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!

Leaf Revolt

29
Sep

The leaves seem to have taken offense with their tree hosts and are staging a protest by hurling themselves to the ground. This dispute seems to have erupted in my absence, since when I was here a week ago everything was quiet. Maybe in the weeks leading up to this, there were rumblings, whispers of a revolt that was only discussed at night when daylight could not reveal the source.

Which leaf said that?

Who started stirring up trouble?

I heard it was the maples.

We’ll never know.

Regardless, the leaves got fed up and are now beginning to fill the yard, opening up room for more patches of light to come through. They probably didn’t consider this in the calculations, that their forms could block much of anything, but their absence certainly has an impact. If the sun was still strong it would cook their shapes to a crisp, but lucky for them, it’s strength wanes as we tilt further from it and so they lay there, soggy activists forming a crinkled brown rug under the trees, the sunlight illuminating them like a cleverly aimed spotlight.

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 )

A Fall of Firsts

29
Aug

http://mrg.bz/FRiaej

This is a big fall. Our youngest child starts first grade. Since I stay home with the kids, this promises to be a huge change not only for her, but also for me.

In the past, I didn’t have a huge problem with change. Big changes are challenging for anyone, but changes in schedule or routine have never bothered me since I lean more comfortably towards spontenaity. Too much set-in-stone and I get claustrophobic-y. To me, it’s fun to have a few things scheduled (a certain amount of pre-planned fun ensures I’ll see certain people, invest in certain relationships or parts of myself) and plenty of room for last minute appointments, being able to help in a classroom, or other unscheduled things that come up throughout the year.

This year is different. This year the lack of schedule feels empty. The prospect of quiet sounds like a terrible idea. Instead of feeling freed by the idea of time alone, it feels ominous, as if the time alone could hold something that’s been kept at the edges of my awareness, and my sense is that whatever that thing is, it’s not pleasant.

A great deal of this has to do with my attitude about it (and what doesn’t? — our attitudes are so important to our experiences.). By allowing dread to settle down and make a home inside my chest, I’m forced to keep myself constantly occupied so I can ignore or be too busy to deal with it’s source. To be honest, that works for me for longer than I’d like to admit. Sometimes it’s because of circumstances but sometimes, I’m learning, it’s because of my own personal tendencies. I mean, who wants to feel sadness or pain? Not me, man.

At this time of year, I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling a sense of wanting to freeze time or keep things the way they are. Rejecting change is not really an option. I know there are other people out there who feel sentimental with the start of the school year, many who feel sad about the passing of time. Sure, for many people there is a sense of jubilation about kids going back to school, but those same people also will admit they hug those kids a little longer when they return in the afternoon.

Change is difficult, even change that is good can still be hard. However, instead of being intimidated by change or loss, or having an attitude of fear, let’s try this experiment together:

Take slow, calming breaths.
Don’t overschedule or overcommit just to fill the empty space. Be willing to say no.
Allow yourself to do a couple projects you’ve been meaning to get to, but don’t invest all your time in those tasks.
Take yourself somewhere you’ve wanted to go, do something you’ve wanted to do. Think of it as an investment in your overall health. You don’t need a reason or special occasion to do this — you are worth investing in.
When things seem too quiet or being alone feels scary, put on some up-tempo music and move your body. Walk, jog, bike, dance, yoga — whatever is appealing.
If you are avoiding something in your thoughts or your emotions, be brave. Turn and face into the thing you’re avoiding. You don’t have to face it all the time, but even chipping away at it in small increments will make it less overwhelming. Plus there will be less to deal with the next time.

Will you try this experiment with me? This fall is filled with many firsts, and not all of them are pleasant. I’m a little bit scared. But if we can allow ourselves to experience it, all of it, and manage our attitude about it, the changes will be less daunting and we might, in fact, come out of it with a richer experience this year.

What things about this fall seem intimidating to you? What changes will you experience in the next four months and how do you feel about those changes? Will you try the six-step experiment in relation to change? C’mon — things are more fun with other friends alongside!

Why I care about what happens in Ferguson

14
Aug

It’s turned into a militarized bully session where police point rifles at protestors and arrest journalists.

Where are the peacemakers?

People looted businesses and lobbed burning bottles. Police aimed tear gas, rubber bullets and flash bombs at protesters.

Where are the peacemakers?

Some folks argue that the point has been made and people should get back to their regular lives. Others seem to demonstrate by their actions that this is not a situation where one can simply return to life as usual.

Where are the peacemakers?

At 5:00 CST, local clergy members are gathering to march with Fergeson youth. The immediate problem is that many people can’t even get to Fergeson right now because things are blocked off.

At 8:00 CST, there’s something called Lights Out, where people turn off their lights, light a candle, come outside and talk to their neighbors.

The management of the situation has been handed over to the Highway Patrol, which is much more racially diverse.

Maybe this can be the beginning of a new movement as this story unfolds.

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This is something that is important for all of us, regardless of where we live or the color of our skin. We all have a stake in this. We all have skin in the game. These are our children, this is the history of our nation, the attitude of our hearts. Do I think police should be able to use force to defend themselves if their lives are at stake? Yes. Do I think a young man should be at greater risk because of the color of his skin? No. There are such deeper root problems than the inciting incident, which was tragic. The death of a young person is something to be mourned. This is about even more than the loss of one boy. There are many nuances to the situation, and things are rarely as cut and dried as we’d like to make them. However, a few things stand, such as…

People have value.

People should be treated with dignity. That means people on the police force. It also means civilians.

People of color have a history of being treated unjustly, and therefore have reason to be suspicious of institutionalized racism. So many long years of an entire people group being actively and systematically disenfranchised. St. Louis is pretty racially divided, and its leaders are largely Caucasian. You can see why people might have a certain opinion about positions of authority when they don’t feel fairly represented.

People should be allowed to voice their dissent and their frustration through public protests without being unfairly penalized.

Ultimately, I care about what happens in Fergeson, and you do too, because it matters to us all.

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.

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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?

Striped Tights and Silver Bracelets

12
Jul

There was a girl in my high school who frequently wore black and white striped tights. You know the ones? They looked like the ones worn by the green witch in The Wizard of Oz. Most times she paired those tights with a black dress or skirt — black was the thing.

This girl was smart and friendly, and she did not want to fit in with the rest of the mainstream kids who were all about the perfectly smooth ponytail (how did they do it without any bumps?), socks that perfectly matched their shirts or the right balance of huge jeans to fitted tank top. She didn’t seem to care about any of that, and was in fact trying to be the opposite of the regularly scheduled programming.

http://mrg.bz/pA6Kca

It took me a while to notice that there were other people who wore the striped tights, or variants of them. The girl who had seems so independent and alternative at first, was still part of a crowd. She was just part of a different crowd than I was.

We both still wanted to belong.

We ALL want to belong.

I’m here to tell you that regardless of your smooth ponytail, your fancy silver bracelet with the dangling heart charm, your fit body, your acrylic nails, you and I both desire to be known. We both desire trustworthy friends. We both get tired and lash out at the people closest to us. You might do it with a more pulled-together outer façade, but when the makeup comes off and the shades are drawn, you look a whole lot like me.

That’s not meant to be an insult.

I want you to know that when you get done making everyone think you’ve got it all figured out, even if you get tired of working at that goal and want a temporary break, you can come talk to me. We’ll laugh about how we ever thought we had fooled anyone, and we’ll try to figure out why we thought we had to fool anyone in the first place. You can remind me to pull a comb through my hair and I can help you get dirt under those expensive nails. We can belong together because we ALL belong together. Most of us just haven’t discovered that quite yet.

Today I’m linking up with Lisa-jo Baker and doing Five Minute Friday…on a Saturday. It’s open to anyone, and if you want to read some other posts, go check it out: Click here to read more

What about YOU? Where do you feel most like you belong? Do you cultivate an environment of belonging when you’re with others? What times have you felt like you haven’t belonged?

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.