Adornment and Partytime

24
Oct

At a thrift store I found fascinator hats. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re called, or they’re in the style of a fascinator. Hang on, I’ll show you:

Not quite a hat, this one clips into your hair.

The thought of wearing one of these in public makes me happy. I don’t know if I’d actually have the guts to do it and just head over to the grocery store. You need a destination. Maybe the thing I’m drawn to is the joy of wearing something you like and not caring if other people like it. Maybe it’s the feathers, or the fact there might be an occasion associated with it, a happy reason to wear it.

For most people upon seeing someone wearing this, they might ask if it was a dare or if the person lost a bet. That’s totally understandable.

More than being caught in public with a crazy hair adornment, there’s something else that feels like a dare to me.

The idea makes my heart pound. I’m usually an extrovert, someone who enjoys meeting new people, making conversation, noise, crowds.

This idea overwhelms me and I try to make a plan for how I can get out of it.

The idea of going to a party is suddenly a terrible notion, something that’s to be avoided. Me, the extrovert, looks for excuses or overlapping commitments so I don’t have to stay too long. I imagine being in a room with people who I’ve had interactions with in the past, before my dad got sick. How can I possibly act as if nothing has shifted in the world since then? How can I fill the conversation on light, fluffy things when the hole of his absence looms large in every room I enter?

A hat. That’s the answer. An unusual hat. I need a hat as a distraction, as a conversation piece. That will let me steer any questioning up to my head.

Now you’ll know if you see me, that you should ask about the hat and then let me control the conversation. Deal?

Here are two more, just so you’ll be able to recognize me:

A fetching number in navy.

This one strikes me as the most wild.

For our communal entertainment and because it’s Friday, let’s change things up. In the comments section tell me which headband/fascinator hat you’d wear and what it would take to get you to wear it in public. Can’t wait to see what you say!

Today was a linkup with Kate Motaung who is now the lovely host of Five Minute Friday. The word prompt was “dare” and if you want to read other posts, click here .

Easy conversations that aren’t easy

10
Oct

These days I’m becoming more aware of and surprised by the self-protection I engage in.

There were probably tendencies in this direction previously, but I’m noticing my limitations. I’m almost like someone who broke his leg and recently had the cast removed. He steps gingerly, more aware of uneven places in the yard or the spot where the concrete of the sidewalk heaved up to create a booby-trap that could easily trip him and reinjure his leg. There are topics I gloss over or sidestep because they’re fraught with emotional peril. And if I’m maintaining a fragile equilibrium, any sudden movement could topple me.

That means that even if someone asks because they care, because they want to know how I’m doing or how my family is doing, and this is done out of genuine concern and love, I have to choose how much to engage the conversation. It’s fairly easy to give a canned answer to many questions, and that’s appropriate for the casual acquaintance. Those who are closer friends, however, pose a different challenge. I’m pretty sure I’ve written about how people can’t win with me; either they don’t ask and I can’t believe we’re going to pretend as if everything is just as it once was. Or they DO ask, and I am in a place when I desperately want to avoid talking or even thinking about it and they just brought this up and what do they really want from me??

See? Persnickety, that’s what that is. Pure persnicketiness. Here, let me try to make it up to you with a cute picture.

Kittens wearing crowns make everything better.
http://mrg.bz/RpOLtY

Did that work?

Well, it was worth a try.

So basically, what it comes down to is this: don’t ask me how I’m doing, because in that instant I might not be doing very well and not want to talk about it because if I do I might cry and I don’t much like crying, especially if we’re out in public. Be aware, however, that if you DON’T ask how I’m doing I’ll probably be frustrated with you because it will seem to me that you’re one with the rest of the world that has everything continue on its merry way as if there was no significant disruption.

How about this as a solution? When we see one another, just slip me a note or a card that says you care and you hope today is a good day, and if I want to talk about it more in depth I can. You know, if we make these cards together, we could market them, since I can’t be the ONLY person who wishes such a thing existed. Maybe that could make up for the inconvenience and hassle of being forced to use them. You’ll get the majority of the profits, deal?

This is one of those time periods when caring about me is going to be really, really irritating.

This was supposed to be a post with Five Minute Friday but it seems to have taken a sharp turn into the domain of rant and ridiculousness. You know what? That’s what happens when you’re supposed to write for five minutes and not edit things. !!! Thanks for indulging me today.

Forgive me, I’m new at this

3
Oct

A week ago I was preparing to go with my husband on the longest vacation we’ve ever had. The kids did not get to come along, thereby making it also the longest time we’d ever been away from the kids. This was also the first time either of us had been to Central America. (Wait a minute — ~~does Mexico count as Central America?~~ Nevermind.) We’ve both travelled plenty over the course of our lives, and international travel is something we both enjoy, but it’s been a long time (ten years) so I felt a bit rusty.

Flight leaving at o’dark’hundred hours

There are other areas of life where I’m rusty, areas that need more attention. Something I’ve realized though? This past year has been filled with new experiences. I tend to associate “new” with “good” but as most of you know, Dear Readers, this year the new has been most decidedly NOT good. With the advent of my dad’s illness all the new has been really, really bad. Really bad. Worse than bad. In less than a year I watched my dad age before my eyes as his body was slowly overtaken by cancer. That’s a really painful new thing to experience. That’s something that makes my stomach churn and my breathing shallow. Never before has “new” been so awful.

It makes me realize that I’ve been living a charmed life up until now. And I knew it. I wasn’t calloused about it, and I was sympathetic to hard situations people experienced but it was as a spectator. I was aware that other people struggled, that there were hardships in the world. I appreciated the lack of drama and general positive vibe of my life. There were hard days, of course, but those didn’t threaten to become the rule; they were the exception.

Until now.

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In Costa Rica, there were sensory experiences that were totally new for me. Things that people living there must take for granted (as we all are prone to do when we’re around something all the time) were things out of a Dr. Seuss book for me. Vibrant colors and combinations practically bowled me over with their intensity. Sizes that dwarfed their houseplant cousins back at home. Extravagant beauty that bordered on garish to my Northern, reserved Midwestern sensibilities. It was like someone finally speaking their mind after years of holding back. It was wonderful.

Feel that beachy-ness

For example, what the heck are these things? Check out these crazy things:

These are fruits. True story.

See what I’m talking about? And the photo doesn’t even show the intensity of their color. They’re crazy!

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The new of now is a long road of learning. This thing has a wicked curve and it keeps knocking me on my butt. I’ve always associated my biggest emotions with positive ones: love, excitement, joy, anticipation. These have served me faithfully, and have shown up frequently over the years. Even another big emotion, anger, has been something I knew how to handle, learned how to address and release. But grief, sorrow, mourning, loss — these are intense emotions that are new to me.

I realize that makes me sound like an emotional toddler, and I suppose in some ways I am. I refuse to give extra nobility to these new emotions. There is nothing greater about these “negative” emotions than their positive counterparts. They’re just different. They’re difficult for me, but I’ve started to wonder if some people major in certain sets of emotions, getting shame mastered, for example, while neglecting security. Have I had more time invested in happiness and not been forced to take time learning to manage bereavement? Can you even learn how to handle it until you are forced to experience it? Isn’t it a bit like parenthood, which you can read up on but can’t fully grasp until it’s really happening, in real time, in your life?

http://mrg.bz/Fki1gt

The new stamps in my emotional passport are ones I wish I didn’t have to collect. And if you’re travelling in similar areas, let me say sincerely, I’m so sorry. This is so hard. This is so exhausting. We will get through it…but it won’t be on any convenient,predictable timeline. And that sucks on it’s own, and that’s not even counting the loss itself. That’s a loss of control and emotional order to our lives. But that’s the way it is for us now, so rather than fight against it, maybe we should conserve our energy for the long months ahead. Remind me of that when I forget it, which will probably be next week or something, okay?

Are you an old pro at difficult emotions, one with traditionally negative connotations? If so, what do you think about a tendency to excel at some emotions at the expense of others? And if you’re like me and someone who tends to lean towards the more pastel color emotions, is that your natural makeup or a conscious choice? I’m curious to hear your perspectives!

This was supposed to be a link-up with Five Minute Friday and our new-ish host, Kate Motaung. I accidentally threw the rules out the window by writing for much longer than five minutes. Whoops!

This is terrifying but I’m going to share it Anyway

5
Sep

Today I had a guest post up at The Story Sessions blog. The Story Sessions is a writing community and there are some amazing voices there. I’ve been so inspired by the work happening there, and the way this community supports one another and cheers each other on. It is such an honor to get to have a piece on the blog.

But…

The piece is a poem. That’s just how it came out. And it is about grief…which is no fun. And it’s dramatic…which is sometimes how I feel about things but don’t always show it.

Here’s a little teaser and then, if you are so inclined, I’ll include a link to click to read the rest. Would it be pathetic to ask you to say hello over there? It wouldn’t feel so scary if you were with me. Also? Yikes.

Plod,

all energy diverted to the chore of

reaction.

Keep the dependents safe,

accounted for.

Remember this is also their loss.

(Here’s that link: http://bit.ly/1pVsABT )

Road Construction, Dread and Oshkosh

30
Jul

There’s road construction by our house. This shouldn’t be a big surprise. The saying in Minnesota is that there are two seasons here: winter and road construction. They’re making a new two-lane road, finishing a bridge, adding a roundabout (a word which is best pronounced using an exaggerated Scottish brogue: “Rooond-abooot!”) and fixing another on-ramp/exit situation. There’s a lot of activity over there, many different machines and vehicles, numerous projects going on simultaneously. Engines running, materials being delivered, dump trucks dropping loads of rocks, metal rattling against metal — a near-constant whir of noise. Most of the time I don’t hear it, or don’t notice that I hear it.

But it’s always there.

http://mrg.bz/wE2mlC

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Every summer, my dad made a pilgrimage. Even though he was a pastor, this pilgrimage wasn’t to a denominational meeting or a special cathedral, although he did his fair share of those kinds of things as well.

This pilgrimage was to the Oshkosh Airshow in Wisconsin.

…I know.

It’s like a whole different subculture kind of thing. It’s like an ex-military, amateur aeronautic scientist hotspot, complete with billowing flags and Americana.

He loved it, and he and my mom made yearly arrangements to stay at a place within driving distance, but on the few occasions that didn’t work out, my dad loved it enough to tent out in a field for a few days. That’s dedication if you ask me.

In the weeks before he died, Dad talked about hoping to go to Oshkosh. He hoped some of our family would join him out there. He tried to keep it open and flexible, but I think he was also trying to set himself a goal to aim for, an event to look forward to in order to keep himself going. Maybe it was an illusion he was weaving for those around him. He loved going and the idea of having some of us share that experience with him was a pleasant daydream, for all of us.

The arrangements had all been made many months in advance, but now they will not include the one who wanted to be there the most.

The place we’ll stay has plenty of space. It has a pool and mini-golf. The only thing that remains is to drive out there.

The problem is that road construction thing.

|||

The dull rumble of loss goes on behind everything I do. Every conversation is tempered by it, every interaction is laced with it. Almost every minute, it is there.

There are times when it’s more noticeable, times when it is so loud I can hardly hear over it, and then there are lulls when the racket quiets down and it becomes possible to pay a little more attention to other things going on around me.

I’m afraid of how loud it’s going to be if we go to Wisconsin. Even though I want to go, I also dread it. I’m scared of how empty it will feel, how much his presence will be missed, how his absence will permeate every activity we choose to do. It’s one thing to make it through Wisconsin, it’s another to attend the airshow. There are exhibits he loved, certain planes he was drawn to, and by the end of the day he seemed like a kid who’d been taken to the county fair by his favorite uncle. It was enjoyable to just watch him take so much pleasure from being there.

http://mrg.bz/lK9tof

I’m worried the memories will be overwhelming as we walk the grounds. Will it feel like a wallowing in grief and mourning, an allowing of it to soak into every pore? That seems like a twisted form of self-indulgence, one that doesn’t seem to have any useful outcome or point to it. If the memories and sorrow are overwhelming, how can you do that in a public space without becoming a spectacle? How do you possibly wring yourself out afterwards?

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe next year will be better. Maybe it’s for someone else to do, not me.

I don’t know how healthy it is to frame each decision related to Dad in the context of what he would have wanted, but in this instance I know it brought him joy to share this with the ones he loved. My husband and I took our boys out one year (my husband went out a few different years with just my dad) and it was a great time of building memories. I think Dad would be bummed out — but gracious about it — if none of us wanted to keep making the pilgrimage to Oshkosh. Maybe it won’t be my thing, but it might be for someone else in the family. And that will be okay.

The noise of my sadness, my distant road construction, with its changes in pitch and volume, continues in the background, but I have a feeling it will get pretty loud in Wisconsin and no protective ear-wear will be able to keep me from hearing it.

How do you approach situations that are thick with memories that still cause you sadness? Is it better, in your opinion, to face into it as soon as possible or does it help to allow some time to pass?

A More Complete Expanded Obituary

9
Jul

Beg pardon, but does anyone know who mans the obituary desk at the newspaper? Is it generally known as an entry level job for new graduates or people in a journalism program nearby? I ask because as grouchy as it may seem, and while I ought to feel appreciative of the Minneapolis newspaper’s choice to run an expanded article on my dad in the obituary section, I take issue with the quality of the article.

You should go see the article for yourself, formulate your own opinions and only then, come back here to have your viewpoint tainted by my observations. Here’s the link: Click to see the published expanded obituary article

http://mrg.bz/IZWTUj

There are probably certain things the writers are required to include, and probably a framework for every article they print. This ain’t the front page or even the main section, so creativity or hard-hitting think-pieces are probably discouraged. Trying to take that into consideration, here are some of my problems with the article:

1. My dad was 67 years old, not 65. In my opinion, getting that fact wrong does not start things off with a good impression.

2. Unless you are very familiar with Christian lingo, when you use the term “breaking down the Bible to the community” it implies that he spent decades disproving the Bible and trying to show others how it was somehow misleading or unreliable.

The journalist may have interviewed someone who used that term, but it’s unclear here and definitely the antithesis of what Dad did for decades in the pulpit, not to mention in para-church organizations. He knew the Bible inside and out, read Greek and Hebrew, had a mind-boggling memory for details. He was excellent at making difficult Biblical concepts accessible to people who hadn’t studied them in depth as he had and helping them see how those concepts applied to their own lives — that was the intended meaning of “breaking down the Bible” but that meaning was not conveyed.

3. While I understand that column space is often limited, in the hard-copy, printed version there was at least 1 1/2 inches of empty space. Empty space! They didn’t have enough material to fill the allotted print space? The article goes from his time spent in Young Life and jumps straight into church ministry. It doesn’t even mention important years spent at Youth Leadership or as an adjust professor at Bethel, teaching and discipling people to come alongside high school and college students? Or what about mentioning his dedication to Israel, leading multiple group pilgrimages there? Maybe mention the time he spent as World Servants’ Director of US Operations, commuting to Florida half time because he believed in their commitment to come into an underserved community as servant leaders, rather than the great white hope. Come on! There’s a treasure trove of inspirational gleanings from even a couple years of this man’s life, and instead there is white space. What a wasted opportunity to dig deeper.

And finally, number 4. There is a very unfortunate sentence that may have been a quote (it’s presented as such) but definitely does NOT convey the meaning behind the statement. The quote says something about him being a very bright man, but “he never acted like a very bright man.”

Oh. My. Word.

This sounds like he came across as a dingbat.

Or maybe he made foolish decisions.

It implies that by his behavior, language or demeanor, he portrayed himself as an unintelligent person.

This really ruffles my feathers because a). my dad was not foolish in any way and b). I know the intended message of this quote.

My dad never talked down to people. He never acted superior. He didn’t put on displays of intellectual acrobatics to show off his academic prowess. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone and rarely put on display the full breadth of his knowledge, which was wide and varied. He was a life-long learner and enjoyed analysis and learning new concepts. Biblical exegesis came easily to him. but he didn’t use these skills to elevate himself or diminish others. He had the ability to make people feel heard, make them feel seen and valued. That was his focus. His schooling and intellect gave him tools to approach the world of study, speaking and navigating the intricacies of business; Jesus gave him his purpose.

The writer got one thing right: Dad’s life mission was to be a friend maker for God. He wanted to help others discover how they could be made friends with God, be adopted into God’s family and discover the freedom that is living fully in Christ. This mission to be a friend maker was woven into the fabric of Dad’s life, and if they’d missed that, they’d really have gotten it wrong.

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Ultimately, the expanded obituary article doesn’t matter. I know that. It doesn’t matter how many people read it or if they now have different information about my dad. The people who actually knew him know so much more than any newspaper article could ever communicate.

Is it possible to capture with ink the joyfulness of a person’s spirit?

You can’t convey the full range of exuberance or positivity that comes across from a person’s smile.

There’s no way to offer more than a glimpse of him being fully engaged in a conversation or how he listened with his whole body.

A “hopeless romantic”, he and my mom whimsically named the various places they called home — how would an unconnected newspaper writer be expected to ask the questions that would draw out this information?

That writer can’t be expected to know the specific questions to ask.

But we know, don’t we? We know the things that made him special, the things that made him stand out in a crowd of people.

And what a privilege it is to be on the inside of that large cloud of people who knew him and were impacted by him. We all have our stories, and in our minds, we can fill in the blanks of a flat obituary article with the true prism of colors that represent my dad’s life and his heart.

http://mrg.bz/u2mvnx

P.S. If you are interested in contributing monetarily, you can click here for more info.

A New, Rotten Normal

2
Jul

He’s not on vacation. He’s not at a meeting. He’s not going to arrive late and we won’t see him next time we’re together.

There’s no getting around this. He’s gone. We have to go through this. We have no other option, even though our spirits screams within, revolting against reality.

There was a man in a parking lot who looked like him from afar and my whole body tensed up as I prepared to call out to him. Then I remembered. There’s no calling out to him anymore. There’s no giant arm held high above everyone else in a greeting from across the way. There’s no corny tag-lines left on answering machines and no requests to address a quick item of business in the middle of a conversation.

He’s gone and he’s not coming back.

This thought crushes me.

This truth sits on my chest pressing the air out of me until I can hardly breathe.

How did the sun come up this morning? How can bills need to be paid, errands be run, appointments kept when everyone and everything ought to be taking a year of mourning (at least) to absorb the loss of him. To carry on as if nothing has changed is asking too much.

But even in that, even if people ask about him or share their condolences, it’s too little. It’s not their fault that it’s too little; it’s that there can never be enough. They already know this. Societal conventions do help guide us through these interaction. Flowers, cards, phone calls, meals — these things are beautiful expressions of support and demonstrations of love. The point isn’t to equal who he was, or somehow replace him with a generous check that won’t bounce. The point is to acknowledge that he played a significant role in your life, OR a person from his family played a significant role in your life and you are also impacted by his death either directly or by association. I’ve been on the other side, wanting to offer support or help and feeling my attempts are flimsy, tinny notes that squeak from my horn into the dark, yawning chasm of the person’s grief. It’s a terrible feeling of powerlessness and inadequacy.

Then there are the people you don’t know but with whom you must interact. For example, how do you tell the library that your 75 books are two weeks overdue because you were too busy attending to the unraveling of your family’s life? Even if they would make allowances for you, how could you get through the conversation without crying and putting everyone, your children, the librarian, the library staff and any patrons within earshot, in an awkward spot? Is that even possible to expect from yourself? I’m a bad liar, and I’ve learned that the expression I thought was my poker face actually comes across as being more like indigestion or intense irritation, so that’s not very effective. I don’t know yet how to not spill all the details of what’s been happening.

Part of this is the process of getting comfortable with a new vocabulary. New phrases must become shorthand for what happened, a few simple words loaded thick with the final months of his story.

“My dad passed away” is used to sum up his dignity in the midst of suffering, his undiminished positivity and bright eyes that were attentive to the small miracles that unfolded for him each day.

“He had cancer” is supposed to cover the enormity of cellular betrayal from a strong, healthy body to one riddled with internal tumors. It’s supposed to imply the weakness, fatigue, weight loss and brain fog he experienced. People can’t know these details unless they’ve lived through this, but the broad spectrum of cancer can also include a small mole on an earlobe, easily removed by a dermatologist. Obviously his was a more aggressive type of cancer, but how much detail do people really need to know?

“Thank you” is somehow enough to convey gratitude for people remembering, for people appreciating the significance of this loss, for their words of comfort or sharing their stories of life moments with him. It’s intended to convey gratitude for the care shown in choosing a greeting card that encapsulates the person’s sentiments. It’s only two words but they’re charged with communicating gratitude for so many small details right now.

Even here, I’ve kept it pretty navel-gaze-y and self-centered, in part because the details of the illness and its progression weren’t fully mine to share. Much of that was also because Dad didn’t share much about how it felt to be sick, how he felt about the crappy news he kept getting, or about the slim odds of getting better. He wasn’t willing to take much stock in statistics, because they were so general and didn’t take into account a person’s healthy up to that point nor did they take into account a supernatural Healer who could change the entire scenery with a twitch of His finger.

That didn’t happen.

That doesn’t mean other miracles didn’t happen, and I hope to share some of those here in the future.

For now, it’s enough to stop at the store for cereal which we may or may not eat for supper (don’t worry about us, people have been SO generous and brought many meals for us — my refrigerator and freezer are stuffed) and get toilet paper. Everything feels like it takes monumental effort so the fact that we’ve got clean clothes and the dog’s been fed, well that’s enough for now.

We’re okay enough for today. That’s all we can look for as we adjust to this new rotten normal for quite some time to come.

Gary Downing, full robes, full laughter

Seesaws and Pendulum Swings

19
Jun

Things hold very little hope for getting better.

This is a truth that I seem unable to hold in my head for very long. I keep thinking that I understand it, that I’ve accepted it. Soon the “understanding it” subsides. I experience some kind of convenient amnesia and go back to not really getting it, not being able to accept the grim reality my dad faces, and us along with him.

There’s a possibility that I’m in some stage of denial, but that sounds so cliché I have a hard time thinking it could be real. And yet all of a sudden something pops for no particular reason and it all floods the tubes at once. My boat begins to sink in powerlessness and sadness, holding all at once the emotions I’d kept at bay without even trying.

I’m starting to realize I may not be equipped to handle this on my own.

While I’ve never received any counseling past the pre-marital counseling my husband and I did before our wedding (and does that really count? I’m not sure), I’m not at all opposed to it. I have a feeling there are coping strategies that could be helpful when dealing with loss and grief. For a while now, my reaction to things seems to either go from an emotional flat-line to all feelings at once as if I’m trying to drink from a proverbial fire hose. There ought to be some middle ground in this, some balanced space of holding the possibility of permanent separation alongside an appreciation of the time we all still have together.

http://mrg.bz/ptSqzA

Ought to, schm-ought to. The bare truth is that my dad’s not getting better, and there’s a very real possibility — a very strong probability — that he’s going to leave us. See? Even now I can’t speak the harsh truth because it’s too much to admit. It’s too big, too scary, too terrible. It’s something I only admit in the dark, when no one else is listening, when I can’t convince my brain to focus on anything else. Is this what it’s like for everyone? Would it make me feel better or worse to know it isn’t like this for other people?

Does it make it worse that I’m here to witness the slow ebbing away of him? Or would it be worse to experience the jarring juxtaposition of him healthy one visit, and then a few months later discover him weak, thin and slow? Who freaking cares which is worse? This is what the situation is. This is the one I’m a part of, and contrasting it with anything else doesn’t make it any less or any more. It just is.

Instagram: tclmn

But it isn’t just. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

(I’ll have more on that idea soon, on the shitty deal and non-nepotism of God instead of playing favorites. That’s good news if you’re the one on the outs, but it’s a lot harder to bear if you’ve been the diligent, dedicated son all these years and not the prodigal. A little party on your behalf would be nice, a little cut to the front of the line, so to speak, a little preferential treatment.)

For now, the irritating pendulum swings between being numb and being overcome, with a possibly unhealthy emphasis on numbness, are in my line of sight, and I figure I should try to have some idea of how to handle what may come. Even if I don’t really want to know what’s going to come. Even if I am dreading it even as I approach the subject with robotic matter-of-factness. That right there should be my indicator of a need for facing the thing head on, but I can really only look at it with my peripheral vision as I charge ahead, busily avoiding people and topics that could lead to an uncorking of the anger, fear and sorrow that licks at my heels.

Have I mentioned cancer sucks?

If you’ve got resources that have helped you through grief or loss, don’t keep ’em to yourself. I don’t really know where to start, and could use some recommendations.

Dissonance and Significant Moments

27
May

My daughter had her kindergarten performance last week.

She was excellent, of course. She sang the crap out of “My Hat and Gloves” and when she acted surprised during the line at the end, you really believed that she had no idea her hat and gloves were already on her hands and on her head. Perfection.

She sat pouty when they first took their places, because she couldn’t find me in the audience. That was because some toddler with less-than-attentive parents was standing on his chair directly in my daughter’s line of sight. I leaned from one side to the other, trying to make eye contact but that squirmy toddler was all over the place. Finally I moved one chair over, which meant that I was right next to a stranger but now my daughter could see me and all was well with the world…besides the fact that there were two empty chairs to my left and I was rubbing shoulders with someone I did not know. I was outside the boundaries of normal Midwestern space allowances. Here, the unspoken rule goes, you keep at least one chair between you and a member of the next party. This makes for challenges at any even with assigned seats, because on the one hand, you want to obey the dictates of your ticket, but on the other hand, the one seat buffer rule runs strong.

Instagram: tclmn

I sat there and listened to song after song, all with special actions and costumes. The kids’ practices in the months leading up to the event made it go very smoothly, and no one panicked or went off script. They did a great job all around.

As they exited and the audience filed out of the auditorium (which was really just a gym), it finally struck me that this is the end of my last child’s last year of less-than-all-day school. My daughter only does half-day kindergarten, and she’s my youngest. That means that next year my three kids will all be in school all day long. This is a milestone for our family, a very significant moment for her, for my kids as siblings, and for all parents of young-ish children everywhere — we thought we wouldn’t make it! We thought the napping schedule, the potty training, and the endless snacks would undo us! But we have triumphed!

It felt like a passing, as well, like the end of an era. It is the end of those youngest years and the beginning of official school-age-dom. She’ll do great, she’s ready, it will be fine. But it is also something worth marking as a significant transition, both for her and for our whole family. It was sweet but tinged with nostalgia for the safety, innocence and dependence of those first years.

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Later that evening, my husband Pete and I left the kids with a sitter. We drove across town and joined the rest of my family at my parents’ house in Minneapolis. We had received some terrible news that morning, and it was one of those times when it is helpful to be together in order to shore up one another, to distribute the weight of the burden over all our shoulders. It is a crushing weight even for ten people, so for the only one or two people most affected by it to be forced to bear it — it would lay them out flat.

We sat outside under the fushia colored crabapple tree in full bloom, its scent filling the air and wrapping around us. My dad was physically with us, but his disease made him slow and confused. He sat quietly as we talked around him, taking it all in. These are the people he loves most, these are the ones he raised, these are the ones he wants most to protect from the pain of his illness. He cannot protect us now. He never needed to, but it’s built in to his habits, the habits of being the father.

The dissonance of my day, the way the planet continues to rotate even when your own world feels at a standstill, the pride and excitement of my daughter’s kindergarten performance at the beginning of her life and my dad’s diminishing health at what may be close to the end of his, the significance of the events of my day — these things left me filled with incongruent emotions.

Those conflicted emotions may be the new normal for us. We may be in a new chapter when we must savor the beauty of the moments we have, even as we jam every important moment into an abbreviated timeframe.

(It feels disloyal to even admit the possibility that my dad might not recover. That’s not how we function as a family. We always find the positive and focus on that.)

Those moments, while being meaningful and sweet, are also nauseating and laced with sorrow because they are unlikely to be repeated again. Can you fully enjoy something when you know it is probably the last time you’ll have that experience? How can the present warmth be coated with the frost of the future? Somehow they coexist, mingling and informing everything I come in contact with.

It’s exhausting. I don’t know how to do this. I especially don’t know how to do this with grace, patience, acceptance, all while being dignified. I feel small, powerless, numb and shrunken. Maybe I’ll figure it out. Or maybe this is just how it will be for me. Either way, however I manage to approach it, it will continue. I’ll have to just follow along and figure it out as it comes. There’s no individualized guidebook for this. We all just handle it the way we’re able, and that’s good enough. That has to be good enough.

Frost

The guy on the Mat

10
Apr

Today I’m over at my friend Bethany’s site for her new series Sacred – the Dark and the Light. I’d love it if you’d come check it out. If you click this link, it should take you over to her site: http://bit.ly/1jwcsRx

Here’s a little sample to get you going…

There’s something about a cliché that makes my eye twitch.

…Maybe not literally, but you get the idea.

It’s the same with Christianese and those answers all neatly packaged that serve nothing except to shut down conversation. If I can shut you up with a tidy answer, then I don’t have to entertain your idea as valid. If I lift the drawbridge, then your issue with a certain doctrine or theology shall not pass.

Dontcha wanna come read more? Hope to see you there!