Tuesday, July 30, 2013

O sleeper...

Love is patient.  Which means God is patient, because we all know that God is love.  But do you ever feel the gentle yet undeniable prodding from Him?  I liken it to how I wake my kids in the morning... I rub their back first, whisper their name, and then I may begin to poke at them a little (not hard, but just enough as to annoy them and rouse them into the conscious world).

God has sort of left me alone for the past year and three months.  It's been a whirlwind of emotion as I have dealt with the loss of my mother and both maternal grandparents.  It's been ugly at times, difficult. It's been painful.  I have found myself resorting to old ways of dealing with trauma... by withdrawing into my shell and isolating myself.  I trust no one outside my tight circle.  I talk to very few people about the pain of losing my mother.  I have pushed the notion of involving myself in organized religion even further to the back of my mind.

But something has been going on lately.  I feel Him stroking my back, encouraging me to wake up.  It came in the way of a phone call from a friend a few weeks ago inviting me to join a ladies' Bible study with her.  I have already seen some of the reasons why God wanted me to be there, and I know there must be more He waits to show me.  And then I wake to read a brilliant blog post about writing from an old friend from childhood and high school, Lisa, who talks about my own grandmother and her infamous writing advice.  Words I have heard too many times to count.  Words I need to listen to.

Truth is, I have been holding back so much here on my little blog.  Because I can't say there is anyone who wants to read about the reality of grief.  That it doesn't go away.  That it stretches on an on with no end.  That I have dreamt about her for a week and a half now.  Not nice dreams, but stressful dreams of trying to call her, trying to get to her, trying trying trying.  That she's not the only dead person in my dreams.  That everyone I have ever had some emotional connection to that has passed has appeared in my dreams lately in some capacity.  That this is so exhausting some days I just want to crawl in the bed and pull the covers over my head.

No one wants to read about how I am still surprised that she is really gone.  That now I try to fill her role as best I can for my brothers and my father.  How I know I will never be able to pull it off, especially since I can't talk to her for advice.

No one wants to know about the memories that don't go away.  Not the good ones, mind you, but the ones you want so desperately to forget.  The Friday morning I knew she was gone from us a full 36 hours before she breathed her last breath.  My time helping to care for her in the hospital after her brain surgery.  The way she looked in her wheel chair as I pushed her through Walmart.  These are things that don't go away even if you try your best to talk them our of your mind.

You see, this is why I am not writing.  Because I don't think there's a person on the planet that wants to hear about this.  I don't want to hear about, and I actually lived it all!  But then, I realize, maybe that's the whole point.  Maybe it's not what people want to hear about grief, but it is the truth about grief, this bizarre human emotion that no one seems to want to touch.  Perhaps in exposing the ugliness of it I could make it more tangible, more real, more human.

So I guess it's time to open myself back up in more than one way.  It won't be an instant change, as it has not been an instant shut-down, but there's no denying the need my soul has and the prompting I have felt from my Father.

Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.
Ephesians 5:14

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Hello world...

Hello there little blogosphere.  I am still here.  Still thinking.  Still writing in my mind nearly every day. Seems like I have so much to say, but when I sit down to put it into words, it just doesn't work for me.

We just took a lovely family vacation last week.  Just the kids and the husband and me.  And we needed it.  We had mostly good weather, but we managed to enjoy the rainy times as well, even spending some time on the beach in a light sprinkle.

David is officially a preteen complete with Iphone and unpredictable moodiness.  He's hot or cold these days with his crazy mama, so I relish in the moments when he's soft toward me.

Madalyn did her usual searching for shells.  We found some really lovely ones.  The shells always make my brain swim with thoughts of God's magnificent creation, this beautiful world we live in.  It seems so ugly and unfair and full of injustices sometimes, but as I examine the beauty of a tiny shell, it all makes perfect sense to me somehow.

Scott cut his foot the very first day we were there, and, most likely, he could have used a couple of stitches in it.  But we doctored it ourselves and used an entire bottle of peroxide and lots of little butterfly bandages.  He made the best of it, he really did.  And he never let the kids know how much it hurt him.  He's such an amazing daddy.

And me.  I enjoyed being away from the normal world.  I enjoyed watching the water and the birds.  I felt so close to God there at the sea's edge, closer than I had felt in a long time.  And I had a good talk with Him.  I know He's there.  I know she's there with Him.  I know He sees the whole picture, just like He knew that me and Madalyn would pick up shells that were made for a totally different purpose other than our enjoyment.  He's pretty amazing like that.

Summer ticks away.  I am hoping that with the beginning of a new school year in just a month I can get my brain back up and running and writing.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013


I heard their voices at 5:50 in the AM.  Three boys, not so small anymore, make a tremendous amount of noise with nothing but their voices.  David had impromptu spend the night company last night, but I was certainly not prepared for loud boys to wake me up at 5:50.

I tossed and turned for a little while, and then my ears adjusted to the noise and drowned it out, and I managed to doze off into that state of sleep that slips away as easily as it comes.

And then she came to me.

It was just she and I in our old house in Montgomery.  I had moved back home, though I am not sure why, and we talked about how I needed to find a job.  She suggested I go talk to my old boss at the coffee shop where I used to work.  We were in the kitchen making sausage pie.  She seemed so much like her that it felt so completely real and natural, just as life used to be.  And then Madalyn was there.  she ran in the kitchen for some reason and ran back out, and my mother said, "She wants to be called Madabug now."  And then she turned to me and repeated the weird name mimicking the way Madalyn would have said it if it were all real.  Madabug.  And we laughed like we would really do.  And I filled two pie crusts with the filling for the breakfast dish she once taught me how to make in that very kitchen.  And then the voices won out again, putting an end to the visit I shared with her in the vague space of my dreams.

Oh how I wish she could come more often.