Dad

Well, here we are with another Father's Day fixin' to roll around. A few days ago, I sat on my living room floor sifting though pictures and reading things my dad had wrote. He struggled with so many ailments in the last decade or so of his life. More than once his writings mention the care of his wife (my mom) and how he marveled at her patience with him. He endured three (?) back surgeries and open heart surgery and stents and nerve damage and... just so, so many things. He hated all the medicine he took and how it made him feel.

He loved his mom and his brothers and sister. He loved my mom and my brother and me. He loved his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He pretty much loved anyone we brought into his life. To prove that, he made lists of the best days in life and the worst days in life. Family, in one way or another, was tied into every single one of the best days, and the loss of particular family members are included in the worst days. My brother and I moving away from our home state are on that worst days list, as well. It's a hard reality to accept.

I still struggle wrapping my mind around how quickly he left us. If I were to make a worst list, that would most likely take up the top five spots. Even now, I think back on that summer of 2014 when we, as a family, encouraged him to at least try the chemo. I can distinctly remember him asking me what I thought about it. The doctor had given him eighteen months without treatment. I said if it would give him more time, then why not try it? I couldn't bear the thought of him not being in my life. He did try it, and was gone three months later. We should have just let him be.

But, that is that and it's all behind us now. His pain and suffering and worry ended without much fanfare on this side of things, but we know the angels welcomed him home on the other side. I've said it before and I'll say it again... the biggest gift my father left us was knowing, without any doubt, in Whom he had placed his trust. I could ramble on- much to the delight of the theme of this blog, but in doing so I would only be repeating what has been said so many times (and am only repeating it now, I am certain). If you want to read more about my dad and my thoughts on who he was as my father and who I am now without him, just look on the left under Moodiness and find the label that says "dad". That will keep you occupied for a while.

For now, there are many reasons for me to still celebrate Father's Day. My dad's laugh and smile and wit shines brightly through all of us still here. We all carry some mannerism of his in one form or another. He would get the biggest kick out of our family as it is now. So, in a weird sort of way, I guess that's why I wanted to write this. I cannot call him or send him a card or buy him the latest dad t-shirt or gadget, but I can remind myself and others that my dad was right up there with the best of them.

And the top spot of my best list in life.

The Month Of May

May is a pretty confusing month for me.

It's the last month of the school year. So that's an easy one.
Score.

It's the month our youngest son was born.
Double score.

Mother's Day, Memorial Day, and Cinco de Mayo (for which only Americans "celebrate").
Score, score, and (kinda?) score.

It's also the month we bid farewell to a tiny one we never got to meet. It's the month of my dad's birthday that no longer carries the need for a phone call to the local radio station. And, tying in with that last one, it's the month he received a diagnosis that was so detrimental, I can tell you where I was and what I was wearing when I received the call.

There is no scoring on either one of those. Three days in May that are, indeed, rather depressing... not that we're keeping score.

(lol?)

Recap?

Let's start with the end of the school year. I have often wondered why "Teacher Appreciation Week" is part of the month of May. Trust me, in May, every teacher is good. Tired. Exhausted. Completely over every kid in the class, but good. The end is in the sight. Lesson plans are a formality in which we're not even sure anyone is paying attention. Grades are merely a last-ditch effort for saving that one kid from summer school. We are seriously just going through the motions... much like that last week before Christmas Break. Teacher Appreciation Day/Week/Month (however you wanna roll) should fall somewhere in that post-Christmas, January-apocalypse, February-praying-to-the-snow-gods* calendar pit where you re-evaluate your life choices and momentarily contemplate teaching in the penitentiary** just to ease the mind-numbing reality of being surrounded by students who already think they're in spring break while still complaining of freezing, mid-50s temperatures.***

(I apparently had to get that off my chest).

On to our youngest son. {Sigh} We have been blessed beyond measure. To brag on one would be to brag on all three. Each one brings us great joy... this one just happens to have a birthday in May.

Mother's Day. Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo. Each one nothing more than a reason to eat, drink, and be merry (although the meaning of the first two is so much more understood than the latter). Lucky for you, however, I am in no mood for a history lesson today.

May 5, 1995. The day we said good-bye to the one who surely bore the trademark red hair. We'll leave that with no more. It hurts too much to ponder and life does move on. Some day we will meet again and even so, our cup overflows. I have never asked why.

May 7, 1947. May 23, 2014. What would mark the beginning for my dad and the totally unnecessary detour that marked his ending date. Again, we'll not camp out here, but for entirely different reasons. If I ask why on anything, this will be the one.

You see, I feel like he could have saved me from so much. He had a way of asking questions without really asking questions. I remember when I told him that I had agreed to move his beloved grandchildren (and let's not forget me) nine-hundred miles away. He never questioned me. Never told me I shouldn't. Just said keep this in mind and be sure you think about this. He and my mom both set the perfect example of how not to interfere, but simply let grown ups make grown-up decisions, even if it went against their very desire. A line of thinking totally way off base (for this particular entry) and most likely better reserved for the posthumous So-That's-What-She-Really-Wanted-To-Say! book.

Even so. The thread of my being holds true.

I'm in an upside-down world;
A conundrum of sorts.

Beautiful, confusing, hopeful.
A riddle yet to be solved.

Much like the month of May.

* I do not believe in snow gods. I believe in the one true God (although I have been known to agree to a "snow/ice dance" with one particular parent).

** I have no doubt these are great positions with excellent benefits and students motivated to learn. No offense intended. Seriously. Hook me up.

*** I, too, think that mid-50s are entirely too cold and every effort should be made to locate an electrical socket for the plug-in blanket I keep on stand-by no matter where I go.

And, finally, although I was weary of asterisks, if I ever do write a book, it'll be a doozy. You can bet every teacher's end-of-the-year smile on that one.

Grief is an Ocean

This has been a week of me missing my dad. I mean, I always do, but it hit me hard on Monday and has continued throughout the week.

That's what I get for cleaning.

You see, it was the very act of cleaning that triggered the whole thing. My mom had brought me out a set of glasses when she visited during the first two weeks of June and those glasses have sat in the same spot where I set them when we brought in her stuff. Even the white bag they were in was dusty.

Cause that's how I roll.

Apparently something unnatural in the universe sparked a cleaning gene hidden deep within me around noon on Monday. Yes, noon on Monday. I remember it vividly because the husband needed work shirts and other necessities and I gave him my word I would take care of it Monday (promised on Saturday). I didn't want him to come home after work to find me still in my pajamas with nothing accomplished, so around noon on Monday I decided to start laundry.

Oh, the joys of summer break.

It was while I was sorting laundry in the kitchen that I decided maybe I would actually clean the kitchen and as I was putting away glasses from the dishwasher I thought about that bag my mom left me. No time like the present, I thought, and I lifted the bag to the counter to begin unwrapping my mom's serious wrapping job of those glasses.

I knew the glasses were plastic so with the unusual weight of the first one I picked up, I wondered what surprise she had included that I had procrastinated in finding. Even before I uncovered it, though, the realization hit me that it was the very mug that I had asked to keep when I had visited her back in April.

And that's when the wave hit.

Grief is like an ocean. In the beginning, right when my dad's life was ending, the waves were huge, like standing at the edge of the Atlantic on a windy day when the clouds are low and dark and rumbling. There seemed to be no break in the white-capped, rolling waves as they made their way toward land and toward my heart. Time went by and just like the ocean itself, the waves became calmer- always present, but not quite so threatening.

Maybe it was because that blasted Facebook has been reminding me of memories from two years ago:

Dad's first chemo treatment tomorrow. Please pray for a miracle.
Dad's very tired and so is Mom. Thank you for praying for a miracle.
I refuse to believe a report from man. I am expecting a miracle.

You get the idea.

So on Monday just shortly after noon when I was holding a mug in my hand that the youngest had presented to my dad as a gift in more hopeful times, an unexpected wave came crashing in while I wasn't looking and just about knocked me off my feet. I fought through the tears as I put away the glasses and cursed the very thought that had me cleaning in the first place. I thought of my mom and my admiration for her grew even more. The size of the waves she has withstood... and is still standing.

I still don't know what to make of this world without my dad in it. I don't know that it will ever feel the same. Even so,  I hear him in the words of my kids and in their laughter and questionable jokes. Some days it's almost the same as having him nearby. Almost, but not quite.  I suppose that is the consequence of having someone who meant so much no longer breathing the same air.

And, as we have learned, the consequence of my deciding to clean on a Monday at noon.

No wonder I'm such a procrastinator.

Capturing September

September has tiptoed its way into my life.

It came quietly, whispering its way through the willows and sticking tight to the shadows. I've got to respect it for not loudly announcing its approach or mocking me as it peeked around the corners. I've got to admire it for not holding back so as to unnaturally stop time.

But even so,

I wish it had held off a little longer.

I've never been one for regrets. With very few exceptions, the choices I have made have been my own. I live with it all... good decisions and bad mistakes... and accept them all for making me who I am today. September, though, is a time that fills me with regret.

Regret that I didn't call more, leave sooner, sit longer.

Today as I set the table with autumn dishes and decorated the house with autumn knickknacks, I thought of my dad as he was a year ago. His final autumn was rapidly closing in and none of us really had a clue. How could he go so fast? I remember a brief conversation we had in what would turn out to be the last day he could really talk to us.

His grandchildren were telling him goodbye.
The reality of what was to be was settling in.
And he looked at me and asked if I had anything to say.

How do you respond in that moment?
How do you sum up a lifetime in words?

At first I simply shook my head no while my heart screamed not to let the moment pass. So I thanked him for all he had ever done for me, told him how proud I was to be his daughter, and assured him for the countless time that I loved him.

Nine days later he was gone.

If I were to write a book dedicated to the last twelve months of my life, I do not think I could begin to capture the emotion of each "first without my dad." In a way, I am glad to put this year behind me and in another way, I want to grab a hold of September and not let it pass.

It was the month of September when I moved away and left my dad.
And it was the month of September that he flew away and left me.

May we never take for granted the seasons of our lives.

Nope. Not Today.

My mom and I have this thing going as we trudge through the first year without my dad. We'll talk about things we need to do, things that would have us moving forward, and just when we think that it finally might be the day to do this or do that... we simply say,

Nope, not today.

With her, it's been big things. Monumental milestones that she alone must face. Things like taking care of paperwork, grocery shopping for one, emptying out his sock drawer.

She's made it through the first two on that short example of a list. She's the strongest woman I know. The third, however, is proving to be a challenge. When she mentioned she had thought about it today and then promptly changed her mind after opening the drawer, I said what we have all said through it all,

That day will come.

I wonder when my day will come. The thing I am stuck on has to be the one thing that makes absolutely no sense. In the trunk of my car are three severely rumpled and very wrinkled suits (as if rumpled and wrinkled are not the same thing). I've had these suits in the trunk of my car since late September with one very clear destination in mind- the dry cleaners.

So why are they still in my car? I have no explanation really. It's become something of a family joke (which, by the way, brings no offer of anyone else dropping them off). For whatever reason, it is the mom responsibility which would be all fine and dandy if this mom would only respond. Every time I drive past the dry cleaners (which is quite often) and the thought crosses my mind to swing in and drop them off (which seems logical), I think to myself,

Nope, not today.

Why am I wedged in this do-nothing zone about suits, of all things? I remember getting ready to head home last year for what I knew was to be the final lap of my dad's journey and making sure all the males in the family knew where their suits were located. I gave strict instructions for socks, belts, and ties. I left nothing to chance and never factored in that I would be the one slacking after the fact.

I was so proud of myself today. After a week's worth of school antics that left me in tears three out of five days, my goal this weekend was to make a noticeable dent on something I could control... the growing madness within the home. By this morning, laundry was finished and put away, rooms were dusted and vacuumed, and my dad's picture was firmly in place within a shadow box my mom had given me a few months before. I shed a few tears as I pinned a note he had written me under his picture and shed a few more as I tucked his memorial service card inside his Bible. It was all good, though. It felt good... until the family piled into my car for dinner and the later retrieval of leftover pizza from my trunk reminded us all of what was still in there.


Yes, I know.
No, not yet.

No, I don't know what I'm waiting on.

Not one of ours, but certainly what one would look like on a hanger right now.

Hey, this is about no one but me. No complaints about the family members. I would be saying something, too, if the shoe (or in this case, suit) was on the other guy. I already said it makes no sense. The only thing I can venture to guess is that I've got a little too much on my plate right now and those suits are not a priority. That seems the acceptable explanation anyway.

But at some point, it will be the day. It'll have to be the day. I mean, a grown woman just can't keep driving around with male clothes in her car...

At least not without a good cover story.

Speechless

I'm the kind of person who does not mess with bowls when it comes to ice cream. The carton and a spoon is all that's needed to make the experience unique. I pride myself on being able to simply take a few bites (as in about fifteen) before sighing happily and pushing the sweetness away. It takes talent, I know.

Life in these parts has been on fast forward for the last couple of weeks. School is in full swing and my feet have a hard time finding comfort in my fluffiest of slippers. I haven't cooked a meal since last Friday and that was solely because of a birthday. I'm not sure what kinds of atrocities lurk behind my refrigerator door and I'm pretty sure the dishcloth by my sink has grown its own zip code.

I'm having a hard time caring. Oh, I did make a half-hearted effort tonight to take care of the dishes and vacuum the cat fur and tackle the litter box. I set the trash outside and hung up my work clothes (today's outfit anyway) and watered the struggling plant on the back porch. I called my mom and listened to the husband and meandered around the internet. I finished a case brief and submitted it late, watched a video on conquistadors just for the sheer fun of it, and fixed a cup of coffee to accompany the ice cream and the spoon... and yet, in all the madness, I cannot escape the very thing my mom and I talked about tonight.

It's almost been a year.

Taken during a visit soon after I moved away. We were going to church
 to listen to the preacher who would end up speaking at my dad's service. 

And this is where I run out of words.

Celebrating Dad

Recently my mom gave me a shadow box to create a keepsake for my dad. It's a really neat concept and today I ventured out to Hobby Lobby with the intentions of buying some decorative pieces to fix it up. My thinking this week has been that I would spend Father's Day creating this beautiful, sentimental box that I could display in our living room. It seemed like an ideal plan until I actually found myself in the craft store today wandering aisles and thinking about what I was doing. Looking at all that beautiful "father' stuff and thinking about what I could incorporate into the box only solidified what I was actually doing...  sealing the fact that I was trying to do something fatherly because I no longer had a father to call.

I know, I know. Depressing at the very least, right? I'm gonna be honest, though, and fully admit for all those experiencing the same thing I am enduring at the moment... Father's Day is currently at the top of my list for "All Things Sucky" right now.

(as I just lost a few readers due to my total lack-of-class use of a not-so-real word).

Look, I don't know how else to put it. This one just kind of snuck up on me. I wasn't prepared for the complete lack of preparedness I feel for this one particular Sunday in June. I want my father back. Period. I mean, I think I knew last Father's Day that time was winding down- in fact, my blog entry from this time last year (found here), leaves no question to that train of thought- but, still... it is frustrating and disheartening nonetheless. So, I find myself on that dangerously, slippery line between self-pity and self-determination.

I look at the husband as he chuckles at something he is reading online. I think about how when the kids were younger, much younger, I would help them create or decorate or buy something for their dad for Father's Day and how I haven't had to do that for quite some time. Even now, the two youngest are discussing where they are taking him to eat tomorrow. I know they have already shopped on their own and have a gift or two tucked away that he will be sure to react with genuine surprise tomorrow. The oldest, who could not make it home this weekend, has already called to talk to his dad once this week and will no doubt call again tomorrow.

And that gives me cause to celebrate.

I think about all the Father's Day(s) I did have with my dad and I can only hope that I sincerely appreciated them all. I remember a sixth grade student I had years ago who lost his father a week before Father's Day and know that I have no reason to complain. I consider the kids I know today who are not even sure where their fathers are and shake my head in bewilderment.

I may or may not work on that shadow box tomorrow. When I mentioned it to my mom earlier today, she simply said, "You'll do it when you're ready." That is one thing our family is finding out for sure as we muddle through this year of "firsts" without the man who was such a big part of our lives... everything comes in due time. There is no fixed schedule for mourning; no exact time to do anything. Rushing only complicates things and "closure" is not a door that shuts easily. My mother demonstrated this perfectly a few months ago when she cleaned what has always been known as "Dad's Room". Some things had to go, but some things remained the same.

Such a beautiful reminder of the hope we carry, We shall meet again.





Happy Father's Day to the ones who are here,
the ones who have went on, and the ones who are yet to be.

Walmart Lines Are So Long I Get Completely Philosophical (Or Something Like That)

You know, I knew that sooner or later I would go here.

I just didn't expect to go here today.

While waiting for what seemed forever and a lifetime in the Walmart check-out line, I observed many, many things. Kids, mostly unsupervised, bouncing from one end of the line to another. Gawking at candy. Crawling on the floor. Whining about blankets. Totally and undeniably annoying.

There was one boy with who I instantly fell in love with- might have been his red hair, but he mostly stood close to who I assume to be his great-grandmother and pretended he was knee-deep in a jungle somewhere, machine gun sounds at all. When it came time for granny to load her items onto the the check-out thing, he helped and stacked and beamed with pride when she dropped something and he picked it up for her. When she told him to put on his coat, he dutifully zipped it up and patiently stood guard while she paid for her purchases.

Man, did that make me think of my own little boys.

There were magazine covers screaming immorality from every glossy issue and since we're on the subject, can someone please tell me how Cosmopolitan gets away without having to sport a brown wrapper to conceal its obviously very adult themes in every issue? Good Lord. There are things that just don't need to be in the check-out line, people. Seriously, if there are problems in that department, go home and google it in the privacy of your home.

But I digress.

If you've paid any attention to headlines in the past six months or so, then you have no doubt heard about the young lady diagnosed with terminal brain cancer who chose to end her life on her own terms, so to speak. Without a doubt, there are arguments for both sides of this discussion and I am not here to spark the debate on that. What I am here for, however, is to present a very public thank you to my father for not making that decision, no matter how unpleasant the ending may have been. You see, there was the beauty of life in all that unpleasantness.

As I stood in that check-out line watching a little red-headed boy and thinking about the young woman's life that ended way too soon (her choice or not), I unlocked the treasure chest of memories tucked back in the recesses of my mind and pictured my daddy as he was in those final days. No, he would not have wanted things to be the way they were, but if he had ended his journey in his own timing, we would have missed the gift of his passing. He didn't just go to sleep, he literally left this world. We witnessed it just as you and I would watch someone walk out a door.

I miss my father terribly, and yet when I think about that moment, my heart is at peace in knowing all is well. And no, I don't know how I would react if a doctor's report was to paint a traumatic ending to my life here on earth; I can only pray and believe that God's grace would be sufficient to see me through to His timing and not my own. Surely where we are weak, He is strong. If He is for me, who can be against me?

By my God, I can leap over a wall.

Even if that wall is death.

I know what waits on the other side.

If you are struggling with God's timing, whatever the situation may be, I would encourage you to stand strong and just... wait. Even as I stood in that line and thought about how our little family of five has grown from babies to toddlers to teenagers to independent young adults, I was reminded that nothing stays the same forever. Situations that we feel locked in have a way of changing faster than that Seattle-Green Bay game last night (and if you're not into football, I'll translate that into "pretty darn quick").

I truly believe His timing is perfect.

And redheads rock the world.

For you cause my lamp to be lighted and to shine;

 the Lord my God illumines my darkness.

 For by You I can run through a troop,

 and by my God I can leap over a wall.

 As for God, His way is perfect!

 The word of the Lord is tested and tried;

 He is a shield to all those who take refuge

 and put their trust in Him.

 For who is God except the Lord?

 Or who is the Rock save our God? 

Psalm 18: 28-31

Suffocating Santa

Normally the unveiling of the Santa under the tree would be a momentous occasion for our family. A cause for a phone call made for the sole purpose of taunting his former owner. A sight that would officially ring in the Christmas season for this particular household. Today, or yesterday if we want to be exact, his rosy cheeks only made me cry.

I still cannot believe my father is gone. When the call came back in May with the devastating news that a mass had been discovered and even when the depressing pathology report was later read aloud, I distinctly remember thinking,

At least we'll have Christmas.

I never expected to say good-bye as autumn was just beginning.

I mourn my father every day. A few weeks ago, I dreamed about him for the first time since he's been gone. In that dream, he appeared similar to how he looked as his days on earth came to an end. He was thinner and his hair was cropped short, but he wore no glasses and he was by no means weak. He sat on the end of a couch by two men I did not know and patted his knee for me to sit on his lap. As I sat on my father's lap, he wrapped a blanket around me and simply said, "Tell me about your day." I talked and talked until the sound of my alarm shattered what had been an absolutely perfect dream. I found myself angry and resentful all over again.

I loved my dad.

We talked almost every day. It's rather difficult to go from that to...

Nothing.

The Santa that sits under the tree belonged to my parents' household. I'm not quite sure how I inherited him, but inherit him I did and for years my household has enjoyed having him under our many Christmas trees. Always, always I would call my dad the moment Santa was in place and we usually played the game of "how did he end up there?" It was just one of those family jokes. This year, however, there was no laughing. When we began unpacking Christmas totes yesterday, I was caught off guard when those rosy cheeks and mushed beard peeked out at me. To be honest, I plunked him back inside a plastic bag so fast that if Santa had been real, he would have stood zero chance of surviving his oxygen-deprived environment. My heart sank as the reality of this Christmas set in harder than a block of concrete sinking the sweetest of dreams. I even entertained the thought of "not this year, Santa." As far as I was concerned, that plastic bag could be his tomb for at least another year.

But then the tree was up.

The husband trimmed it perfectly.
The youngest decorated it beautifully.
The cats sniffed it appropriately.

Only one thing, one item, one memory was missing.

I know people say to remember the memories. I know my mom has heard that saying often. I know there's a lot of truth to that and I do believe that time has a way of healing all wounds, but for now just bear with me.

My heart breaks when I look at that Santa and yet I firmly believe he is right where he needs to be. My dad wouldn't have it any other way. Tears fall down my cheeks, though, as I write this and inside... well, inside there is that dull ache that threatens to shut me down completely.

Until I look at that tree.

Full of ornaments. Full of lights. Full of hope.

Loaded with memories.

Especially the one tucked underneath the branches.




Breathe, Santa.
Breathe deep.

Unraveling

When my dad passed away, I spent a lot of time thinking about vapor and smoke and life drifting away. Now that six weeks have slipped by, I find myself thinking less about life being gone and more about life being inescapable.

If my life were made of thread, then I would surely be unraveling.

Hard News To Take

With the exception of dry cleaning yet to be dropped off, today I finally put away the rest of my stuff from my unexpected, mid-September trip home. I even cleaned the house. Really cleaned.

Stranger things have happened.

My father is gone. While this may not be news to my friends and family, it will be news to the virtual world of blogging and those virtual friends who have become a part of my life. I have avoided making this world-wide-web announcement simply because the act of putting it to print makes it that much more real.

As if the obituary sitting beside me is not real enough.

A day or two before I packed my bag to head home, I asked the husband how in the world I was suppose to prepare for life without my dad. He had no words because, after all, there are no words to make such a devastating reality bearable. He simply held me tight and told me I was the strongest person he knew.

Which is so not true.

Alongside my mom and only brother, I spent eleven days with my dad before he gave up the fight and set his compass north toward heaven. Those eleven days were the hardest, sweetest, and most confusing days of my life. I watched a man who had always been larger than life to me succumb to the bitter disease known as cancer. Only four months he lasted from the day of the diagnosis.

Four months.

And that's all I can say about that.

Cornerstones of my dad's resting place. Always Mr. Big in our hearts.

It's hard enough finding the courage to write.

Baby steps.

Awkward Silence

I went to bed last night around midnight only to stare at the ceiling for the next five hours. During that time, I (mentally) wrote a (brilliant) blog post entitled Everything I Can Do You Can Do Better. It had just the right amount of humor mixed with just the right amount of truth to let you, the reader, know that I, like you, grow weary of people who always have done the exact same thing you have done, just with a little more drama involved.

It truly is exhausting.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which side of the fence you sit on), I was not motivated in the least to actually get out of bed to put my thoughts to print. Instead, I perfected the grammar, tweaked a few punch lines, and rolled over while congratulating myself on a job well done. As the darkness of the room took on the gray tones of dawn, I drifted off to sleep only to dream about tornadoes and death for the second night in a row.

It's been tough around here, people.


(this is where the awkward silence comes in)


I honestly have nothing else to say.
Nothing inspirational. Nothing witty.

It'll hit me around three in the morning.


Except for this,


For my thoughts are not your thoughts, 
Neither are your ways My ways, says the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways
And My thoughts higher than your thoughts.

For as the rain and snow come down from the heavens,
And return not there again, but water the earth
And make it bring forth and sprout...

So shall My word be that goes forth out of My mouth:
It shall not return to Me void (without producing any effect)
But it shall accomplish that which I please and purpose
And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.

Isaiah 55: 8-11



I love it when He gets the last word. =)

1992

Psst...

It's late and I'm tired and this particular post tends to bounce all over the place. Good luck. =)

The year was 1992.

My hair was short. My glasses big. My dreams way out there.

I was freshly arrived at my new duty station and ready to show the parents my new world. My grandma even made the trip to see me and my new digs. Thinking back on it now, there was no way in h-e-double-hockey-stick that I even remotely had a clue what I was doing, but hey... in my mind I was on top of the world.

Or, in the case of this picture, on top of a mountain.

I am not entirely sure what month this picture was taken. It had to have been late summer or early fall. What is for certain is that in less than a year after this Kodak moment was captured, my last name would be changed and my dad would no longer be the only man in my life. For the time being, however, he was the man and probably the one I most wanted to impress. In some ways, that has not changed one bit.

Father's Day was yesterday and in my usual way of doing most things, I thought about life and family and what it all means. My dad has been diagnosed with a dirty word in a dirty stage that I refuse to talk about too much at this point in time. I don't like it one bit. I especially don't like how time has suddenly become an issue. It frustrates me and my comforting habit of always watching a clock.

Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.

As if tock is even a word.

At any rate, I was thinking about my dad yesterday and scrolling through pictures of us together. There's not a lot, but enough to make me smile. Strangely enough, I don't have many pictures of my mom and me. Why is that moms are usually not in the picture? And selfies don't count, by the way. Posting a zillion pics of you with your kid using a minimum of two filters to get the right look of "you" does not fool any of us into thinking that picture is all about your kid--

But I digress (as usual).

My dad has always cheered me on. In a scrap album tucked away in a cedar chest is a card that he sent to me following the trip in which this picture was taken. Among other things, it simply says, "I'm proud of you." He still says that often and I gotta admit, I never grow tired of hearing it. If anything, our recent turn of events has just made me appreciate it all the more.

I always knew I had a good dad.
I always knew I was fortunate.

May the ticking of the clock always remind us to cherish yesterday and anticipate tomorrow. May we never grow weary of spending time with the ones we love. And may mountain-top memories always remind us that if even for a brief moment in time, we really were on top of the world.

Or something like that.

Happy Belated Father's Day to the men who make dreams seem possible. Even if we never reach them, they're the ones who always believed we could.

Yappers Not Allowed

My last post a few weeks ago was about change.

This one is all about reality.

My current view includes a steady rain falling outside. Even though I am on a third floor, I am eye-level with a roof and the raindrop landing in puddles on tar paper (what it reminds me of, anyway) is a bleak and boring sight. My brother sits in front of me diligently working a sudoko puzzle book- he taps his forehead with his pen every now and then thinking through the numbers. My mom left a bit ago with the daughter in tow. My dad naps quietly in a bed only to be rudely awakened every now and then by the LOUD lady across the hall.

If you're gonna skype, woman, at least shut the door and turn your mouth down a notch.

Seriously, a hospital is no place to rest. The employees are louder than the patients (with the exception of skype-lady across the way). They joke in the hallways about their weekend antics and trade recipes while the rest of us try to accept the new reality that has just slammed into our otherwise quiet lives. Okay... maybe they aren't that annoying. I may be mixing up those voices in my head with the other loudmouths in the cafeteria earlier.

And right on cue, there stands two yappers outside the doorway opening and shutting empty cabinets like a reformed hoarder wondering where all their stuff went.

Sheesh. How did we end up here? A month ago we were preparing to graduate the youngest son and anticipating an upcoming visit from the parents. Now our days are filled with depressing doctor reports and googled statistics and a man who just doesn't feel good.

I suppose I'm just too occupied to be bothered by constant talking that goes absolutely nowhere. Even now, there are stories I could tell from my whirlwind drive home. Stories that include creepy, steel bridges and tornadic thunderstorms, but, really... all of that just seems so fruitless.

Kinda like the lady across the hall worrying about her neighbor's fence.

Yapping gets us nowhere, people.

Changes

This week has been a reminder that things don't always stay as they should be... Tragedy happens. Young people get sick. Discouraging doctor reports are read.

And change must take place.

After going through a week with other people and their troubles on my mind, I was hit head-on with troubles of my own. I experienced a moment yesterday where other things I have heard people say and other things I have read came to life in a miserable kind of way:

I heard the words, but couldn't wrap my mind around them.

I felt numb.

It felt like they were talking about someone else.

It took a good hour and a half of functioning in the real world just to come home and have a major breakdown in front of the two youngest. Sitting on the hearth of a stone fireplace with the middle beside me and the youngest before me, the reality of the newest change in our life settled in with a resounding thud. 

I spent the rest of the day in-between tears and somewhat in a daze. I prayed, got angry, and walked away. As the sun began to set and reality refused to change, I found myself reaching out to others, determined not to continue to drown in the sea of discouragement. Sleeping soundly, I woke up to the reminder that this new day would not begin like the previous. In fact, no one day would be entirely the same. Challenges are ahead. Pain is sure to lie in wait. My longing to go home will be ever the more stronger.

And yet, for all my anger at the Lord yesterday, His Word never fails. He does not lie. HE does not change. His plan is just simply a whole lot different than mine.

Forget the former things. Do not dwell on the past.

See, I am doing a new thing!

Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

Isaiah 43: 18-19

If you believe in prayer, please pray for our family. If you're not a praying person, stick with me and watch what happens. God's about to do a new thing and transform the people I love most.

I have to think that. 

I have to believe it.

It's the only way I can handle change.

Breathing Life To Dried-Up Bones

A joyful heart is good medicine, 

but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. 

Proverbs 17:22

I came home grumpy. Irritated.
Wanting to pop something with a BB gun.

And that's the mild version.

The husband put up with me for a while before he asked ,

What in the world is wrong with you?

I said I just wanted to hear some good news. Did he have any?

He had none. This is his week of no work. No work equals no pay. No pay presents unique challenges to paying the bills. Challenges to paying the bills creates a treasure hunt of sorts for things to sell on craigslist.

It's never a dull moment around here.

So anyway, he listened and more importantly, he understood my mood. We fired up the grill, made supper, and fed the kids. It was around that time that my phone rang. It was my dad.

We talked. He told me stories. I laughed. It was exactly what I needed. I repeated the same stories to the husband who (strangely enough) didn't laugh near as much as I did. He washed dishes. I dried. He asked me if I was all right. I looked him in the eye and said yes.

Somehow, in the midst of that unexpected laughter, I found hope.
In hope, I found peace. And in that peace, I found rest.

God's not finished with us yet.

Pretty Awesome Stuff

It's that time again.

High School Sweethearts 1965

Still High School Sweethearts 2012

You have no idea the amount of pressure these two put on me and my own marriage.

I mean, here they are.

They've been through everything. They raised two kids; worked more than one job each to make ends meet; put a doll house together in the wee hours of a Christmas morning (only to have an excited little girl wide awake before dawn- one of their favorite stories to tell). They've seen one son go off to war, decorated a house with yellow ribbons, and breathed a sigh of relief the day he came home. They watched a daughter pack her family into a moving truck and drive far, far away.

(And due to time restrictions and the lack of kleenex close by, I'll stop there).

The point is, I think they're pretty awesome and the best kind of example a girl could have for her own life. Tomorrow they will celebrate their forty-seventh wedding anniversary and what would have been my grandma's ninety-fifth birthday. April 29th has always been a special kind of day.

I love you, Mom & Dad.

So This Is What Happened

One week ago today, the parents arrived shortly after the noon hour. Many happy hugs were exchanged and many wrapped presents were unloaded. We sat. We talked. We admired the Christmas tree. Around five o'clock that afternoon, I fired up the grill and exactly one hour later, set the table with pork chops and baked potatoes and steaming biscuits. We ate and talked and laughed and worried... my mom wasn't feeling good, but after a fifteen-hour drive with a short stay in an unfamiliar hotel, who could blame her? I helped her with dishes (and can I just add how much I enjoyed that?) and her next stop was a place on the couch to rest.

And then the stop after that was the emergency room at the hospital.

By one in the morning on a damp Christmas Eve, I had the most unfortunate experience of leaving my mother in a cramped hospital room approximately nine hundred miles from her home. I had planned on staying with her; my dad had planned on staying with her; but by the time we saw the room they had set her up in for observation, we both knew there would be no staying. I'll add walking out of that hospital to one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm sure staying in that hospital was one of the hardest things she's ever had to endure. It was a lousy start to a much anticipated visit.

We were back at her side in the morning- at least the part of the morning where there is light, and spent the entire day waiting for somebody to enlighten us on what was taking place in or around her heart. Supper was being served when she was told she wasn't going anywhere until some test or other was performed. Another heart-breaking experience. My dad and I headed back to the house to inform a now discouraged household that Granny wouldn't be with us Christmas morning. We vowed to dress up at least one kid like Santa and take presents to her and most of all, Smile! when we visited her the next day. For the second time in two nights, I cried like a baby in a dark, quiet room while the husband repeatedly apologized for moving us so far away.

Somehow, Santa Claus still managed to stuff some goodies into the three stockings of three teenagers in the midst of all this and we all prepared the next morning to spend our Christmas Day in that cramped hospital room. I was just stepping out of the shower when the husband peeked around the corner and said, You're mom called and said to come get her. I hurriedly halfway blow-dried my hair and had just sat down to my vanity (aptly named as the place to apply makeup) when the thought occurred, Who needs makeup at a time like this? Walking out of my bedroom to a now smiling family, I jokingly told my dad, Not one word about how I look, and we were out the door and in her hospital room within thirty minutes.

And by noon on Christmas Day, we were all gathered in our living room opening presents.

Only nobody really cared about the presents anymore.

The best present was sitting in a chair and helping me with dishes once again later that night

So what happened? Not a heart attack, but a heart out of whack. Something new decided to present itself that Sunday evening. That something will be checked out more thoroughly by her own doctor back home and hopefully, with medication, that something will be kept under control and finished with interfering with her life... especially when it comes to messing up her time with grandkids.

They hit the road just a little over an hour ago. The oldest and I stood on the front porch and watched until their taillights faded into the darkness of the street. I shut the door and turned the lock and let the tears fall.

Today is my birthday.

Dear Dad,

This is probably one of my favorite pictures of you and me. For the first time in my life, I was finally on my own and working a real job and having to take care of my car myself. I was miles and miles and hours and hours away from home and feeling rather grown up.

But, boy, was I ever glad to see you.

I think you have been there for every big event in my life. I don't remember the early years so much, but I know you were always there cheering me on at ballgames and letting the coaches know when they led me astray. You watched me graduate from high school after spending all those years circling my grades with your ink pen and lecturing me on life. You visited me in basic training and managed not to laugh too hard at those awful glasses Uncle Sam made me wear. 

You walked me down the aisle.

There are times when I wonder why we have the struggles we do in this life. Sometimes it feels that life is so unfair, that other people will always have more, and that I'll never know what debt-free feels like. But then I take moments like this and think about all that I do have and suddenly I feel like I am the luckiest girl in the world, that I have more than other people dream about, and that the feeling of debt-free could never compare with the feeling of being loved.

I would be wanting if it were not for my parents.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Tony and I don't exaggerate anything when we tell you how much you mean to us. I know you have your own struggles, but never doubt the kind of father you have been and still are today.

You are loved.

Are We Done Yet?

I had a feeling this senior year stuff was gonna wear me out. We still have thirty-six hours until the boy actually walks across a stage to accept that coveted diploma and I feel like we've already been through it. I keep reminding myself to enjoy every minute of this... this is HIS time to shine.

But, man oh man, this mama is tired.

Tonight he participated in a completer ceremony at our county tech school. He successfully completed three years in a skills program that has already paved the way for a full-time job he starts on Monday. He was awarded Student of the Year for a second time and we couldn't have been more proud.

But, boy oh boy, do those bleachers wear a person out.

My parents have been here this week as planned and the days seem to be flying by. The last few days my mom and I have been doing some shopping and in each place we go, I stop myself and think, "My mom is here." It sounds silly, I suppose, but there is something comforting about looking over racks of clothes or peering through shelves of trinkets and seeing your mom there. I wish they would never leave.

Tomorrow we will shop some more. Friday we will watch the boy graduate. And Saturday I'm counting on her to help me feed a house full of hungry people while my dad will no doubt entertain an audience that includes impressionable teenagers. I am really looking forward to it all. Mostly, though, I am looking forward to the long nap that is sure to follow.

I think we're all gonna need it.