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.

A Disclaimer May Be Necessary: Blame The Coffee If It Helps

If my life were really a book, I think I would have closed it up by now. You can only repeat the same thing so many times before it becomes so predictable that it makes even me weary. The things maybe worth mentioning I don't mention because I've got too many people who really know me and love me that read this. (Okay, technically like maybe TWO people that I know of for sure family-wise, but you get the idea). No need upsetting the fans.

And that was a joke.
A lame one maybe, but I'm running on fumes here.

Even if I wanted to put into words what is in my heart right now, I don't think I could. Defeat is a hard emotion to express. Needless to say, I had one of the worst experiences of my adult life last night and all I could see was a flashback to a naive nineteen-year old girl who didn't know how to just walk away. I still don't know how to do that. I may never learn. My biggest problem has always been digging my nails in too tight and holding on for dear life. I seriously don't know how to let go, and somehow I always end up being the one hurt.

Don't they make a pill for this? Something I could just take to muffle the noise? I don't want to shut down; I just want to step back. I have no problem with being part of the background, but for some reason, I'm always trying to make it to center stage. How's that for making sense? Didn't Paul say something like that? Something along the lines of I know what to do and what I should do but I end up doing everything opposite? I don't know if it's pride or stubborness or just plain bad timing. What I do know is that my stomach feels sick and my eyes won't stop watering and this coffee is too darn weak.

I'm gonna push my re-start button today if I can find it. Hopefully it's still in operating order. One thing is for sure... if you have learned anything about me, my house will be spotless by the end of the day. I may not have a pill to take, but I've got enough furniture polish to see me through yet another crisis. We all have our ways to cope. Mine just happens to include a vacuum and about twenty dust rags.

And coffee.
I definitely need a better cup of coffee.

 

 

For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh.

 I can will what is right,  but I cannot perform it.

[I have the intention and urge to do what is right, but no power to carry it out.] 

 

For I fail to practice the good deeds I desire to do,

 but the evil deeds that I do not desire to do are what I am [ever] doing.

 

Romans 7: 18-19, Amplified

 

 

Make It Stop!

When I was pregnant with my first child, I read What To Expect When You're Expecting religiously. At the same time, I bought What To Eat When You're Expecting because I had really good intentions. Then after the baby was born, I read What To Expect The First Year almost through to the end. Finally, I purchased What To Expect The Toddler Years only because I'm a little obsessive about having complete sets. I'm not sure if I even cracked that one open.

Now I'm wondering if there was a What To Expect During The Teenage Years When There Is Nothing You Can Do But Watch Your Child Struggle Through This Thing Called Life And Love.

Boy, this teenage stuff really takes a toll. I feel like apologizing to my mom all over again. I can't even get mad because there is really nothing that has been done wrong; it's just a matter of going through the growing pains.

That is, the growing pains of love.

"This is the other side of love... the rough stuff that goes along with it," I said to the child in need. "Do you still think it's worth it?"

There was a brief moment of silence and then a subtle nod of the head, "Yeah, I think it's worth it."

That reply made me happy and sad all the same time. I guess I'm as moody as a teenager. Happy because I wouldn't want my kids to miss any of the joy that love can bring. Sad because I know that the pain that comes with it is inevitable.

It has been a long night, and we still have grade cards to review, vocab definitions to study, and my own homework to finish. Good thing the youngest is in the process of baking brownies and fixing me a cup of coffee.

Chocolate will get us through.

Although that causes me to wonder who will bake the brownies when her turn comes for a broken heart.

Ooooh, now that is a thought that causes me to shudder. I don't think I've seen anything yet.

Five Minutes Late

Do you ever wake up in the morning with that feeling that something is just not right? That feeling that there is just something about this day, but you can't quite grasp what that something is?

I had one of those feelings today and I'm sorry to say that once I figured it out, a few curse words formed in my mind. Not the big ones, mind you, just the ones that pop into your head when you stub your big toe or burn your finger.

In other words, when something causes you instant pain and you fight back tears.

Darn it all to h-e-double-hockey-stick.

Three years ago this morning I got a call from my mom telling me if we were coming home we better get there. I spent the whole day crying and packing for the family while making extended lesson plans for my sixth grade class from my home phone. When my husband got home from work late that afternoon, I had the kids waiting on the front porch with suitcases in hand. He drove all night and he drove fast. He took a fifteen hour drive and made it into thirteen. He held my hand while a little girl whimpered in the back.

And then he apologized like crazy later.

We didn't make it.

Five minutes late.
Five minutes.
Five stinking minutes.

I am sorry, but you have no idea how many times I shook my fist at God for this. How many times I asked Him why He couldn't have waited just five minutes to take her home. How many times I have replayed that hospital scene in my head.... so glad to have arrived. So happy to see everyone. We could see her in her bed.

And then realizing that everyone was crying. Uncles had their heads in their hands. Aunts were doubled over, turned away towards the window. My mom hugging me and telling me she was gone.

Boy, that makes me mad all over again.

Five minutes.

Her body was still warm, she just wasn't there anymore. To the day I die, I will never forget standing there holding her hand telling her we tried to get there in time. It just seemed as if time stood still.

I made peace with it all later, I suppose, and with Him. I remembered her the way she was just a few weeks earlier as she sat in the Carolina sun on my front porch. I guess that's how He wanted it to be. It wasn't about me anyway. He probably couldn't have held her back any longer. One day, I'll be the same way.

I sure do love you and miss you, Grandma. I was five minutes late, but you were right on time.

Home with the Lord, January 18, 2008

The Two Sides of Silent

I was thinking today about how loud silence can be. You're sitting in a quiet room with someone who you know desperately needs to talk; someone who has so much going on inside that you literally think they might spontaneously combust if they don't relieve some pressure fast. You try to think of something to say to get the ball rolling, but their pain is so evident, so volatile, that you want to be sure to choose your words carefully. Even simple questions produce a dead end and only the silence of the room remains. To me, that is when silence is loud.

The other side of silence is the welcome quiet that comes in the middle of a hectic day. Those are the times I'm glad to reach the safety of my car and just turn the radio off. Or the mornings when I've been on to the kids since the time they rolled out of bed and the last one is dropped off at school. Good silence. Like the still of the night when the family is tucked in and you hear a faint train whistle in the distance... that's when you give a faint sigh as, for a moment, all is right in a quiet world. That's the other side of silent. It's the silence I like best.

My boy is troubled. My heart aches for him. His silence is unbearable. A small grin is a welcome relief. He tells me he doesn't think God cares about him anymore; that he gets his hopes up just so God can let him down. I'm suddenly no longer a mother, but a pastor... a counselor. He listens to me, his eyes fill up, he cannot speak. He is silent. And thinking. And hurting.  Learning life the hard way.

"It's just not easy, Mom," he finally gets out. "I didn't think it would be like this."

And the rest is silence. The side of silence that I hate the most.

Giving Love a Good Name

Maybe it's because I've been watching my oldest struggle through the drama called teenage-romance-gone-bad, but lately I've been thinking about my own break-up stories from days gone by. I can remember pretty well how dreary and hopeless life seemed at times, even at the ripe old age of seventeen. All I ever wanted was somebody to love and to love me, and I can recall how I wondered if that day would ever come.

This past week I read a book based on a young man trying to find his own way in the days of Queen Mary's reign following the death of England's King Edward. Two things struck me as worth remembering in this book: first, how the (fictional) parents of the young man in question were portrayed... dedicated to one another and very much in love regardless of the troubles that life presented. Though their son was a source of great grief and worry to them, they never ceased in their support and encouragement to one another. Secondly, Queen Mary herself fascinated me. Granted this was historical fiction and as always such aspects should be considered, but Mary was so desperate to find love that she easily relented to Prince Phillip's desire to rid England of Protestantism. While he saw their union as one of convenience and power in uniting Spain and England, she only saw a man who wanted her and refused to reconcile within herself why those reasons might be. The result earned her the nickname Bloody Mary and for her, true love was never recognized.

Maybe for some love is a game of chance... you may win or lose, or possibly feel like you've never even had a chance to play. I can look back now and see that the worse times in my life (or what I perceived to be the worst) was really just a part of growing up. When I did find that someone to love me, it happened by surprise and was well worth the wait. Of course, I can say that now that those teenage romances are far behind me and I've finally got this love-thing figured out. (Not really). Watching my kids begin their journey, though, is just a reminder of how fragile those feelings are and why no matter what the year or generation is, GNR's "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" is still the best break-up song out there (with Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name" a close second).