judged, and known it ...and it hurts very deeply. There is a great difference between offering guidance, a new perspective ...and just being judged because a person's way isn't as I think it should be. Truth is, I'd take Phoebe tattooed and pierced, and wrap her in my arms. So many things, once important, seem silly ...ridiculous, distractions that keep us away from the heart of each other. I know this, but still, while I point my finger at the pierced and tattooed (or anyone else for that matter) for being sucked into the culture, I find several more fingers, from my own hand pointing back at me. And it is there that I should shake my own head in discouragement ...not at someone else.
So as I walk in, deep in thought, I look up to a smiling face, light bouncing off his big diamond earrings. I tell him what I want ...and wait. Two people are ahead of me waiting too, but mine comes first ...with a note. My glasses aren't on, so I squint and the big workman ahead bellows "hey, you get a note. I didn't get a note." The guy ahead of him chimes in "I didn't get a note either ...hey, what does it say." My glasses are finally on and I read the thick dark ink that travels around the top of my cup ..."Don't forget to smile. Have a nice day!" I look back at this young man who is beaming, ear to ear, still sparkling from those big diamonds and say "Thank you." Everyone's laughing, and I say "It's true, I need to be reminded, life is better with a smile." I walk out with two strangers, sleep still in all our eyes, the sun just beginning to lighten the sky ...and we're all smiling, wishing each other a great day.
When I arrive on my floor, the nurses and aides have had a long night, some challenges kept them busy and worried all night. The nurse picks up my cup and reads it ....she asks me if I wrote that. No, I tell her, the young man at the coffee shop did. She gasps, "didn't that make you mad, I can't believe he did that." "No, it made me smile." And soon enough, with all the banter, everyone is smiling and laughing through report, the change of shift, we are inheriting the problems, the worries, the struggles. "It's gonna be a great day!" I say. My fellow nurse, one of the young ones, with marks of the culture smiles back "yes it is!" And it was.
I had decided a few weeks ago that I will meet Phoebe again with far more smile lines than frown lines. I must have forgotten and this young man reminded me, helped me along.
The power of a smile ...far more powerful than words, and far more contagious. Smile today at someone, anyone, everyone for that matter. Just smile.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
So as I walk in, deep in thought, I look up to a smiling face, light bouncing off his big diamond earrings. I tell him what I want ...and wait. Two people are ahead of me waiting too, but mine comes first ...with a note. My glasses aren't on, so I squint and the big workman ahead bellows "hey, you get a note. I didn't get a note." The guy ahead of him chimes in "I didn't get a note either ...hey, what does it say." My glasses are finally on and I read the thick dark ink that travels around the top of my cup ..."Don't forget to smile. Have a nice day!" I look back at this young man who is beaming, ear to ear, still sparkling from those big diamonds and say "Thank you." Everyone's laughing, and I say "It's true, I need to be reminded, life is better with a smile." I walk out with two strangers, sleep still in all our eyes, the sun just beginning to lighten the sky ...and we're all smiling, wishing each other a great day.
When I arrive on my floor, the nurses and aides have had a long night, some challenges kept them busy and worried all night. The nurse picks up my cup and reads it ....she asks me if I wrote that. No, I tell her, the young man at the coffee shop did. She gasps, "didn't that make you mad, I can't believe he did that." "No, it made me smile." And soon enough, with all the banter, everyone is smiling and laughing through report, the change of shift, we are inheriting the problems, the worries, the struggles. "It's gonna be a great day!" I say. My fellow nurse, one of the young ones, with marks of the culture smiles back "yes it is!" And it was.
I had decided a few weeks ago that I will meet Phoebe again with far more smile lines than frown lines. I must have forgotten and this young man reminded me, helped me along.
The power of a smile ...far more powerful than words, and far more contagious. Smile today at someone, anyone, everyone for that matter. Just smile.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
The Blessing
Phoebe had a beautiful voice, one I miss hearing in the background of our home. I imagine she might be singing this song to me and all of us who loved her. It brings me a bit of comfort, maybe it will some of you too ...
The Blessing
In the morning when you rise
I bless the sun, I bless the skies
I bless your lips, I bless your eyes
My blessing goes with you
In the nighttime when you sleep
Oh I bless you while a watch I keep
As you lie in slumber deep
My blessing goes with you
This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do
And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too
When your weary heart is tired
If the world would leave you uninspired
When nothing more of love's desired
My blessing goes with you
When the storms of life are strong
When you're wounded, when you don't belong
When you no longer hear my song
My blessing goes with you
This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do
And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too
I bless you
And you bless me, too
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
The Blessing
In the morning when you rise
I bless the sun, I bless the skies
I bless your lips, I bless your eyes
My blessing goes with you
In the nighttime when you sleep
Oh I bless you while a watch I keep
As you lie in slumber deep
My blessing goes with you
This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do
And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too
When your weary heart is tired
If the world would leave you uninspired
When nothing more of love's desired
My blessing goes with you
When the storms of life are strong
When you're wounded, when you don't belong
When you no longer hear my song
My blessing goes with you
This is my prayer for you
There for you, ever true
Each, every day for you
In everything you do
And when you come to me
And hold me close to you
I bless you
And you bless me, too
I bless you
And you bless me, too
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Essential Read
This is one of the best, if not the best, parental pieces of writing I have ever read ...ever! Elizabeth Foss' blog In the Heart of My Home has been one I've read for a few years now. I found it informative, inspiring, but mostly ...just plain HONEST ..and real. At first I titled this "Worthy Read", but after a second look changed that to "Essential Read."
So, make a cup of tea, grab the tissue box ...and get ready for real, genuine conversations with friends ...the perfection of parenting, of being a child of God ...is in the imperfection. I learned that the hard way!
http://www.elizabethfoss.com/reallearning/2011/11/what-im-never-going-to-tell-you.html#comments
And pray in gratitude for Elizabeth's courage, audacity and service.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
So, make a cup of tea, grab the tissue box ...and get ready for real, genuine conversations with friends ...the perfection of parenting, of being a child of God ...is in the imperfection. I learned that the hard way!
http://www.elizabethfoss.com/reallearning/2011/11/what-im-never-going-to-tell-you.html#comments
And pray in gratitude for Elizabeth's courage, audacity and service.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Feast of All Saints and All Souls
These are great days in the Church, a wonderful time for us to unite with the Church Triumphant ...those in Heaven. And it is a special time for us to remember the souls waiting for Heaven, the souls in Purgatory, awaiting the promise of eternity with their Creator. I like to pray hard for them. So many are forgotten and that's a sad thing. I know how much I want Phoebe to be in Heaven and how hard I pray for that. I know others do too ...with their whole hearts, genuinely begging for this girl of mine. Other souls aren't so fortunate. They're forgotten, or so many assume, or have been taught, that everyone goes straight to Heaven ...no accounting. We hope they are united with God in Heaven, but pray as if they need every prayer they can get ...and more.
We are truly blessed over these days. Three Masses were offered for Phoebe ...its the best we can do for her now. It came about in an interesting way, after some increased sorrow and pain for both my husband and myself. Late nights by the fire found us remembering Phoebe in newer ways. The reality that our relationship with her has stopped here is a tough one. While people, and us too, question and pursue new relationships, we have one that has left us. We can't improve our relationship with her, have conversations, build memories, share our lives with her ...those chances are gone for good. We know this is just a small part of our total lives, but while we're still here ...it's an enormous loss. Sometimes, in all of it, people, places and things can seemingly pour salt into a raw wound. Seeing something that was hers at just the right time, or smelling something that reminds us of her, or perhaps hearing a word or phrase that suggests something so deeply personal and missed, can bring everything up front ...and it's difficult to navigate while we are stunned and hurting. But then something like this happens ...Masses ...for her, and we are calmed, and our children smile, and begin to chatter about their sister once again, laughing as if she is among them ....because she is. The saints I think are at work here, and I am grateful.
During these hours of power in the Church I have a few prayer requests. We know that God is timeless and lives outside of the clock we live by, so I beg for prayers after the fact for the surgery, but also for the ongoing recovery of a little girl whose spine was fused today after many, many hours of surgery. This little girl does not speak, or walk ...she's merely a vessel of joy, a bundle of God's creation. She's impacted plenty of people, please pray for her, that all will be well.
We have a friend who also is a vessel of joy. He is warm and bright. He would stand at the top of our street and shout to Phoebe as she skateboarded barefoot ...hooting and hollering "that's how its done Pheebs" he would yell, arms high in the air. When the Bruins won the Stanley Cup, we all said he must be going crazy with excitement, and sure enough the next day, he stood at the end of our driveway looking up at our house yelling "that's how its done," arms high in the air. The common cold is a danger to him, so when he mentioned a sore throat the other day, I decided to ask others to pray for him, as the fear raced through me. Please pray for our friend ...that he continues to beat the odds.
A wee little one is growing, but the mother is nervous. It's early on ...and she knows too much to settle down and trust, right now. Her two other children are older, out of diapers for a while. We had a funny text message exchange where she was trying to tell me she was pregnant and I wasn't understanding her at all. When I finally got it, I cried ...it made my day to know this little one was on the way. I sent a message back and she said it made her cry too. She's had her share of challenges and sorrow and struggle ....maybe more than most, and it would be wonderful for her to just enjoy the months ahead, embracing the gift she and her husband are so open too. Please pray for this little baby, that in the next few days the heart beats strong for momma.
And finally, pray for the parents and sister of a nineteen year old girl whose life ended this weekend. I can't put this into words. I don't know them, a friend asked me if I did ...I don't, but I know part of their walk right now. Pray for their consolation.
Its been over a year now, but as so many know, the wound is wide open ...a newness to our lives we never expected or wanted. In the moment I laid eyes on Phoebe and held her lifeless I made a choice to trust God, and I have. It doesn't mean I understand, or accept, or find peace. Sometimes I do. What it means is that God has remained first in my life. God's place in our lives is deeply personal and intimate, and really there is no way for anyone to measure another's intimacy with God ...regardless of outward appearances or perceptions. I share some of mine here, but no one will ever be able to perceive it in its entirety, its nakedness ...just as I never could another's. I believe I experienced a profound grace when I made that choice and my vision in that moment was of my daughter falling into the arms of the Blessed Mother. Because of that, I've found a great comfort. Though I've continued my prayer and devotion over this past year, I rarely look at the Blessed Mother eye to eye. Only now am I beginning to do that ...look her in the eye once again. And as usual, God's perfect timing coincides with distractions that could throw me into despair, and I get to choose what He offers ...and this prayer came in one of those moments ...and it is beautiful. Perhaps you will find it the same.
We are truly blessed over these days. Three Masses were offered for Phoebe ...its the best we can do for her now. It came about in an interesting way, after some increased sorrow and pain for both my husband and myself. Late nights by the fire found us remembering Phoebe in newer ways. The reality that our relationship with her has stopped here is a tough one. While people, and us too, question and pursue new relationships, we have one that has left us. We can't improve our relationship with her, have conversations, build memories, share our lives with her ...those chances are gone for good. We know this is just a small part of our total lives, but while we're still here ...it's an enormous loss. Sometimes, in all of it, people, places and things can seemingly pour salt into a raw wound. Seeing something that was hers at just the right time, or smelling something that reminds us of her, or perhaps hearing a word or phrase that suggests something so deeply personal and missed, can bring everything up front ...and it's difficult to navigate while we are stunned and hurting. But then something like this happens ...Masses ...for her, and we are calmed, and our children smile, and begin to chatter about their sister once again, laughing as if she is among them ....because she is. The saints I think are at work here, and I am grateful.
During these hours of power in the Church I have a few prayer requests. We know that God is timeless and lives outside of the clock we live by, so I beg for prayers after the fact for the surgery, but also for the ongoing recovery of a little girl whose spine was fused today after many, many hours of surgery. This little girl does not speak, or walk ...she's merely a vessel of joy, a bundle of God's creation. She's impacted plenty of people, please pray for her, that all will be well.
We have a friend who also is a vessel of joy. He is warm and bright. He would stand at the top of our street and shout to Phoebe as she skateboarded barefoot ...hooting and hollering "that's how its done Pheebs" he would yell, arms high in the air. When the Bruins won the Stanley Cup, we all said he must be going crazy with excitement, and sure enough the next day, he stood at the end of our driveway looking up at our house yelling "that's how its done," arms high in the air. The common cold is a danger to him, so when he mentioned a sore throat the other day, I decided to ask others to pray for him, as the fear raced through me. Please pray for our friend ...that he continues to beat the odds.
A wee little one is growing, but the mother is nervous. It's early on ...and she knows too much to settle down and trust, right now. Her two other children are older, out of diapers for a while. We had a funny text message exchange where she was trying to tell me she was pregnant and I wasn't understanding her at all. When I finally got it, I cried ...it made my day to know this little one was on the way. I sent a message back and she said it made her cry too. She's had her share of challenges and sorrow and struggle ....maybe more than most, and it would be wonderful for her to just enjoy the months ahead, embracing the gift she and her husband are so open too. Please pray for this little baby, that in the next few days the heart beats strong for momma.
And finally, pray for the parents and sister of a nineteen year old girl whose life ended this weekend. I can't put this into words. I don't know them, a friend asked me if I did ...I don't, but I know part of their walk right now. Pray for their consolation.
Its been over a year now, but as so many know, the wound is wide open ...a newness to our lives we never expected or wanted. In the moment I laid eyes on Phoebe and held her lifeless I made a choice to trust God, and I have. It doesn't mean I understand, or accept, or find peace. Sometimes I do. What it means is that God has remained first in my life. God's place in our lives is deeply personal and intimate, and really there is no way for anyone to measure another's intimacy with God ...regardless of outward appearances or perceptions. I share some of mine here, but no one will ever be able to perceive it in its entirety, its nakedness ...just as I never could another's. I believe I experienced a profound grace when I made that choice and my vision in that moment was of my daughter falling into the arms of the Blessed Mother. Because of that, I've found a great comfort. Though I've continued my prayer and devotion over this past year, I rarely look at the Blessed Mother eye to eye. Only now am I beginning to do that ...look her in the eye once again. And as usual, God's perfect timing coincides with distractions that could throw me into despair, and I get to choose what He offers ...and this prayer came in one of those moments ...and it is beautiful. Perhaps you will find it the same.
Hail Mary, beloved Daughter of the Eternal Father! Hail Mary, admirable Mother of the Son! Hail Mary, faithful Spouse of the Holy Ghost! Hail Mary, my dear Mother, my loving mistress, my powerful sovereign! Hail my joy, my glory, my heart and my soul! Thou art all mine by mercy, and I am all thine by justice. But I am not yet sufficiently thine. I now give myself wholly to thee without keeping anything back for myself or others. If thou still seest in me anything which does not belong to thee, I beseech thee to take it and to make thyself the absolute mistress of all that is mine. Destroy in me all that may be displeasing to God, root it up and bring it to nought; place and cultivate in me everything that is pleasing to thee.
May the light of thy faith dispel the darkness of my mind; may thy profound humility take the place of my pride; may thy sublime contemplation check the distractions of my wandering imagination; may thy continuous sight of God fill my memory with His presence; may the burning love of thy heart inflame the lukewarmness of mine; may thy virtues take the place of my sins; may thy merits be my only adornment in the sight of God and make up for all that is wanting in me. Finally, dearly beloved Mother, grant, if it be possible, that I may have no other spirit but thine to know Jesus and His divine will; that I may have no other soul but thine to praise and glorify the Lord; that I may have no other heart but thine to love God with a love as pure and ardent as thine. I do not ask thee for visions, revelations, sensible devotion or spiritual pleasures. It is thy privilege to see God clearly; it is thy privilege to enjoy heavenly bliss; it is thy privilege to triumph gloriously in Heaven at the right hand of thy Son and to hold absolute sway over angels, men and demons; it is thy privilege to dispose of all the gifts of God, just as thou willest.
Such is, O heavenly Mary, the "best part" which the Lord has given thee and which shall never be taken away from thee - and this thought fills my heart with joy. As for my part here below, I wish for no other than that which was thine: to believe sincerely without spiritual pleasures; to suffer joyfully without human consolation; to die continually to myself without respite; and to work zealously and unselfishly for thee until death as the humblest of thy servants. The only grace I beg thee to obtain for me is that every day and every moment of my life I may say: Amen - so be it, to all that thou didst do while on earth; Amen - so be it, to all that thou art now doing in Heaven; Amen - so be it, to all that thou art doing in my soul, so that thou alone mayest fully glorify Jesus in me for time and eternity. Amen.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Sleep
Parenting involves less sleep. I think most people would agree with that. Especially mothers who tend to sleep with one eye open, one ear towards the children. It becomes a way of life ...to sleep at the surface, ready to spring into action when one little one, or even big, stirs at night for any number of reasons. So I've never been much of a sleeper, and fortunately I am not a person who need a ton. But this past year has found very little sleep ...it's been redefined, more of an in and out of consciousness, horizontal for a period of time ...but real sleep is rare. There's one place though, I've noticed is far better for me, where I actually sleep and wake only a few times ...our living room couch. I've become a bit of a nomad at night, lying down with one for a bit, then another, perhaps another, checking on someone else. Everyone needs their comfort time in little and big ways. And when I can finally steel away and find my own spot, I'll settle on the couch. Long since the symbol of marital conflict, that's not why I gravitate there ...to that place beneath the window. I realized just the other day why this particular place gives me the best rest. My body knows this spot well, it spent many nights there ...waiting, just waiting for Phoebe to return home. We always "waited up," sometimes horizontally, and she would come up the stairs into the living room, or we would hear her feet on the front steps and go to the door to greet her. I've never wanted my kids to come home into a house where no one is waiting for them. Either one of us would wait there ...just wait, with no anxiety of her coming home ...she always came home, often before the determined time. We didn't wring our hands, watch for headlights ...she was reliable that way. So being there in that spot is familiar and soothing to my whole body. I'm lying there waiting for Phoebe. And really, among all the other things I'm doing, like living with and for my other kids, I'm waiting still for my daughter to come home. Its a natural and simple enough routine that settles me a small measure so I can sleep. Funny how it took me so long to figure that out. I'm waiting by the threshold of our home for her return ...and for a little bit my body is tricked into believing that any moment now she'll walk through the door.
A small comfort, a tiny respite, a small treasure of a gift from God. And I imagine Phoebe seeing me there, knowing her mom is waiting on her, just like I always have ...and always will. I miss you Phoebe.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
A small comfort, a tiny respite, a small treasure of a gift from God. And I imagine Phoebe seeing me there, knowing her mom is waiting on her, just like I always have ...and always will. I miss you Phoebe.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
Monday, October 24, 2011
St. Raphael
St. Raphael made himself known to me, quietly, but immediately ...and then to my husband in an extraordinary way. We are making sugar cookies in honor of him tonight and praying this litany. Of course I pray for my children, my husband ...that we all be well and find peace and consolation one day, that we are infused with hope.
I am also praying tonight for anyone struggling with the extraordinary pain that leads to suicide. It can be a pain that goes on and on, becoming chronic and eventually unbearable ...but also for a teenager it can be immediate, intense, sudden ...and terminal. I pray that on their journey to that devastating choice, that St. Raphael turns them around and offers them even the slightest glimmer of promise that things will change and will get better.
And I pray for his intercession for all those parents living the loss of their precious, irreplaceable child, most especially my husband.
Litany of Saint Raphael
- Lord, have mercy on us.
- Christ have mercy on us.
- Lord, have mercy on us. Christ hear us.
- Christ, graciously hear us.
- God the Father of Heaven,
- Have mercy on us.
- God the Son, Redeemer of the world,
- Have mercy on us.
- God the Holy Spirit,
- Have mercy on us.
- Holy Trinity, One God,
- Have mercy on us.
Holy Mary, Queen of Angels, pray for us.
Saint Raphael, pray for us.
Saint Raphael, filled with the mercy of God, etc.
Saint Raphael, perfect adorer of the Divine Word,
Saint Raphael, terror of demons,
Saint Raphael, exterminator of vices,
Saint Raphael, health of the sick,
Saint Raphael, our refuge in all our trials,
Saint Raphael, guide of travelers,
Saint Raphael, consoler of prisoners,
Saint Raphael, joy of the sorrowful,
Saint Raphael, filled with zeal for the salvation of souls,
Saint Raphael, whose name means God heals,
Saint Raphael, lover of chastity,
Saint Raphael, scourge of demons,
Saint Raphael, in pestilence, famine and war,
Saint Raphael, angel of peace and prosperity,
Saint Raphael, endowed with the grace of healing,
Saint Raphael, sure guide in the paths of virtue and sanctification,
Saint Raphael, help of all those who implore your assistance,
Saint Raphael, who was the guide and consolation of Tobias on his journey,
Saint Raphael, whom the Scriptures praise: Raphael, the holy angel of the Lord, was sent to cure,
Saint Raphael, our advocate,
- Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world,
- Spare us, O Lord.
- Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world,
- Graciously hear us, O Lord.
- Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world,
- Have mercy on us.
- Christ, hear us.
- Christ, graciously hear us.
- Pray for us, Saint Raphael, to the Lord Our God,
- That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ Lord, Jesus Christ, by the prayer of the Archangel Raphael, grant us the grace to avoid all sin and to persevere in every good work until we reach our heavenly destination, You Who lives and reigns world without end. Amen.
- Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
SJS Home
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Holding On
Tomorrow is the feast of St. Raphael. I've told my kids to beg his intercession tomorrow for the prayers and petitions that reside deep inside. I have a few of my own.
I wish I could write here how things are so much better, that emotionally I feel more whole, less wounded, more invested in the richness of day to day living. I wish I could write about God's great, strong arms wrapping me safely, protecting me from the winds and the rain. I wish I could write today about my assurance that I will see Phoebe soon, when God determines my time. But I can't. The business, the necessity of grieving a child are like no other grief, no other pain. It is a fight every day to keep the tears at bay, to smile and laugh. There is little spontaneity in that part of life. I do force it, beg for it ...ask God to keep me in the forefront of life for my kids. They want normal lives. They want life to be good. My children don't want a mom who's sad, or a dad out of steam without the glimmer in his eyes. And so the effort to give them that is enormous and constant ...and I think maybe one day in the years to come I can immerse myself for a bit in the deepest sadness I have ever known ...beyond all imagination. Maybe then I can just call to her as long as I need and let the great want of my soul unleash. A part of every parent dies when their child dies ...we chase them, desperate for a glimpse, parched for their smile ...their way.
I have had moments when it feels easier, I breath better, but the overwhelming loss is ever present and there are no words to capture. We can barely talk, my husband and I, about her ...about our Phoebe, and all she meant to us. I start and he raises a hand, the pain sketched deeply in his face. "I can't," he'll say. "Its surprising we still believe in God," I said. "I wonder if God believes in us," he answers. And he captures so much of what I think and feel. This story is too long and tragic, too broken and unfinished to reflect two people loved by God. I'm grasping at a life lived for Him. If it weren't for the people who stay, who spill tears with us and for us, for the ones that reach out and take us broken and empty ....still, even with the yuckiness of what's happened, the imperfection, the cruel humanness of our lives, if it weren't for them ...those dear, dear souls willing to be dirty and sidelined with us, I don't think I could have held on to my faith.
We see people ahead of us on this unwanted journey, they catch our eyes and say more than any words ever could. They steady me while they see inside of me screaming "NO, God NO!" How could you make this harder now? worse? Give me the pain of before ...this is too, too deep. And their eyes fill with tears ...because they know this road ...and there is no way to prepare for it. I am at His mercy, more than ever.
May St. Raphael guide us and protect us on this journey.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
I wish I could write here how things are so much better, that emotionally I feel more whole, less wounded, more invested in the richness of day to day living. I wish I could write about God's great, strong arms wrapping me safely, protecting me from the winds and the rain. I wish I could write today about my assurance that I will see Phoebe soon, when God determines my time. But I can't. The business, the necessity of grieving a child are like no other grief, no other pain. It is a fight every day to keep the tears at bay, to smile and laugh. There is little spontaneity in that part of life. I do force it, beg for it ...ask God to keep me in the forefront of life for my kids. They want normal lives. They want life to be good. My children don't want a mom who's sad, or a dad out of steam without the glimmer in his eyes. And so the effort to give them that is enormous and constant ...and I think maybe one day in the years to come I can immerse myself for a bit in the deepest sadness I have ever known ...beyond all imagination. Maybe then I can just call to her as long as I need and let the great want of my soul unleash. A part of every parent dies when their child dies ...we chase them, desperate for a glimpse, parched for their smile ...their way.
I have had moments when it feels easier, I breath better, but the overwhelming loss is ever present and there are no words to capture. We can barely talk, my husband and I, about her ...about our Phoebe, and all she meant to us. I start and he raises a hand, the pain sketched deeply in his face. "I can't," he'll say. "Its surprising we still believe in God," I said. "I wonder if God believes in us," he answers. And he captures so much of what I think and feel. This story is too long and tragic, too broken and unfinished to reflect two people loved by God. I'm grasping at a life lived for Him. If it weren't for the people who stay, who spill tears with us and for us, for the ones that reach out and take us broken and empty ....still, even with the yuckiness of what's happened, the imperfection, the cruel humanness of our lives, if it weren't for them ...those dear, dear souls willing to be dirty and sidelined with us, I don't think I could have held on to my faith.
We see people ahead of us on this unwanted journey, they catch our eyes and say more than any words ever could. They steady me while they see inside of me screaming "NO, God NO!" How could you make this harder now? worse? Give me the pain of before ...this is too, too deep. And their eyes fill with tears ...because they know this road ...and there is no way to prepare for it. I am at His mercy, more than ever.
May St. Raphael guide us and protect us on this journey.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Leading Forward
We get lots of different blessings. I'm trying to train myself to be habitual in seeing all things as a blessing, a teachable, moldable moment that will bring me closer to God, where He wants me to be. But that's hard, because I'm human, stubborn, tired, hurting, sad ...and often, even with so many people around me, very lonely. There is a certain, and in that I mean absolute, alone-ness, that comes with losing a child. Sharing that kind of loss allows us to understand each other in ways no one else can. But what no one can do is understand the loss of a particular child for a mother ...or father. A year has passed, and in so many ways, it is easier. I've said before ...its not that the current weakens, we just become stronger swimmers, better at navigating the pull. Stronger now, so that the harsher reality can present itself, so we can take on a little more pain. God is gentle with us ...he only allows so much at a time, but there is no escaping. The journey to survive continues and we must carry on. Those around us play an important role in our survival and how we do that. Some listen and cry with us, some touch base and encourage, some include us, invite us in, some just plain out leave ...which is sad and confusing, but forces us to trust God even more. And some lead. I have two friends, old friends who do not talk about it, do not encourage me ...they just lead, and expect me to follow.
We were fifteen when we met. Our friendship has spanned decades. One is a talker, the other is quiet. It is rare we are altogether, but this past week we were and they led. I can talk about anything with these women. With them, I am seventeen ...free, open and hopeful. They were there when Phoebe was born, and they were there when she died. Way back when, as boys didn't return crushes and college rejections rolled in, when one of us couldn't go to a party the other two could ...they simply led, with no words. Most likely, the party would be forfeited and we'd be together. All of us are orphans, all our parents have died ...we're at the forefront now of our families. It doesn't sound like anything, but it is, to be alone and without parents who paved the way in good and bad ways. There is no one ahead of us whose wisdom we can call upon. Decades of experiences bind us, and in this rare moment we have time to spend in each others' company
We head to Taos, NM and they talk about this place filled with people who changed their lives ...made a new start, a fresh start. It happens they say aloud, to no one in particular, just a fact ...opportunities present themselves for lives to be changed when people are hurting or stuck. Come at it from a different angle, look at it from the south, not the west. I pay attention. "How did they cross the Rio Grande?" we ask as we look down the depth of the gorge. How? Where? We drive an hour north, my friend flags someone down, asks some questions. I'm along for the ride, and it gets bumpy as the road turns to dirt with huge holes and sheer cliffs flank the passenger side. I'm laughing, scared out of my mind, no idea where we're headed. This great adventurer of mine keeps driving, snickering as we wind our way up and then down to the river. We come to a little bridge about six feet wide with a plaque that tells us this is where they crossed. Today the river is low and calm, but when the mountains thaw this river will be raging and full, making that bridge impassable. People would have to wait to cross, patience would be needed. I think about this. I want a wider, sturdier, safer bridge for my own crossing. My friends are wordless, not even aware perhaps of the lesson they are teaching me. I can cross, and I will, but it will not be simple or easy.
Our drive is long with the mountains ahead of us, seemingly unreachable. They get closer, beautiful. Even in the dark you can catch a silhouette and be stunned by its magnificence.
The next day we head to the mountains, the Rockies ..big and looming in the distance. We find the trail head and there is snow ...a lot. The other seasoned hikers here are surprised, and so am I. We're climbing the back side of Pike's Peak, the view is worth it we're told. I hadn't expected so much emotion to bubble up towards the surface, but it does and I can barely hold myself together. This landscape reminds me too much of Phoebe. She would have loved all of it, the density of Pine, only to open to a wide landscape of rising red stone, the quiet and then the gurgle of mountain streams. We just follow and I straggle a bit behind, the altitude leaves me breathing heavy at 9,000 feet. I look down and see a print in the snow, and then another, I follow it for about fifteen minutes. "These are mountain lion prints in the snow, do you see them?" My friend doesn't look back at me, or answer. I see more all along our trail and decide it's a good time to say my rosary. We stop for water, "hey, look at these tracks, they're mountain lion tracks, I know, Owen and I studied these." My friend dismisses me, its a dog, she tells me. My other friend argues over distance, we've gone much further she thought. I still fixate on the tracks all around me, but I am calm, and I follow.
We meet two other seasoned hikers, they can't find the trail they've done several times, tell us the routes they've tried. They tell us they're turning back. My friend is undeterred. I have no choice but to follow her, after all, I'm in the Rockies and I have no idea how to get out of here, the only footprints to follow now are hers ...and the mountain lions. We make our way, bit by bit, zigging and zagging through the heavy snow. We're not dressed right, but we move on and the sky begins to open wider.
We find the crest, and I am full of emotion, ready to burst the sadness is so heavy in me. I want to tell Phoebe where I am, she would be so excited, ask me all the details, but I don't say her name. I stay silent.
I look out over the expanse and wonder how people ever crossed from coast to coast. My friend tells me to stay here on this rock in the sun, while they walk a bit higher. She sits next to me "Phoebe did this you know, in Outward Bound, she had to be alone in the wilderness for twenty four hours, remember. You can handle fifteen minutes." I lay back in the sun, and cry, releasing all that bottled up pain and missing as they head off. I am alone. I think of Phoebe and the mountain lion, hear a rock tumble, certain the mountain lion has found me, giving itself away as it steps on loose rock. Silence returns. My friends are back, see my stick. Giggling "is that for the mountain lion, cause it wouldn't save you," I'm asked. We make our way down, meet other hikers, and my friend tells them the conditions, they decide to turn around. She never let on to us that it was tough going, never let me stop, or turn around. She just led.
Back at her house, I see her husband and describe the print I saw in the snow ..."mountain lion" he says. His disposition is serious as is his experience in mountains. "She told me it was a dog, I didn't believe her." He assures me it was a mountain lion. My friend from across the room turns and looks at me, "but you did it, you made it" and she smiles.
This wasn't a trip to talk about Phoebe, to bear my soul, to weep in the safety of friends. This was a trip to be led, shown that passage is uncertain, rickety, maybe even unsafe at times with danger lurking all around. But its a trip I can do, and will. And every once in a while, the ones who lead will step in front, and without words or tears or sorrow, they will just expect me to follow ...and I do. God's hand is everywhere, using what he knows I need to make my way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
We were fifteen when we met. Our friendship has spanned decades. One is a talker, the other is quiet. It is rare we are altogether, but this past week we were and they led. I can talk about anything with these women. With them, I am seventeen ...free, open and hopeful. They were there when Phoebe was born, and they were there when she died. Way back when, as boys didn't return crushes and college rejections rolled in, when one of us couldn't go to a party the other two could ...they simply led, with no words. Most likely, the party would be forfeited and we'd be together. All of us are orphans, all our parents have died ...we're at the forefront now of our families. It doesn't sound like anything, but it is, to be alone and without parents who paved the way in good and bad ways. There is no one ahead of us whose wisdom we can call upon. Decades of experiences bind us, and in this rare moment we have time to spend in each others' company
We head to Taos, NM and they talk about this place filled with people who changed their lives ...made a new start, a fresh start. It happens they say aloud, to no one in particular, just a fact ...opportunities present themselves for lives to be changed when people are hurting or stuck. Come at it from a different angle, look at it from the south, not the west. I pay attention. "How did they cross the Rio Grande?" we ask as we look down the depth of the gorge. How? Where? We drive an hour north, my friend flags someone down, asks some questions. I'm along for the ride, and it gets bumpy as the road turns to dirt with huge holes and sheer cliffs flank the passenger side. I'm laughing, scared out of my mind, no idea where we're headed. This great adventurer of mine keeps driving, snickering as we wind our way up and then down to the river. We come to a little bridge about six feet wide with a plaque that tells us this is where they crossed. Today the river is low and calm, but when the mountains thaw this river will be raging and full, making that bridge impassable. People would have to wait to cross, patience would be needed. I think about this. I want a wider, sturdier, safer bridge for my own crossing. My friends are wordless, not even aware perhaps of the lesson they are teaching me. I can cross, and I will, but it will not be simple or easy.
Our drive is long with the mountains ahead of us, seemingly unreachable. They get closer, beautiful. Even in the dark you can catch a silhouette and be stunned by its magnificence.
The next day we head to the mountains, the Rockies ..big and looming in the distance. We find the trail head and there is snow ...a lot. The other seasoned hikers here are surprised, and so am I. We're climbing the back side of Pike's Peak, the view is worth it we're told. I hadn't expected so much emotion to bubble up towards the surface, but it does and I can barely hold myself together. This landscape reminds me too much of Phoebe. She would have loved all of it, the density of Pine, only to open to a wide landscape of rising red stone, the quiet and then the gurgle of mountain streams. We just follow and I straggle a bit behind, the altitude leaves me breathing heavy at 9,000 feet. I look down and see a print in the snow, and then another, I follow it for about fifteen minutes. "These are mountain lion prints in the snow, do you see them?" My friend doesn't look back at me, or answer. I see more all along our trail and decide it's a good time to say my rosary. We stop for water, "hey, look at these tracks, they're mountain lion tracks, I know, Owen and I studied these." My friend dismisses me, its a dog, she tells me. My other friend argues over distance, we've gone much further she thought. I still fixate on the tracks all around me, but I am calm, and I follow.
We meet two other seasoned hikers, they can't find the trail they've done several times, tell us the routes they've tried. They tell us they're turning back. My friend is undeterred. I have no choice but to follow her, after all, I'm in the Rockies and I have no idea how to get out of here, the only footprints to follow now are hers ...and the mountain lions. We make our way, bit by bit, zigging and zagging through the heavy snow. We're not dressed right, but we move on and the sky begins to open wider.
We find the crest, and I am full of emotion, ready to burst the sadness is so heavy in me. I want to tell Phoebe where I am, she would be so excited, ask me all the details, but I don't say her name. I stay silent.
I look out over the expanse and wonder how people ever crossed from coast to coast. My friend tells me to stay here on this rock in the sun, while they walk a bit higher. She sits next to me "Phoebe did this you know, in Outward Bound, she had to be alone in the wilderness for twenty four hours, remember. You can handle fifteen minutes." I lay back in the sun, and cry, releasing all that bottled up pain and missing as they head off. I am alone. I think of Phoebe and the mountain lion, hear a rock tumble, certain the mountain lion has found me, giving itself away as it steps on loose rock. Silence returns. My friends are back, see my stick. Giggling "is that for the mountain lion, cause it wouldn't save you," I'm asked. We make our way down, meet other hikers, and my friend tells them the conditions, they decide to turn around. She never let on to us that it was tough going, never let me stop, or turn around. She just led.
Back at her house, I see her husband and describe the print I saw in the snow ..."mountain lion" he says. His disposition is serious as is his experience in mountains. "She told me it was a dog, I didn't believe her." He assures me it was a mountain lion. My friend from across the room turns and looks at me, "but you did it, you made it" and she smiles.
This wasn't a trip to talk about Phoebe, to bear my soul, to weep in the safety of friends. This was a trip to be led, shown that passage is uncertain, rickety, maybe even unsafe at times with danger lurking all around. But its a trip I can do, and will. And every once in a while, the ones who lead will step in front, and without words or tears or sorrow, they will just expect me to follow ...and I do. God's hand is everywhere, using what he knows I need to make my way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Space
A year ago, one of the hardest things was the emptiness ...the big hole that was so obvious and cold. Phoebe took up space because she had a large personality and a zest for life. I both wondered and feared it would always feel that way ...vast and void. The other day as I pull onto our road I did a quick head count figuring out where everyone was. When I walked through the door with two kids with me we'd all be home, except Phoebe of course. Knowing we'd be home for a while, no more drop offs, pick ups for the rest of the day I found peace. It didn't stab me so much anymore. She's found her space in our home in other ways ...good ways. It isn't as vast and void anymore. There are moments when it pierces me, stuns me and takes away my breath. But life has continued in a forward motion and lots and lots of good things have come our way. I know much of that is due to the tireless prayer of so many people for us. People we don't even know have remembered us each day. Phoebe didn't see last Oct. 10 or 11, so we tread different territory now. A year ago the pain was excruciating, deadly, Like a shattered skyscraper driven into my heart and lungs. There's no words really to capture the feeling. I've lost both my parents, had some significant struggles in life, painful experiences ...nothing came close to this. Like a wound that attempts to heal, there is the obvious scar, the granulation of new tissue posing as original, always the potential to have areas of pain ...that's what we adjust to ...what we become. Space is different now, we've grown accustomed to the absence no matter how obvious and unwanted.
I asked a patient today who lost her daughter over a decade ago what year two was like. Those who've walked this path before us tell of a year a bit harder than the first. When I first heard those words I wanted to be dead. How could anything be worse than what we were experiencing? I know now that searing pain, that first cut becomes part of who you are, and so you take the pain a little easier than you did when it was all so new. This woman told me it was harder because it was all about the facts. Phoebe is dead ...fact. Phoebe will not come back ...fact. I don't need to buy Christmas presents for Phoebe ...fact. Part of me hoped and prayed I would wake from the nightmare of losing her, and God, in his infinite generosity, would rewind for me. After all, He could.
Someone comments on our dishes this past Sunday ...and I don't tell the story of them and how they came to take up her space. People ask me how many children and I answer seven, no explanation. It's different now.
Her passing is now a normal part of our lives ...part of our fabric, part of who we are. People ask me how I do it ...live this life without her. They ask because they care and can't imagine living after a child dies. I answer "grace, God's tremendous, limitless grace." "I still couldn't" they often say. Truth be told, I didn't think I could either, but I have. I knew how I felt and I looked at my husband and these other kids of ours and knew they suffered ...they needed assurance and promise and hope. It came, little by little. Our life has rebuilt to a "new normal," as they say.
A year ago, I just wanted to be where I am right now. And here I am. I'm certain I'll be with Phoebe again. I ask her to join me all the time even though I have no sense of her. I'm a year out ...we all are. We still have some tending to do, some learning, letting go, changes. But it will all come in the time it should. We've weathered the loss of Phoebe ..and lots of other little losses along the way. People we didn't expect to stay have, while others we were certain would be in it for the long haul haven't ...for whatever reason.
I open my front door and see her converse sneakers ...they will always stay there. I walk down the hall and there are her shoes, worn by someone else, but casually in the way ...as they usually were. I do the laundry and cycle through her shirts, shorts, pants ...and I see her twinkle and giggle "you didn't think you were gonna really get rid of me mom, did you?"
I see how far we've come. Even the moments and days when the burden is especially hard, I see we've come along.
Two of her friends come down to her room, our room now. "It smells like her still." And it does. They laugh and remember the funny times, look around for her things, many still as they were. They miss her too. We remember a night these two were sent home ...pushing the limits. Phoebe and her friends had acted outraged at how unnecessarily strict we were being, but we held firm. They see the wisdom now. Its good to see them. "I wish she knew it would pass. I never thought she wouldn't know that." She was smarter, deeper, more invested in life than them they tell me. And she was.
Phoebe has new space to take up. We haven't heard the last of her, I know that now. Phoebe has a story to tell, one that impacts all of us. When the time is right, when the Holy Spirit wants it written ...it will be. In the meantime, I'm finding my footsteps a bit surer than before ...grace comes our way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
I asked a patient today who lost her daughter over a decade ago what year two was like. Those who've walked this path before us tell of a year a bit harder than the first. When I first heard those words I wanted to be dead. How could anything be worse than what we were experiencing? I know now that searing pain, that first cut becomes part of who you are, and so you take the pain a little easier than you did when it was all so new. This woman told me it was harder because it was all about the facts. Phoebe is dead ...fact. Phoebe will not come back ...fact. I don't need to buy Christmas presents for Phoebe ...fact. Part of me hoped and prayed I would wake from the nightmare of losing her, and God, in his infinite generosity, would rewind for me. After all, He could.
Someone comments on our dishes this past Sunday ...and I don't tell the story of them and how they came to take up her space. People ask me how many children and I answer seven, no explanation. It's different now.
Her passing is now a normal part of our lives ...part of our fabric, part of who we are. People ask me how I do it ...live this life without her. They ask because they care and can't imagine living after a child dies. I answer "grace, God's tremendous, limitless grace." "I still couldn't" they often say. Truth be told, I didn't think I could either, but I have. I knew how I felt and I looked at my husband and these other kids of ours and knew they suffered ...they needed assurance and promise and hope. It came, little by little. Our life has rebuilt to a "new normal," as they say.
A year ago, I just wanted to be where I am right now. And here I am. I'm certain I'll be with Phoebe again. I ask her to join me all the time even though I have no sense of her. I'm a year out ...we all are. We still have some tending to do, some learning, letting go, changes. But it will all come in the time it should. We've weathered the loss of Phoebe ..and lots of other little losses along the way. People we didn't expect to stay have, while others we were certain would be in it for the long haul haven't ...for whatever reason.
I open my front door and see her converse sneakers ...they will always stay there. I walk down the hall and there are her shoes, worn by someone else, but casually in the way ...as they usually were. I do the laundry and cycle through her shirts, shorts, pants ...and I see her twinkle and giggle "you didn't think you were gonna really get rid of me mom, did you?"
I see how far we've come. Even the moments and days when the burden is especially hard, I see we've come along.
Two of her friends come down to her room, our room now. "It smells like her still." And it does. They laugh and remember the funny times, look around for her things, many still as they were. They miss her too. We remember a night these two were sent home ...pushing the limits. Phoebe and her friends had acted outraged at how unnecessarily strict we were being, but we held firm. They see the wisdom now. Its good to see them. "I wish she knew it would pass. I never thought she wouldn't know that." She was smarter, deeper, more invested in life than them they tell me. And she was.
Phoebe has new space to take up. We haven't heard the last of her, I know that now. Phoebe has a story to tell, one that impacts all of us. When the time is right, when the Holy Spirit wants it written ...it will be. In the meantime, I'm finding my footsteps a bit surer than before ...grace comes our way.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
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