in which I can’t breathe
I can’t tear myself away from the Weather Channel. Away from the photos and videos of devastation and heartbreak. I can’t breathe for the weight on my chest and the ache in my heart. And I’m stunned by the power. Oklahoma. I’m writing and weeping over at BibleDude today. Won’t you tiptoe over and sit quietly with me? Stilled and...
sing a new song
Snow fell on Sunday. In May. On Mother’s Day. It frosted the tulips white. “My mother would not be happy today,” my sister posted on Facebook. “She wouldn’t even be amused.” And I doubt if even we could have made her crack a smile by bursting into song and dance, perhaps with a spring rendition of Winter Wonderland. She’d have squinted her eyes, squeezed her eyebrows, pressed her lips, shook her head. But inside, I think she would have smiled. Maybe. Just a little. Anyway, the Sandy and Candy Show is on hiatus. It hasn’t performed since our manager took her final journey before the snow fell. And some of the music left with her. Remember how we’d go on sometimes, Mom? Like those nights when we wheeled...
I will give you rest
It rests between the large jars of cinnamon and parsley, peeks at me from behind the glass restaurant-style sugar dispenser. Sissy gave it to me, this duckie tea infuser. I take it out, hold it in my palm, stroke it. I squeeze my eyes tight and think back to that day in the dollar store where I snagged a trio of rubber ducks for my mom to add a little fun to her hospice hot tub bubble baths. She joked about them needing diapers. Rubber duckie, you’re so fine… The months stretch like rubber, and my memory grows thin, but my mind reaches for that day. The day she roused after days of sleeping and not eating. And we got her up in the recliner and pushed her by the window to watch the birds. We brought her breakfast–I can’t remember...
of passings, plans, and a new word
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed this morning. There’s a nuthatch on the branch outside the window–the window with the broad, cracked smile. The smile that D has sealed with transparent packing tape and dolloped with some whipped putty. The power line from pole to house corner sags and glistens in the sun, and shadow trees dance in a snow-dusted ballroom. All in celebration of time. How fleet it is. And how fragile. Like a glass slipper. Handle this moment with care. I’m thinking of the past year’s passings. Through the firsts of a season of grief following my mom’s passing into the arms of Jesus. Today she would have turned 84, but it’s her second birthday in heaven. From a season of wants to a season of...
Crossing the Bridge
Mom’s illness caused her fall and ultimately her death. Her younger sister passed on before. I don’t know when. I don’t know why. Theirs was a shattered relationship. Sometime after Aunt Lucy died, my cousin sought to reconnect with my parents. That’s how it is sometimes, I think. When we lose, we ache to find. When a stitch is torn from life’s fabric, we long to weave the raveled threads of the past. To embrace what remains. To cultivate the barren. And yes, to build a bridge. Because in the end, it’s all about family. We were never meant to do life alone. I don’t know what urged V.J. to reach out to my folks, but they grew close. She and her family drove across the bridge to visit Mom in the Cottage. They came to...
Still Grappling with Grief
One year ago yesterday, my mother died. I’m angry. And sad. And grateful. I’m remembering, second-guessing every decision. Immediately after her fall and diagnosis of a brain tumor, she spent several weeks in a local nursing home. She was not safe for surgery at that point. After the biopsy, she transferred to rehab where they encouraged her and worked aggressively with her. At the first conference, each team member laid out goals for the next week. But then suddenly we were pressed for a transfer decision. They all knew something we didn’t. That the tumor was aggressively malignant. They stole the hope they’d lavished. We hadn’t even talked with the doctor yet. This morning I saw yet another ad for the Cancer Institutes of...
When Loss is Real–or Not
I’m better this morning. Last night I hid in the bathroom for a few moments where I flushed the toilet (so the husband and the grandgirl wouldn’t ask what was going on with me.) I blew my nose, popped my contacts, rubbed my eyes hard, and ran cold water over my face. I didn’t want to explain why I was overwhelmed over something on my computer other than this video. Maybe it’s because I’ll leave for Haiti in less than four weeks. (I might even get to meet Samedy. I hope not. I hope he’s in Nashville by then. Please pray.) Maybe it’s because I’m watching a fund fueled in record time–a fund that will build a school for hope–by Christmas. Or that I’m wearing a necklace purchased because of a...
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April 19-21, 2013 (past but not forgotten)
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