First, let me tell you about my yard.
Gigantic yellow chrysanthemums and blooming roses and daisies and fluffy ferns and a slow burn just on the maple trees all invite you to stay in the rocking chair just a few minutes more. The wind chimes are finally starting to be stirred on a regular basis and if you scoot just past the planter filled with rosemary and lavender, a cloud of fragrance will force you to collapse into an adirondack and just breathe. The climbing roses in the back and along the chimney are starting to reach and actually climb, and sometimes, if you stand in just the right spot --in the driveway-- in the middle of a strong breeze, some mysterious fragrance (smells like jasmine? Maybe rose?) makes you breathe deep, sniffing the air and following it like a bloodhound. I think I found the source yesterday, I think, but I don't know what kind of bush it is-- is there such thing as a flowering jasmine bush?
Even though it's fall and, technically, everything is about to die, it feels like brand-newness. In the south, we're all headed outdoors. The oppression of the last few months has lifted like a reprieve on death row and you'll find us on porches, at the lake, tailgating, walking to town, and crowding all the outdoor seating at restaurants. The last hurrah of nature will turn everything bright orange and gold and red and we have to be outside to see it.
Because I guess it's not really death, is it? It's more like sleeping. All of nature feels the biting sting of winter coming, so it pushes all its baggage off the end of its branches and heads underground for a long respite, stretching out roots and shoots, snuggling deep down into the warm earth for a restful nap, to dream about spring and new birth and new life. Snuggling deep, soaking up nutrients, hiding the beauty of its perfection until the unveiling begins in April. Nature gestates while life is woven and knit over and over and over again in a womb of dirt and roots.
And it's happening inside our house, too, and the mystery is just as profound.
I am newly, finally, pregnant. My hands shake as I type the words.
You've seen my last posts... I'm only about four weeks pregnant... I wasn't expecting it....I mean, I was hoping, obviously, but had come to a sort of settled peace about the thing...
It's early to share, but how could I not, really? Most people wait, right? Twelve weeks, or at least six, is when most of my friends seem to share their news, but they are better people than me-- I couldn't keep this to myself.
And for me, as my dear girl Sarah said, I must proclaim faith over this little one. I know that I will battle fear over the next few months. Not over the pregnancy-- my pregnancy with Ben was so easy, so uneventful-- but over that last bit of the journey, the doorway between cuddling under the earth and pushing the shoots forth: delivery. I have commanded my mind to stay put, in the name of Jesus, and will continue to as the months push on into the journey. I know my weak points, and I know the weapons of the battle.
God has not given me a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
A sound mind.
Here's the battle cry of the enemy:
"What if?"
It's a puny, whiny little voice that creeps and screeches and picks and drags. The battle cry of the enemy is:
"But how come last time...?"
But my God is good.
His battle cry is:
PEACE, PEACE
and Goodness
and Hope
and Charity
and HOLINESS.
God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore I will not fear, though the earth should change
and though the mountains fall into the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains quake with their surging.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts
The LORD of hosts is with us;
the God of Jacob is our stronghold.
Selah.
Psalm 46:1-7
There is a new baby here within, and I am grateful. And somehow, I am sad about Ben all over again, in a way that I have not experienced before, and while I don't understand it, I sense that it is part of the process.
There is so much more to this story, and I will share more later, but I had to share this news. Praise God for this new thing that I had only hoped for! Praise God in advance for this gift that I must hold with open hands-- if I have learned anything in these last two and a half years, it is that we simply cannot read or comprehend the mind of God. So I accept today and pray for His blessings and trust Him that He is endlessly kind and wise and merciful, no matter what.
But I will not expect the worst-- I will simply sit back and enjoy the colors as nature beats a hasty retreat into gestation with me, and will wrap the two of us in a cozy blanket and enjoy a companionable silence together as we wonder at the silent, dark knitting that is happening in us both, and hope for a blossoming in the spring. Wait and expect new life.
Selah.
3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, 4 and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, 5 who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. 6 In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. 7 These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. 8 Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, 9 for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls.
I love You, Jesus. Thank you for today.
1 Peter 1: 3-10
Showing posts with label the south. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the south. Show all posts
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Hope
Since it's been so long since I've written, I should probably introduce myself...
Hi, my name is Samantha and I love Ticonderoga pencils, peppermint tea, and houses whose paint is old and peeling. I live in a small little town in the house of my dreams and I love orange. My husband is the funniest person I know and our families are made up of the nicest, most genuine people either of us has ever known. I am an artist who is afraid to hang anything on my 130 year old walls and I'm pretty sure I know all 1030 friends on my Facebook page. I am an English Lit teacher to some of the greatest kids around. My Sunday school class is amazing and my car passed emissions the first time this year, bless the Lord.
There. That's better.
But I can't get away from this one, tiny little thing: my son died almost two years ago and it is that, my almost-motherhood, and a deep love for my God, which continues to define this new woman that I am.
I've gotten several email messages and a couple of FB posts reminding me that it's time to get back to writing. My husband even asked me earlier today, "Do you think maybe you need to go write tonight?"
The season is starting to change-- grass is starting to sprout up in weird places, little tufts of baby green all over the yard, and the trees are sporting tiny nubs of possibilities. Some of the cherry blossoms are even starting to bloom. Surely the dogwoods are next. Our neighbor's pink and red camellias began blooming two weeks ago, and I wonder why my white ones bloomed in the dead of winter when theirs are just now here. So much birth and life, sprouting up and out. When it's not relapsing into winter, this is what my friends and I like to call "porch weather." We sit, like hens, all lined up across the front of my cozy porch, cackling and talking and solving all the problems of the universe. There are plenty of babies to hold and people we know honk and wave as they drive by. Outside is where everyone wants to be this time of year. It's good to be alive in March in the South.
But just as rebirth is happening all around me, there is a deep unrest still stirring in my soul, and it's hard to get away from. I've pointedly avoided the topic in my blog, but it's time to face it: I don't know if I will ever have another baby, and I have to learn to live with that.
I should share the fact that, whenever this subject is broached aloud or just in my head, I feel the need to qualify the statement. I know that I have friends who have not had children and likely never will-- some of them have chosen that route and have peace with it, while others longed for children and for whatever reason never had any. We all have our stories. For me, I always assumed that I would have children. Don and I wanted them (and still do). I have no idea how all the years got away from me-- one day, I looked up and I was 37 and pregnant for the first time. And then I was 38 and the mother of a baby who had just died at birth. And then I was 39 and about to celebrate the first anniversary of his passing. And now I am 40 and still not pregnant, though I had assumed I would be. I had hoped that I would be.
And what do you say after that?
Maybe that's why it has been hard to write. Because I don't want to share this particular ache. Because I know that, once I share it, I am opening myself up to a round of advice (adoption, fertility treatments, druidic smoke dancing-- I dunno, I made that one up) that only sinks the knife of sadness about this particular thing deeper.
Some of you can relate.
We don't want more babies to replace our babies-- no child will ever be Ben. He's alive some other where and I will see him again. I long to hold him and I ache to raise him, but to have another baby is not to replace him... it's to do the thing I feel such a longing to do: bring another person into this world, to raise that person and nurture him or her, to take care of them, to raise them to know God and honor Him. To laugh and cry with them. To see a mash-up of Don and Samantha in a little human package.
But here is my challenge: will I love Him even if that never happens?
And what happens to hope if I resign myself to the possibility of it never happening?
What am I hoping for anyway?
And that's the thing I have been learning in the last eight months of trying to get pregnant (we didn't start right away)-- my hope is in a Who, not a What.
My hope has to be nailed to His heart, His visions, His dreams-- not the thing that I long for. I have to lay that down.
I was looking up the word-- hope-- in the Bible, and most of the time the word was connected to hoping in Him, not for something.
Psalm 39.7
I hope in You, O Lord
Psalm 42:5
Why are you in despair, O my soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
For the help of His presence
(by the way, David repeats this refrain over and over-- Psalm42.11; 43.5-- commanding his soul to hope in God)
Psalm 62.5
My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.
Psalm 71.5
You are my hope; O Lord GOD, You are my confidence from my youth.
You get the picture.
The psalmist proclaims that God is his hope and salvation. The implication, over and over in the pages of the Word He gave to us, is that hope that is focused on Him is firm and secure. It is founded on solid stuff. It is a hope that has substance. And it is hope in HIM-- not a thing or a reward.
He is the ultimate answer to all of our prayers.
He is what we hope for in the dead of night.
He is our hope.
I don't claim to understand a whole lot of Job, but one of his friends said this about hoping in the things of man:
the hope of the godless will perish,
Whose confidence is fragile,
And whose trust a spider's web.
He trusts in his house, but it does not stand;
He holds fast to it, but it does not endure...
Job 8.14-15
If I focus all of my hope on the thing that my heart longs for, I will grow bitter, because it might not be the thing He has designed for me. And even if it is what He has for me, I might miss the blessing of it because I grow insistent and entitled-- it's my right, you owe me. But if I put my hope in Him, I find myself
Falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again,
He gets sweeter and sweeter
As the days go by
Oh what a love between my Lord and I,
I keep falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again...
(if you don't know that old praise chorus, don't look it up-- the tune is so cheesy, but the words are precious)
If I place my hope in Him, I will never be disappointed because He never fails. Baby or no baby, He is perfect in all His ways. I know it. I knew it the day Ben died and I know it now. He has proven it by holding me every single day of this journey.
And I have no idea how He does it.
It's a miracle.
Lord, I put my hope in You again tonight. I take it-- all the hope that is bunched up tight and packed deep in my heart-- and I put it in Your hands. And I confess to You that You alone are holy, You alone are worthy, You alone are God, and worthy of my praise. I consciously take my focus off the desires of my heart and look instead to You and I say that You are the desire of my heart. Oh Jesus, the peace that fills my soul-- how do you do it? I give you my fears and sadness-- here, I hand it to You-- and I receive Your peace. I choose not to let my mind race ahead to all of the things that could possibly disappoint. You are my hope, O God. And I trust You to heal my heart, no matter what the outcome. I have to trust You. Where else could I go? You have ruined me with Your beauty. No one compares to You. You alone have the words of life-- You alone are trustworthy. You alone are eternal. And You are good.
Hi, my name is Samantha and I love Ticonderoga pencils, peppermint tea, and houses whose paint is old and peeling. I live in a small little town in the house of my dreams and I love orange. My husband is the funniest person I know and our families are made up of the nicest, most genuine people either of us has ever known. I am an artist who is afraid to hang anything on my 130 year old walls and I'm pretty sure I know all 1030 friends on my Facebook page. I am an English Lit teacher to some of the greatest kids around. My Sunday school class is amazing and my car passed emissions the first time this year, bless the Lord.
There. That's better.
But I can't get away from this one, tiny little thing: my son died almost two years ago and it is that, my almost-motherhood, and a deep love for my God, which continues to define this new woman that I am.
I've gotten several email messages and a couple of FB posts reminding me that it's time to get back to writing. My husband even asked me earlier today, "Do you think maybe you need to go write tonight?"
The season is starting to change-- grass is starting to sprout up in weird places, little tufts of baby green all over the yard, and the trees are sporting tiny nubs of possibilities. Some of the cherry blossoms are even starting to bloom. Surely the dogwoods are next. Our neighbor's pink and red camellias began blooming two weeks ago, and I wonder why my white ones bloomed in the dead of winter when theirs are just now here. So much birth and life, sprouting up and out. When it's not relapsing into winter, this is what my friends and I like to call "porch weather." We sit, like hens, all lined up across the front of my cozy porch, cackling and talking and solving all the problems of the universe. There are plenty of babies to hold and people we know honk and wave as they drive by. Outside is where everyone wants to be this time of year. It's good to be alive in March in the South.
But just as rebirth is happening all around me, there is a deep unrest still stirring in my soul, and it's hard to get away from. I've pointedly avoided the topic in my blog, but it's time to face it: I don't know if I will ever have another baby, and I have to learn to live with that.
I should share the fact that, whenever this subject is broached aloud or just in my head, I feel the need to qualify the statement. I know that I have friends who have not had children and likely never will-- some of them have chosen that route and have peace with it, while others longed for children and for whatever reason never had any. We all have our stories. For me, I always assumed that I would have children. Don and I wanted them (and still do). I have no idea how all the years got away from me-- one day, I looked up and I was 37 and pregnant for the first time. And then I was 38 and the mother of a baby who had just died at birth. And then I was 39 and about to celebrate the first anniversary of his passing. And now I am 40 and still not pregnant, though I had assumed I would be. I had hoped that I would be.
And what do you say after that?
Maybe that's why it has been hard to write. Because I don't want to share this particular ache. Because I know that, once I share it, I am opening myself up to a round of advice (adoption, fertility treatments, druidic smoke dancing-- I dunno, I made that one up) that only sinks the knife of sadness about this particular thing deeper.
Some of you can relate.
We don't want more babies to replace our babies-- no child will ever be Ben. He's alive some other where and I will see him again. I long to hold him and I ache to raise him, but to have another baby is not to replace him... it's to do the thing I feel such a longing to do: bring another person into this world, to raise that person and nurture him or her, to take care of them, to raise them to know God and honor Him. To laugh and cry with them. To see a mash-up of Don and Samantha in a little human package.
But here is my challenge: will I love Him even if that never happens?
And what happens to hope if I resign myself to the possibility of it never happening?
What am I hoping for anyway?
And that's the thing I have been learning in the last eight months of trying to get pregnant (we didn't start right away)-- my hope is in a Who, not a What.
My hope has to be nailed to His heart, His visions, His dreams-- not the thing that I long for. I have to lay that down.
I was looking up the word-- hope-- in the Bible, and most of the time the word was connected to hoping in Him, not for something.
Psalm 39.7
I hope in You, O Lord
Psalm 42:5
Why are you in despair, O my soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
For the help of His presence
(by the way, David repeats this refrain over and over-- Psalm42.11; 43.5-- commanding his soul to hope in God)
Psalm 62.5
My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.
Psalm 71.5
You are my hope; O Lord GOD, You are my confidence from my youth.
You get the picture.
The psalmist proclaims that God is his hope and salvation. The implication, over and over in the pages of the Word He gave to us, is that hope that is focused on Him is firm and secure. It is founded on solid stuff. It is a hope that has substance. And it is hope in HIM-- not a thing or a reward.
He is the ultimate answer to all of our prayers.
He is what we hope for in the dead of night.
He is our hope.
I don't claim to understand a whole lot of Job, but one of his friends said this about hoping in the things of man:
the hope of the godless will perish,
Whose confidence is fragile,
And whose trust a spider's web.
He trusts in his house, but it does not stand;
He holds fast to it, but it does not endure...
Job 8.14-15
If I focus all of my hope on the thing that my heart longs for, I will grow bitter, because it might not be the thing He has designed for me. And even if it is what He has for me, I might miss the blessing of it because I grow insistent and entitled-- it's my right, you owe me. But if I put my hope in Him, I find myself
Falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again,
He gets sweeter and sweeter
As the days go by
Oh what a love between my Lord and I,
I keep falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again...
(if you don't know that old praise chorus, don't look it up-- the tune is so cheesy, but the words are precious)
If I place my hope in Him, I will never be disappointed because He never fails. Baby or no baby, He is perfect in all His ways. I know it. I knew it the day Ben died and I know it now. He has proven it by holding me every single day of this journey.
And I have no idea how He does it.
It's a miracle.
Lord, I put my hope in You again tonight. I take it-- all the hope that is bunched up tight and packed deep in my heart-- and I put it in Your hands. And I confess to You that You alone are holy, You alone are worthy, You alone are God, and worthy of my praise. I consciously take my focus off the desires of my heart and look instead to You and I say that You are the desire of my heart. Oh Jesus, the peace that fills my soul-- how do you do it? I give you my fears and sadness-- here, I hand it to You-- and I receive Your peace. I choose not to let my mind race ahead to all of the things that could possibly disappoint. You are my hope, O God. And I trust You to heal my heart, no matter what the outcome. I have to trust You. Where else could I go? You have ruined me with Your beauty. No one compares to You. You alone have the words of life-- You alone are trustworthy. You alone are eternal. And You are good.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Day Eleven of the First April Remembering
A list:
*the most servant hearted man alive is my husband. This man amazes me all the time. When he's not pissing me off :)
*Azaelia bushes, gifts from precious friends (Debbie and Renee.... you guys bless me all the time). They told me that they wanted to give us something that would bloom every year around April and would remind us of the beauty of Ben's short life here. Oh wow. How fantastic.
*Friends who volunteer their sons to help plant the bushes-- thank you Bryan! :)
*American flags
*Grey paint, white trim, soon-to-be black shutters.
*my father and my father-in-law: helped Don paint the house-- they were alternately in heaven and agony. It was a perfect week. Rained one day. Perfect spring break.
*Rocking chairs.
*being southern. Thank you Lord. :)
*Paige's plant expertise
*Friends with interviews at cool colleges (if you think of it, throw up a prayer for my friend J. He'd be fantastic at this position and deserves a BREAK!)
*Dinner outside with new friends
*Crickets
*friends who share cuttings from their yards (dear Delynn!!!! Thank you!!!!) and share their hearts, too.
*White linens. Not the perfume. Actual linens :)
*Clotheslines
*Tea
*Our families
*the squeeky front door
There's so much more-- our jobs, our schools, our kids at school, our precious friends...
I'm remembering that I miss Ben, but that my life is still tremendously full. Nothing, no one, can replace him, but this is still a good, good life. I still have so many complicated longings in my heart and the ache is always, always there, right at the surface of my chest, and I could cry at any moment, but I'm happy. We're happy.
*the most servant hearted man alive is my husband. This man amazes me all the time. When he's not pissing me off :)
*Azaelia bushes, gifts from precious friends (Debbie and Renee.... you guys bless me all the time). They told me that they wanted to give us something that would bloom every year around April and would remind us of the beauty of Ben's short life here. Oh wow. How fantastic.
*Friends who volunteer their sons to help plant the bushes-- thank you Bryan! :)
*American flags
*Grey paint, white trim, soon-to-be black shutters.
*my father and my father-in-law: helped Don paint the house-- they were alternately in heaven and agony. It was a perfect week. Rained one day. Perfect spring break.
*Rocking chairs.
*being southern. Thank you Lord. :)
*Paige's plant expertise
*Friends with interviews at cool colleges (if you think of it, throw up a prayer for my friend J. He'd be fantastic at this position and deserves a BREAK!)
*Dinner outside with new friends
*Crickets
*friends who share cuttings from their yards (dear Delynn!!!! Thank you!!!!) and share their hearts, too.
*White linens. Not the perfume. Actual linens :)
*Clotheslines
*Tea
*Our families
*the squeeky front door
There's so much more-- our jobs, our schools, our kids at school, our precious friends...
I'm remembering that I miss Ben, but that my life is still tremendously full. Nothing, no one, can replace him, but this is still a good, good life. I still have so many complicated longings in my heart and the ache is always, always there, right at the surface of my chest, and I could cry at any moment, but I'm happy. We're happy.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Day Four of The First April Remembering
It's warm out.
There. I've said it. I killed a fern last year.
That takes a special kind of crappy gardener right there.
Anyway, I bought a little orange tree. I've wanted one BAD since I saw this article in a Martha Stewart magazine years and years ago-- I was a missionary at the time, so I didn't have my own home or a spare dime so I tucked it away in the back of my heart and always thought, you know, I'm gonna get me an orange tree as soon as I have my own house.
I have a whole list of plants that I want to have a go at, but I'm going to start slow. We have dark, rich soil to plant in and I have a big, big yard, and a list of things I want to try. Oh, and I am also surrounded by gifted plant people. Which is good.
Right now, I'm listening to Don and Joshua, my 19 year old step-son, sitting on the front porch and laughing their heads off. I'm about to head out to the back yard to tend to my other prize from yesterday-- a tiny gardenia bush.
I wish Ben was here, but it's okay today. I'll carry that ache out to the yard with me and try to imagine what heaven must look like to him. Imagine what it will be like to join him before the throne one day, many, many years from now. Imagine that God lets him know who we are. That he knows that I suck at keeping plants alive, but that I would have remembered to feed and water him :). That he knows that he is deeply loved, even if we didn't get to know each other. Flesh of my flesh-- what more is there to know?
Praise God for His resurrection. Only He can resurrect the broken heart. Only He can resurrect life from death. Only Him. And He is good.
Bless you today, dear friends.
My friend Paige and I went and wandered around a local nursery, trying to decide how many of the lovelies I wanted to pack up and take home (a PLANT nursery!-- how crazy do you think I am?? :)). You should know that I have a, well, pretty bad history with plants. I just sort of... forget about them. At one point in the early grieving process, when I was trying to figure out what I did that made God "take" my son from me (I know, I know-- bad theology, but the brain wants reasons for things, and it will try on even the most ridiculous theories), I thought for the briefest moment of seriously-on-the-edge-of-comic despair, that He took him because of my bad track record with plants. Yes-- how can I be trusted with an infant when I can't even keep a fern alive?
That takes a special kind of crappy gardener right there.
Anyway, I bought a little orange tree. I've wanted one BAD since I saw this article in a Martha Stewart magazine years and years ago-- I was a missionary at the time, so I didn't have my own home or a spare dime so I tucked it away in the back of my heart and always thought, you know, I'm gonna get me an orange tree as soon as I have my own house.Right now, I'm listening to Don and Joshua, my 19 year old step-son, sitting on the front porch and laughing their heads off. I'm about to head out to the back yard to tend to my other prize from yesterday-- a tiny gardenia bush.
I wish Ben was here, but it's okay today. I'll carry that ache out to the yard with me and try to imagine what heaven must look like to him. Imagine what it will be like to join him before the throne one day, many, many years from now. Imagine that God lets him know who we are. That he knows that I suck at keeping plants alive, but that I would have remembered to feed and water him :). That he knows that he is deeply loved, even if we didn't get to know each other. Flesh of my flesh-- what more is there to know?
Praise God for His resurrection. Only He can resurrect the broken heart. Only He can resurrect life from death. Only Him. And He is good.
Bless you today, dear friends.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Here it comes!
Spring.
Last year, spring meant new life, abundance, joy, hope, flowers, and a healthy fear of the unknown.
This year means the first anniversary of my precious son's passing. His arrival and his passing.
Oh heart, tremble not.
Oh heart, stand.
Oh heart, hold on.
Oh heart, believe.
Oh heart, you have endured before--
My heart, you will endure again.
Oh heart, stand firm on what you know.
Oh heart, stand firm on what you have seen.
That God is good, and that He is kind, and that all His ways are
well-thought-out and gentle and that He offers comfort when
the way of the world we are pilgrimaging through
is not.
Oh heart.
Sing your hymn--offer it up.
Send it through the trees and
across the grass
and into the clouds.
Sing your hymn and claim that
Love will overwhelm death
and that
Wisdom will confound intellect
and that
Hope will crush disappointment
and that
There will be a happy ending to this story.
No matter how much today's beauty
Reminds you of last year's pain.
I will not dread the spring. I will not let my joy be stolen, snatched away because of bad memories. I will not let spring be draped in black mourning like a mirror in a house of grief. I refuse.
I will give myself time to continue on this journey of grief, but I will not hand it the keys to my house.
Today, I will be a little sad. But I will not fail to notice the brand new buds of life on the baby trees outside my house, and the daffodils which resolutely pushed their faces up through the snow only weeks ago and would not die, only blooming yellower against all that frozen whiteness.
I will rise up yellower, too.
Last year, spring meant new life, abundance, joy, hope, flowers, and a healthy fear of the unknown.
This year means the first anniversary of my precious son's passing. His arrival and his passing.
Oh heart, tremble not.
Oh heart, stand.
Oh heart, hold on.
Oh heart, believe.
Oh heart, you have endured before--
My heart, you will endure again.
Oh heart, stand firm on what you know.
Oh heart, stand firm on what you have seen.
That God is good, and that He is kind, and that all His ways are
well-thought-out and gentle and that He offers comfort when
the way of the world we are pilgrimaging through
is not.
Oh heart.
Sing your hymn--offer it up.
Send it through the trees and
across the grass
and into the clouds.
Sing your hymn and claim that
Love will overwhelm death
and that
Wisdom will confound intellect
and that
Hope will crush disappointment
and that
There will be a happy ending to this story.
No matter how much today's beauty
Reminds you of last year's pain.
I will not dread the spring. I will not let my joy be stolen, snatched away because of bad memories. I will not let spring be draped in black mourning like a mirror in a house of grief. I refuse.
I will give myself time to continue on this journey of grief, but I will not hand it the keys to my house.
Today, I will be a little sad. But I will not fail to notice the brand new buds of life on the baby trees outside my house, and the daffodils which resolutely pushed their faces up through the snow only weeks ago and would not die, only blooming yellower against all that frozen whiteness.
I will rise up yellower, too.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Publix
I love a small town.
I love MY small town. I don't care what all the complainers say-- it has heart.
And it's all happening down at the Publix on the north side of town. Here's what I love: when people say, "Excuse me!" or "Hey, you dropped this!" or "Can I help you with that?" I love when people smile at you, looking you straight in the eye, as they pass you on the cereal aisle.
Today, the grocery store felt like Christmas. People seemed to genuinely have good will toward each other. The smile and nod didn't feel rushed or obligatory-- it felt, when I smiled at this one lady squeezing past my awkwardly placed buggy, that I was pushing happiness through my face and that she reflected it back. No big deal. No commitment required. Just toss it back and forth, like a ball. Toss it and keep going.
Another thing I love about going to our neighborhood grocery store is the fact that I can always count on bumping into friends. Russell and I see each other the most often, and after that is Nancy (whom I haven't seen in a while). Caroline is another regular, as is our good mutual friend Beverly :) (haven't seen her in a while either, come to think of it). This afternoon I saw Carter and one of his beautiful daughters, as well as a couple from my Sunday school class and another family from church. On the way out of the store, I saw Moose, one of the nicest people I've ever met and the owner of my favorite local coffeehouse, Kaiteur.
Sigh.
Peace on earth, good will toward men... Christmas in July. Even though it's August.
It doesn't hurt that the weather in Georgia is gorgeous today. The high was in the mid-80's, which is unbelievably cool for right now, and there's hardly any humidity. The sky is full of gigantic puffy clouds, blown up here from the hurricanes threatening the gulf and the east coast.
Here's something I'm finding: it's okay to enjoy things. I feel really, genuinely happy, even though there are those moments where I remember that someone is missing. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope when it comes to that... just keep moving, keep pressing ahead, experiencing things that come, but trying not to get mired down. Sometimes going to the grocery store makes me cry-- especially right after Ben died-- but sometimes it's like today. Either way, you have to go. Best to try to focus on the good. Just keep moving.
Keep moving. That reminds me of something funny. One of my students has, for some reason, starting calling me "Mrs. Dori" from Nemo. I have no idea when it started, but she loves calling me her "Dori teacher" and something in it just makes me smile. Is it that I said, "Just keep swimming" without realizing it? (entirely possible) Have I told them not to get mired down in failure and to keep moving when it seems like they're going to fail? Or is it that she thinks I'm resilient? I don't think I sound like Ellen DeGeneres, and I'm not orange...
But it's true. There is very much a sense of "Just keep swimming" on this season...
Anyway.
There's always more to write, but I have to go finish planning for the week. Many blessings on you-- and thank you for the notes of encouragement. It's so good to know that there are so many of us on this journey together-- whether you've walked through the same experience, your own grief, or you can just empathize... thank you. At the risk of sounding trite, let's just keep swimming...
** Update-- 8/27 So, I asked my student why she was calling me Miss Dori and I laughed so hard when she told me the answer. It's because this whole year I have been so forgetful!!! I've struggled with remembering their names, what time the bell was going to ring, what day of the week it was... ha!!! Oh well, I'm keeping the "keep swimming" thing... :)
I love MY small town. I don't care what all the complainers say-- it has heart.
And it's all happening down at the Publix on the north side of town. Here's what I love: when people say, "Excuse me!" or "Hey, you dropped this!" or "Can I help you with that?" I love when people smile at you, looking you straight in the eye, as they pass you on the cereal aisle.
Today, the grocery store felt like Christmas. People seemed to genuinely have good will toward each other. The smile and nod didn't feel rushed or obligatory-- it felt, when I smiled at this one lady squeezing past my awkwardly placed buggy, that I was pushing happiness through my face and that she reflected it back. No big deal. No commitment required. Just toss it back and forth, like a ball. Toss it and keep going.
Another thing I love about going to our neighborhood grocery store is the fact that I can always count on bumping into friends. Russell and I see each other the most often, and after that is Nancy (whom I haven't seen in a while). Caroline is another regular, as is our good mutual friend Beverly :) (haven't seen her in a while either, come to think of it). This afternoon I saw Carter and one of his beautiful daughters, as well as a couple from my Sunday school class and another family from church. On the way out of the store, I saw Moose, one of the nicest people I've ever met and the owner of my favorite local coffeehouse, Kaiteur.
Sigh.
Peace on earth, good will toward men... Christmas in July. Even though it's August.
It doesn't hurt that the weather in Georgia is gorgeous today. The high was in the mid-80's, which is unbelievably cool for right now, and there's hardly any humidity. The sky is full of gigantic puffy clouds, blown up here from the hurricanes threatening the gulf and the east coast.
Here's something I'm finding: it's okay to enjoy things. I feel really, genuinely happy, even though there are those moments where I remember that someone is missing. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tightrope when it comes to that... just keep moving, keep pressing ahead, experiencing things that come, but trying not to get mired down. Sometimes going to the grocery store makes me cry-- especially right after Ben died-- but sometimes it's like today. Either way, you have to go. Best to try to focus on the good. Just keep moving.
Keep moving. That reminds me of something funny. One of my students has, for some reason, starting calling me "Mrs. Dori" from Nemo. I have no idea when it started, but she loves calling me her "Dori teacher" and something in it just makes me smile. Is it that I said, "Just keep swimming" without realizing it? (entirely possible) Have I told them not to get mired down in failure and to keep moving when it seems like they're going to fail? Or is it that she thinks I'm resilient? I don't think I sound like Ellen DeGeneres, and I'm not orange...
But it's true. There is very much a sense of "Just keep swimming" on this season...
Anyway.
There's always more to write, but I have to go finish planning for the week. Many blessings on you-- and thank you for the notes of encouragement. It's so good to know that there are so many of us on this journey together-- whether you've walked through the same experience, your own grief, or you can just empathize... thank you. At the risk of sounding trite, let's just keep swimming...
** Update-- 8/27 So, I asked my student why she was calling me Miss Dori and I laughed so hard when she told me the answer. It's because this whole year I have been so forgetful!!! I've struggled with remembering their names, what time the bell was going to ring, what day of the week it was... ha!!! Oh well, I'm keeping the "keep swimming" thing... :)
Monday, August 17, 2009
friday night...light
had an amazing weekend.
it was good, too, to get out of the house. i've been really hesitant about going out in large groups-- i don't know if that's part of the grief process or not, but i've just felt overwhelmed at the thought of being in a gigantic group, but my friends miki and elizabeth organized a three-ring-very-southern-circus and i simply could not resist.
we began the night at the whistle post in historic old town conyers, eating frikk
les, drinking sweet drinks and watching for the rockdale citizen/teacher paparazzi to come take pictures of all of us drinking fizzy drinks and printing mug shots for the whole town to see :). we laughed our heads off and i think multiple conversations were begun and left unfinished and it was just fine. i love parties like that-- happy madness.
from there, we walked over to the new depot to see steel magnolias, directed by one of my favorite friends in the universe, jay tryall.
it was fantastic.
besides laughing my head off at miki, who was in rare stand-up-comic form (i've known miki my entire life-- literally since i can remember knowing any human-- and there is still noone alive who can make me laugh like she can), the play was incredible. i can't say enough about the entire cast, but cyndi evans was hysterical as ouiser boudreaux. i have to find her and introduce myself to her at church next week. i almost want to ask her for her autograph. i love how she just threw her entire self into the role and i can't imagine how that must feel for an actor. i wonder if its anything like singing can be sometimes-- when you just so totally mean it. you close your eyes and open your lungs and go for it and ... freedom. i wonder sometimes if that's what acting feels like for people who are really good at it.
and to top the entire night off, the weather in georgia was perfect. breezy, not too humid, almost cool (what! imagine that in august!).... lovely.
there was this moment, right after the play, when it occurred to me that life could be normal again and was normal right that minute. we were all posing in front of the stage that jay had meticulously put together and jay -- the director who was being interviewed by the paper but who graciously stopped to take our picture-- goes, "okay, say 'shelby'" and we laughed and said it and my heart was full...
full for these women, only a few of whom i really even knew, for being a safe first-outing since the death of my son. full for the midwife who has been my friend for 20 plus years, who has literally seen me inside and out and who was in the room for the nightmare and who was two feet away from me, normal as grass. full for miki, who i've always loved and laughed with, who shared my childhood and is as
much a sister as any blood sister could be and who i still want when bad things happen. full for caroline, my sweet compatriot and co-conspirator and who can be trusted with any secret. full for karen who didn't come to the play and who ordered two salads because she is karen :). full for val, who is kind and spunky. full for the clever, funny women all around that stage. full with affection for the sweet mother of a former precious student (i see where kelsey gets it from now, that sweet kid). full, knowing that each of those women has been touched with her own sorrows, but that each of them put on lipstick and packed their purses with steel magnolias memorabilia per miki's command and we laughed and laughed... full because i have wept with jay and no one in the room knew but jay and me. i have also laughed with him til i thought i would choke.
so many stories in that room.
we are surrounded, all of us, with jars of clay, holding precious treasures of pain in our hearts. we bump into each other, jostling each other and helping to catch the falling burdens, without even knowing it.
i loved a lot of people friday night.
it was good.
it was good, too, to get out of the house. i've been really hesitant about going out in large groups-- i don't know if that's part of the grief process or not, but i've just felt overwhelmed at the thought of being in a gigantic group, but my friends miki and elizabeth organized a three-ring-very-southern-circus and i simply could not resist.
we began the night at the whistle post in historic old town conyers, eating frikk
les, drinking sweet drinks and watching for the rockdale citizen/teacher paparazzi to come take pictures of all of us drinking fizzy drinks and printing mug shots for the whole town to see :). we laughed our heads off and i think multiple conversations were begun and left unfinished and it was just fine. i love parties like that-- happy madness.from there, we walked over to the new depot to see steel magnolias, directed by one of my favorite friends in the universe, jay tryall.
it was fantastic.
besides laughing my head off at miki, who was in rare stand-up-comic form (i've known miki my entire life-- literally since i can remember knowing any human-- and there is still noone alive who can make me laugh like she can), the play was incredible. i can't say enough about the entire cast, but cyndi evans was hysterical as ouiser boudreaux. i have to find her and introduce myself to her at church next week. i almost want to ask her for her autograph. i love how she just threw her entire self into the role and i can't imagine how that must feel for an actor. i wonder if its anything like singing can be sometimes-- when you just so totally mean it. you close your eyes and open your lungs and go for it and ... freedom. i wonder sometimes if that's what acting feels like for people who are really good at it.
and to top the entire night off, the weather in georgia was perfect. breezy, not too humid, almost cool (what! imagine that in august!).... lovely.
there was this moment, right after the play, when it occurred to me that life could be normal again and was normal right that minute. we were all posing in front of the stage that jay had meticulously put together and jay -- the director who was being interviewed by the paper but who graciously stopped to take our picture-- goes, "okay, say 'shelby'" and we laughed and said it and my heart was full...
full for these women, only a few of whom i really even knew, for being a safe first-outing since the death of my son. full for the midwife who has been my friend for 20 plus years, who has literally seen me inside and out and who was in the room for the nightmare and who was two feet away from me, normal as grass. full for miki, who i've always loved and laughed with, who shared my childhood and is as
much a sister as any blood sister could be and who i still want when bad things happen. full for caroline, my sweet compatriot and co-conspirator and who can be trusted with any secret. full for karen who didn't come to the play and who ordered two salads because she is karen :). full for val, who is kind and spunky. full for the clever, funny women all around that stage. full with affection for the sweet mother of a former precious student (i see where kelsey gets it from now, that sweet kid). full, knowing that each of those women has been touched with her own sorrows, but that each of them put on lipstick and packed their purses with steel magnolias memorabilia per miki's command and we laughed and laughed... full because i have wept with jay and no one in the room knew but jay and me. i have also laughed with him til i thought i would choke.so many stories in that room.
we are surrounded, all of us, with jars of clay, holding precious treasures of pain in our hearts. we bump into each other, jostling each other and helping to catch the falling burdens, without even knowing it.
i loved a lot of people friday night.
it was good.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Fruit
My friend Caroline decided to have a garden this year. There's something you should know about Caroline-- in my opinion, everything she touches turns to pure gold. Or yummy food. Or gorgeous art. Or refreshed soul. Or encouraged student. You name it, it improves if she touches it.
I remember limping up to her above-ground garden at the beginning of the summer. I was still pretty weak, just getting mobile, when Don and I stopped by to say hey to Caroline and Robert and they had to show us the home-made garden box (made from Robert's old bunk bed from his UGA dorm days). The dark soil surface was scattered with tiny plants and herbs, and where there were no plants, Caroline would point and prophesy: "cucumber" and "zinnia" and "watermelon" and "lettuce." Lettuce? Who grows lettuce? How cool is that?
I remember being eaten up by mosquitoes as we stood there and admired their labor, laughing (because that is one funny group of people: Don, Caroline and Robert. I was their grateful audience) and looking forward to Caroline's first home-grown salad. Where there was nothing but a seed, dying and gestating in the earth in front of us, soon there would be something.
It leaves me thinking. There have been at least four weeks of long, hot, humid Southern summer days since we first saw the garden (I think in weeks these days, just like a new mother. Only I'm not marking off weeks between doctor visits and immunization, but weeks of "would have" and "supposed to be"). Her beds sit in the full sun, and she faithfully waters them in the prescribed manner (apparently there is a certain way to tend to raised beds). Today, the garden is virtually exploding. Ice box watermelons sit lumpy and cool looking next to tall, lovely zinnias, while tomatoes and cucumbers hang heavy and promising on the other end. Where before all we saw was dirt while we took Caroline's word for it, yesterday there was no arguing: she could definitely make a salad from the harvest she was reaping.
Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
John 12:23
All those seeds were pushed deep into the ground by Caroline. She watered them and they died there. And they grew into big, huge, green life from the decay.
My prayer today, inspired by that itty bitty cucumber (sorry, Caroline-- I mean, that GREAT BIG CUCUMBER!), is that where there has been death in my life this season, much life would spring forth. And that, like Farmer Caroline as she pointed out the expected fruit from the bed of the garden, I would expect fruit to burst forth from the things that have died. Ben, the hopes and dreams that we had all wrapped up in him, and even my womb-- this baby was proof that I was not infertile. What now?
Life. That's what now.
(all of the pictures, except the one of Caroline posing with the fruit of her labor, were taken by Caroline!!)
Monday, June 8, 2009
Relief
Here is what my back yard feels like:
It's around 9:30 in the evening and the temperature is in the mid 60's. There is a light breeze and the scent of honeysuckle wafts by my place on the steps every few minutes. If I wait in the darkness, almost holding my breath, and focus on the woods beyond the dirt, I see the first of the lightning bugs and my heart sighs. Tree frogs ping messages back and forth, croaking and chirping and thrumming, sounding like little kid cellos and cat gut guitars, all across my back yard. There is a whole life beyond the bank of trees in my back yard, and all I can do is hear it, alive and well beyond the curtain of pines and crepe myrtles.
It's around 9:30 in the evening and the temperature is in the mid 60's. There is a light breeze and the scent of honeysuckle wafts by my place on the steps every few minutes. If I wait in the darkness, almost holding my breath, and focus on the woods beyond the dirt, I see the first of the lightning bugs and my heart sighs. Tree frogs ping messages back and forth, croaking and chirping and thrumming, sounding like little kid cellos and cat gut guitars, all across my back yard. There is a whole life beyond the bank of trees in my back yard, and all I can do is hear it, alive and well beyond the curtain of pines and crepe myrtles.
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