Father, father

We headed home from the Sand Dunes Sunday evening, with the sun setting behind us, coating the mountains and fields in the most beautiful light. We saw small herds of pronghorn, green fields of summer, and gray mountains with the smallest touch of snow still lying in the valleys.


As we left Walsenburg and headed north, giant thunderheads were building in the sky. We chased them down the highway, watching the lightening flashing. First one, then another built in front of us. At each bend in the road, I expected to lose our view of the clouds, but they must have been further away than they appeared.


I was mesmerized. I couldn't stop watching them - those huge, puffy clouds filled with such harsh flashes of light. And it went on and on as the sky darkened and the lightening became more and more pronounced.


The miles flowed beneath us and just after sunset, we approached the city of Pueblo. In the distance, like neon popcorn, fireworks began to rise over the city in small patches, first one, then another. As one cluster died out, another would begin, and as we drove through the city they seemed to go on an on. To my left the city's fireworks; to my right, nature's fireworks.


Southern rock was playing, dark had fallen, and the fireworks filled my eyes. My heart broke open. Dad loved the 4th of July and family outings to fireworks, and this dual display was just what my worn out spirit needed to get those tears flowing.

On and on the light shows continued. Mile after mile, song after song. My concept of God the Father was so informed by my dad - his love, tenderness, passion for his family, his gentle touch. And now my dad is in heaven with my Father God. It was as if both God and my dad were sending me a message of peace and comfort.

Life will go on. Camp, hike, laugh, love. Life will go on. And everything will be all right.

And the tears ran down my face, the music played, the lightening flashed. Tim held my hand and I cried.

all pictures taken from google.com

Retreat

We drove down to southern Colorado this weekend to camp at the Great Sand Dunes National Monument with a group of friends and some family. Boy howdy, what a wonderful trip! The drive south then west was beautiful through some lovely mountains - great views of the Spanish Peaks, Blanca and Lindsey Mountains. Tim and I chatted, laughed and listened to music.

These amazing sand dunes are at the northeastern edge of the San Luis Valley - a true dessert (less than 8" rainfall/year), yet one of Colorado's most fertile farming regions thanks to artesian wells under the valley floor. The dune field covers about 30 sq. miles, 8 miles across at its widest point. Nestled at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, the dunes took me by surprise as we came out of the town of Blanca and turned into the national park.


We camped at a group site for 2 nights and enjoyed lots of good food, and even better company. Although physically tiring, it was a wonderful trip. It felt so good to be away from home, away from memories, away from the phone. I felt so emotionally safe with some of the people I love most in my life, and by whom I feel most loved. It was a wonderful refreshment to my spirit to not be thinking about Dad all the time. Ah, distraction!

We arrived just in time for dinner on Friday night, so we just settled in and enjoyed the evening. I'd brought a simple Indonesian meal to share with my sister and her family. Delicious! :-) That night I turned in early while almost everyone else went to a Park Ranger astronomy program. Just as I was falling asleep, it started to rain. Oh, bliss! The sound of the rain on my tent, the cool air coming in, snuggling in my sleeping bag. Although I didn't sleep well at all, it was a refreshing night of rain and cool air.

We awoke the next morning to clouds and more cool temperatures which I welcomed, knowing that this part of Colorado can be blistering hot. But even the next day, which welcomed us with clear blue skies, the temperatures weren't too bad until mid-afternoon.


Soon after breakfast on our first morning, we headed to the dunes, about 1 1/2 miles from our campsite which was up on the eastern hills. We walked across the fairly firm sand to the dunes - east to west. Climbing those dunes was HARD! I only made it up to the first line of humps. Just couldn't go any further. I suppose if I'd started earlier in the day, taken more time I could have gone further, but that was enough. :-)


I slept much better Saturday night, and woke up feeling more rested. Sunday we hiked, played in the Medona stream that ebbs and flows throughout the day, and contemplated heading home, which we did late afternoon.

Campfires, hot dogs, hikes, baby-wipe showers, sandy feet, hot sun, lots of water, lots of laughing. What else could one ask for on a camping vacation?


This last picture is the view of the dunes from our campsite. All these pics are courtesy of Tim.

We meandered home Sunday night to a terrific rainstorm - dirty, tired and ready for bed. I took a quick shower, journaled a little, then settled into bed. Home, sweet home.

Want more info about these dunes? Check out these sites...
http://academic.emporia.edu/aberjame/field/rocky_mt/zapata.htm
http://www.nps.gov/grsa/faqs.htm

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.