Red dirt

I have in my kitchen a jar of red, Oklahoma dirt that I gathered while on a family reunion trip years ago. The color of that earth was beautiful - a rusty red that just called out to me!

Last year I read a book about the Dust Bowl ("The Worst Hard Time" by Timothy Egan). It was fascinating, sad, frightening, tragic. It painted such a great picture of what it must have been like to live in those times, fighting that dust and dirt that blew into everything and couldn't be kept out of your life. The dirt seemed to take over people's lives.

That jar of red earth made me think that grief might be just a little like living in the Dust Bowl. After the initial blowing through of events, the sadness just kind of settles down onto life, making its presence known in big and small ways. And every so often, you have to really fight the dirt that swirls and blows on the wind, through every crack and crevice.

I'm disappointed that I've already started having bad dreams (my way of processing tough stuff). I was hoping for a week's good sleep before that foolishness began.

And I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of this or that that I'll never get to tell Dad, show Dad, have him be excited about. Like my trip to the midwest. He never got to hear any of my stories, find out how it was. Nothing about it. I guess I'll have to trust God to pass on the important info, but a little voice inside me questions: do I really trust Him for that? Seems like mighty small potatoes for the Maker of the universe.

So I'll go about my life - cooking, doing laundry, gardening, brushing the red dirt of grief off my shoes when it gets too thick, trying to keep it off my best dresses, and somehow figuring out how to live with this mess. Sometimes I'll get that dirt off the surface and everything will look just fine, but if you look closer, you'll find that it still lingers.

My blank day

The cat was sleeping in his favorite window, the breeze just slightly ruffling his fur, and I was comfy in my bed, reading and taking joy in the pillows and cool of the sheets, while the sun was beginning to heat up the front yard as noon approached. You see, today is my "blank" day, with phones turned off and no plans at all. I was lying there reading when I began to hear music outside my window, faint at first, then growing louder.

There was a marching band in my neighborhood - surely from Palmer High School just blocks away - practicing.

Tim strolled into the room holding to rather large drumsticks, a large smile on his face. "Want to come on a walk with me and see if we can find the band? I'll bet these belong to one of them. I found them at the park the other day."


I laughed out loud, but declined his offer, and snuggled down deeper into my pillows.

Wayne Watson in his song "Friend of a Wounded Heart" says...

Joy, comes like the the morning
Hope, deepens as you grow
and peace, beyond the reaches of your soul,
Comes blowing through you, for love has made you whole.

Jesus, He meets you where you are.
Oh, Jesus, He heals your secret scars
All the love you're longing for is Jesus
The friend of a wounded heart.

And those words ring so true this morning as my spirit relaxes in the quiet of my house, no phones ringing, nowhere to be, no one to see. Today I can read, journal, nap, even do dishes in silence and quiet, and my spirit can just fall back into the arms of Jesus who, I know, will carry me through these coming days.

All done, just begun

The obligations are fulfilled, the services finished, the hours of public mourning are over. Now we begin the real process of grieving, the days of sadness, the thousands of moments when we think to ask Dad, tell Dad, talk to Dad before our brains finally remember he's gone.

When Mom died, I thought I would die from my pain. For months and months I cried a seemingly endless flow of tears that I thought would tear apart my insides. I thought I might go crazy from the constant wringing out of my heart. But I didn't die. In fact, I actually healed. My daily thoughts missed her a little less each month, I found I could think of her without crying, and even though that hole will never be filled by anyone else, God has filled my life with the lessons of his love and comfort.


I go into this process of saying goodbye to Dad with the assurance of God's healing, the assurance that this pain is temporary. This time, I know those things are true - I know that real healing is possible, and that it just takes time. I know that I won't die, and that this terrible pain will pass with time.

That, I think, will make all the difference.

Day 3

Last of the services is today. The memorial service. Big disappointment that our 8 min. slideshow is only going to be around 2 minutes, but that's all right. We'll just have to accept that. Everything else has gone quite smoothly, so I suppose one glitch could be expected.

I'm not quite as tired today, and that feels good. I also slept a little later than I have since Dad got home - 6:30! Woohoo! :-)

I have a beautiful new, batik skirt to wear to the service, it's going to be a considerably cooler week, and my garden is thriving. So there are 3 wonderful things.

One more hard day of being with people, then tomorrow I can shut down for a couple of days. Eat whatever I find in the house, watch foolish TV, nap, read, cry at my leisure.

And then I can get back to my life. I feel almost desperate for some routine, for the things I usually do - look through cookbooks and make my menu and shopping list over the weekend, have Bible study on Monday afternoon, pray with my friend on Tuesdays, walk 3 days a week through my neighborhood, drink a cup of tea each morning. The small things. They are so foundational to our lives, aren't they? All those little bricks make up what our lives rest on. I'm thankful for them. Thankful to be able to go back to them.

This morning, I feel thankful.

Day 2

Yesterday's marathon visitation (3-8 p.m.) was worth it even though I arrived home completely exhausted, as in, I don't think I could have done one more thing, could hardly speak a civil word, don't know if I've ever felt that tired exhausted.

Dad's graveside service is this morning.

The words themselves stop my fingers on the keyboard and cause my breath to catch in my throat.

My dad is being buried today. My dad. My wonderful father who was all a dad could be. Sure, he had his issues. Sure, we had our disagreements. But he was my dad, and that's all that counts in my heart.

Well, that's not quite true. I take an indescribable amount of pride in how my father lived, what he gave his life to. My dad influenced thousands of people, brought to them the story of Christ, the story of hope and peace that has changed their lives. He mentored and taught people how to better love one another. He lived a well-invested life.

And today we bury him, my brother, sisters, and Dad's wife. Along with our wonderful friends, accompanied by words from the Bible, read by the voices of some of our dearest friends.

The breeze will blow across the hill where he will be laid, and at some point I will lift my eyes to the mountain and in the same breath thank God for Dad's life and ask him for the strength to carry on well.

Day 1

I'm sleepy. My body is so tired. I'm having trouble being kind and making decisions. My eyes are a little sore from crying.

My dad died this week - this last Tuesday. He just stopped breathing after working so hard to keep going. I have lots I could say, would like to say, but today I have to get on with things. Today is the visitation. Tomorrow the burial. Sunday the service.

Monday I can sleep and ignore the world. And cry some more.

I loved my dad as much, maybe more, than any daughter on earth ever has. He was extraordinary. He made me feel so special, so honored, so valued. He worked to love me in special ways. He listened to me. He appreciated me. He was wise, fun, energetic, passionate. How could I have loved him more? I don't think it would have been possible. An amazing man to many, and amazing to me, too! He did extraordinary things. But the best thing he did? Love me and my sisters. Boy howdy, will I miss him!

New day

The sun is rising into a clear blue sky. Across the fence my neighbor's sprinklers are spitting, and I can hear a multitude of birds singing their morning songs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my green beans and tomatoes growing, getting tall in the summer sun.

It's a new day, and today Dad is going home from the hospital, but not to good news. 2-4 weeks the doctors said. We've all heard stories of people far outliving the estimates of their doctors, but still it is a shock to say out loud.

I'm not ready. My heart is almost overwhelmed with sadness. I don't have adequate words. But this go-round will at least be a tiny bit easier. Why? Because I know from experiencing the death of my mother that this deep lacerating pain, these sore eyes from crying will not last forever. My heart will heal and eventually I will be able to think about him without crying.

Even as I write that I doubt its truth. But somewhere deep inside I know that's true. It was true with Mom, and she was my very best friend, my anchor, my go-to person for...everything. And eventually, I stopped crying. Eventually, I could tell stories about her without tears. Eventually, my heart did start to heal.

Hard days ahead. Grace must be looked for and enjoyed wherever we find it. The grace is there. Of that I have no doubt.

Salve

As I drove home this evening from the hospital, the loveliest smell wafted into my car - the same scent I so often smell drifting into my bedroom windows in the spring.

What is it? Some tree that is blooming? The newest grass of the year? Or is it just the sweetness of spring and early summer?

What a refreshing thing for my weary mind and body. Such a gift from the earth to my senses!

A bad day that ends with a sweet smell. A salve to my tear-sore eyes.

I can't seem to sleep past 6:00 a.m. I wake up with too much on my mind and can't fall back into bliss. I'm getting more tired each day, and wonder how hard I can push my body as I sit by my dad's bed, waiting to get him a fresh glass of water or help him change positions. My mind races toward all the decisions that will need to be made, but then I pull on the reigns - not yet, not yet.

One day at a time. Isn't that what AA teaches?

One day at a time to hear the birds chirping outside my window. One day at a time to read the Psalms and feel God's blessings falling on me like soft rain. One day at a time to talk with Dad, laugh with him, tell him stories. One day at a time to come home and collapse into Tim's love.

Today's another day. We'll probably get pathology reports on biopsies today. We'll probably know just a little more. Good and bad.

I take a deep breath and heat water for tea. I count my underwear - I don't have to do laundry yet. I decide on my clothes - comfortable for sitting all day. I choose a new book to take to the hospital. I make sure I have my pen and journal. Then I kiss Tim and head out the door. Another day.

Big stuff

The tenor of my blog might change. A lot might change. A lot has changed.

And yet, much is the same.

My dad probably has cancer. Yuck.

My mom died of cancer, so my sisters and I know at least part of what our future looks like. And this morning I find myself kind of at a loss for words, but I wanted to put something down here.

I don't want this to become a cancer blog, but I've always written honestly, so I'll just keep doing that. My life isn't going to absolutely stop. I'm still going to weed my vegetable garden, and I'm still going to fun things with friends.

And the fundamentals of my life haven't changed. I still trust God. I still laugh at my kittie chasing his own tail. I still have an amazing family - husband, father, sisters, brother, etc. I still have wonderful friends who care deeply about me.

So now it's out there and I can write whatever I want whether it be about the sound of the train 2 miles away or the sound of Dad's labored breathing late at night. It's all just part of life, the good and the bad. Some parts of our journey as humans is darker and markedly more difficult. So keep your eyes open for the good, the beautiful, the fun. Because even in the darkest hours, there's still good stuff there.

Routine

I think summer must be here...

I've begun my morning and evening routine of closing and opening windows and curtains, dutifully turning on window fans when the evening cools down, and doing all I can to minimize the heat in the house. I am very thankful for my house! It is stucco and has lots of insulation in the ceiling, making it quite efficient at keeping out the heat. That is a definite bonus during these hot summer months.

Summer is my least favorite season. I know - that seams a little strange. Most people love summer! But you see, I don't like being hot. I'd much rather be cold and wearing a warm, woolly sweater! (Only a few more months...)

But I want this year's summer to mean fun things. I can make that choice.

I do LOVE to hike, so I'm going to make an effort to do lots of that. I don't mind poring with sweat if I'm outside enjoying the beauty of the mountains - especially with good friends.

And I do enjoy working in my yard which is becoming quite beautiful, if I say so myself! I just need to make a point to get out there early in the day. What could be more lovely than sitting in the soft grass in the cool of the morning, listening to the birds chirp as the sun makes its way over the peak of the roof?

And the farmers' markets - they are a truly wonderful part of summer. Last year, I only went a few times, but this summer I hope to go once a week and eat mostly fresh fruit and veg. Good for the spirit and the body!

Ah, summer. Maybe I can change my opinion of the season...

Hope

I drove my (step) brother Matt to the airport today. He's flying to Thailand to meet our dad (his step-dad) and they're going on a 3 week tour of Thailand and Burma (Myanmar) where Matt's father was from. I am so excited for him! This might just be the adventure of a lifetime for him.

Our drive to Denver was fun - good music, good conversation, the usual with Matt. We talked about airports, the processes he would have to go through, how it all works, his layover, checking his bags, etc.

Matt is "beyond independent." He's a 20 year old man who wants to discover the world for himself, and is working to discover who he is in the process. He didn't want me to go in with him - that independence. He would do this journey start to finish on his own if he could. So I dropped him off at the curb, put his suitcase on his lap, then got back in the car. He wheeled himself in through the doors so quickly I didn't even see him go...and I had a moment of panic. What if his suitcase fell off his lap? What if he couldn't find the ticket counter? What if there was a complication?

I got in the car and began my drive home, tears in my eyes, feeling what I know must be just a tiny touch of what his mother must feel. All I can say is, "Wow."

I have such high hopes for Matt's trip...and such worries.

I hope he has a good understanding of the lack of wheelchair accessible stuff in Asia and that he's not terribly disappointed by what he's just not able to do and see.

I hope he's patient and kind to my dad who is struggling with some physical issues.

I hope he finds reflections of his father in all that he sees.

I hope he feels close and in community with our dad.

I hope he makes all his flights and has no unnecessary complications.

I hope he's safe.

I hope he finds wonder and magic and beauty and himself.

And I hope he comes back to us the same old Matt, but new and filled with all he saw, tasted, smelled, experienced, enjoyed, struggled with, found, learned and loved.

I hope...