A right to life and a right to die

This post was written Thursday, October 22.  I had to let it sit awhile before posting.  

This morning I lay in bed in that half-awake dream state, waiting for my alarm to go off.  I can't tell what time it is by the light coming in my window, these days,  I'm one of the few who actually love the mornings when it is 6am and still dark...but I digress.  After battling with my want to stay asleep and the sounds of life coming up from the valley, I gave in to the knowledge that it was bus-to-work Thursday and I had no wiggle room in my schedule. I rolled over and flipped open my Kindle to check the time.  It was 37 minutes after my alarm was supposed to go off.  I had three minutes to get out the door to make the early bus.  Not happening.

The morning started in a rush.  As I was getting ready and listening to the news, I caught part of a scrolling headline...right to die bill likely to be held up for months...

Trigger.

Memories of June 2014 came flooding back and the moment when I knew we were to leave the hospital and Papa Bear wouldn't be coming with us.  The moment when I leaned over him and said "I don't like this decision but it is your decision to make and I will respect it."  That day Papa Bear made the decision to end his life.  We could have kept him on the machines and hoped and prayed and fought for him to stay alive but it was ultimately his choice...and we all honored that choice.

The tears started to flow.  It wasn't even 7am.

On the bus ride to work I started thinking about my friends D, J and S who are waiting to see if their Dad/Grandpa Hal, after almost two weeks of hoping and praying, will make a rebound.  The ups and downs of the days are eerily familiar.  He is on a ventilator.  There is gunk in his lungs that need to get out.  The question is, is he strong enough...**

Trigger.

I started thinking about modern medicine and science and God and faith and all the things that seem to stand either for or against the right to die bill.  We have come so far, with modern medicine, both for the good and the bad.  We stay alive longer but, do we keep people alive longer than they should be, causing a new set of angst and pain that didn't exist before scientists and doctors figured out a new way of attempting to fight diseases?  Does longevity of life outweigh quality of life?

Do we call it something different when someone is being taken off life support after, in our case, going through treatments in an attempt to save a life, which is why he was one life support to begin with, because it's easier to justify that then when someone doesn't want to wind up there at all, knowing that they have a terminal condition that is untreatable and wants to choose to end their life before the machines and the surgeries and the treatments deteriorate their quality of life?  Why is one right to die justifiable but the other not?

Papa Bear made the choice to end his life.  He chose to fight the leukemia to begin with but he also chose to stop fighting when hope ran out.  If circumstances had been different, if we knew that there was no hope from the beginning, and he wanted to end his life before his quality of life deteriorated, I would have supported that decision.  He had the right to live...he also had the right to die.

It's easy, so easy, to say what is right or what is wrong when you don't have to make this type of decision.  It's another thing altogether to be by the side of the person who is looking down the road, seeing the potholes and road closed signs.  It's easy to judge.  It is far harder to be in the passenger seat, trusting the decisions of the driver.

I woke up 37 minutes late this morning...4 hours in and it's already been a long, emotional day.

**Addendum: Hal was taken off the ventilator and a few days later he passed away surrounded by his family.  I will never again hear the hymn "Holy, Holy, Holy" without thinking of Hal.  Godspeed, Hal.

A tale of a purse, a phone and a video

I got a pretty new purse some months ago.  It's quilted with a black and white print. The other day, I was looking at my pretty new purse and thought "it's time to wash this!"  The white was looking a little more yellow in places.  Gross.

So Sunday, I came home from church and a quick stop at G.G's to turn on the water for her dogwood tree (being a dutiful niece following a text from her uncle who was thinking about his mom) and gathered up clothes to wash.  I remembered my yellowing purse and grabbed it, emptying the contents onto the coffee table.  I put everything in the HE washer, hit start and went back out to go back to G.G's house to turn off the water (it had been about 20 minutes total).

As I drove the mile and a half or so, it occurred to me that I didn't have my cell phone with me and my brain began to backtrack.  The last place I remembered having it was when I was sitting in the chair, with my purse.  Hmmm.  I finished what I was doing at G.G's and headed back home.

I arrived at home and searched for my phone.  High and low.  With dawning horror, I called my number, listening for the buzz so I could locate it...and it went straight to voicemail.  CR*P.  I knew where it was.  At that moment I heard the washer slow to switch cycles and I hightailed it to the bathroom.  Opening the washer, I reached in, felt around and found my phone.

And I fell apart.  Not because of the phone.  I could care less about the phone.  It wasn't about the pictures.  Yes, there were some great pics on the phone but they were on a MicroSD card that was more likely to be salvageable.  No, I fell apart because on that phone is a video from December 2013 of Papa Bear and Little Miss P.  It was after dinner one night and she was using the napkin rings and napkins to decorate her Grandpa.  At one point she draped the napkin over his head, placed the gold napkin ring on his ear and proclaimed "He's a pirate!"  She was giggling, he was giggling, sitting patiently and enjoying the moment.  The video is only a minute and 35 seconds long but it's the only thing left where I can hear Papa Bear's laugh and his voice.  Where I can see him move, blinking to adjust the contact lens that was knocked off his eye in the fun, holding onto Little Miss P so she didn't fall off, and in the final seconds, leaning forward and to hug her.  I fell apart fearing that one last connection was lost.

We aren't a family that has done a lot of video recording, nor are we so good with taking photos, though I have plenty of photo's to remind me of good times with Papa Bear.  It's the sound of his voice and his laugh that I so desperately long to hear again.  As I sat pulling apart the phone, drying off everything I could reach, googling how to dry out a phone and MicroSD card, my heart was breaking again.

Yo Momma and I had made plans with some friends, and so after doing what I could to salvage those items, we left home.  I broke down on the car ride to our friends house.  The looming sense of ONE MORE loss just too much to handle.  Yo Momma cried with me as I shared my worries.

I've held myself together over little, silly things these past 15 months.  But this one didn't seem so little or so silly.  This one was tangible.  I can watch that video over and over again and for a minute and a half, I can see and hear Papa Bear again.

As I contemplated my phone that was sitting at home drying out, with the potential only copy of an irreplaceable video trapped inside, a glimmer of hope suddenly pushed it's way to the surface.  When I was putting together the slideshow for Papa Bear's celebration of life party, had I transferred the video from my phone to the laptop?  I patiently waited through the movie and ice cream with my friends (and enjoyed the time) but once we got home, I turned on the laptop and stared at it with the fervor of that lady who starred in the Mervyn's ad's years ago thinking, "Open, open, open."

A few clicks later, I opened a file and breathed fully for the first time in a few hours.  The panic eased as I watched Papa Bear and Little Miss P on the screen, playing, laughing and hugging.  I heard his voice, listened to his laugh and saw Papa Bear again.  I cried and cried and cried.  I hadn't lost that connection after all.

My washed phone is truly dead.  I have a new one.  Phones are easily replaceable.  I've lost most of my contacts but I can get many of those back.  The MicroSD card works.  I've transferred the photos onto a flash drive.  I've backed up the video onto a flash drive and will be putting it on a DVD and Dropbox.  I'm not taking any chances.  All was not lost, and for that I am very grateful.

"He's a pirate!"

 *Sorry, I couldn't fix the photo so please excuse the eye glare.*

Howl at the moon

Friday night my neighbor was howling at the moon. 

It seemed more than a little strange for this neighbor.  It was a little more strange when I went out to see if I could see the "blue moon" and realized it wasn't even visible from my neighbors yard.  It was still behind the hill, way out of view of the neighbor. 

Then I came across an article - little Maddy's mom had suggested that at 8:30pm on the night of the blue moon, people wishing to pay their respects to Maddy howl at the moon.  Maddy loved wolves.

I couldn't howl at the moon.  All I could do was cry.  Cry for an eight year old whose life, whose innocence was so senslessly taken away.  Cry for a Mom who was howling at the moon with gut wrenching sorrow.  Cry for a community that is in mourning, in shock and trying to answer the question, "Why?"  Cry for a 15 year old boy who is sitting in jail - for the hurts of his own that no one ever saw.

I listened to the neighbor howl at the moon, a haunting, lonely sound and no longer found it strange but healing.

This is grief

There are moments, say at a Baseball game when the bases are switched out after 3 innings, when the thought runs through my head, "When I get home I'll ask Dad why they do that."

Or I drive the Prius and look down to see that the MPG is at 52 and I think, "I need to take a picture and text it to Dad and prove that I can get good MPG in this car too."

Or every time I walk by his computer.

Or when I walk in the door at the Tahoe house.

Or when I really, really, really want to talk politics with him.

Or when I go to make a change on the laptop and find the icon that says "Dad's phone".

Or I really need a Dad hug.

Or when I fill the bird feeders because he isn't here to do it.

Or I see someone riding their bike on the road and for just a moment it looks like my Dad.


Or when someone looks at me and says "I thought about you and your Dad the other day."

These moments and so many more continue to tell the story of my walk with grief.  It's the daily reawakening to the reality of life without my Dad.  A year and a month hasn't lessened the pain.  A year hasn't healed the wound, though it's not quite as gaping and oozing as before.  The healing continues.

A year and a day...

The last family photo we took together was found on my Dad's computer just days after he died.  He had this way of taking photo's and then editing them and never doing anything with them or at least we family members never saw them again.  As soon as I saw it, I remembered taking the photo in the house in Tahoe, Thanksgiving night 2013.

We took several photos, with Dad setting up the camera and trying to figure out the timer and then rushing to sit on the arm of the couch.  Little did we know, as we sat there giving him a bad time, that would be the last official "O" family photo we would have.

The man sitting on arm of the couch on the left, in this photo, just shouldn't have died so soon. There is a part of me that wishes he would just get up off the arm of the couch, walk in the room and say "Gotcha!" and erase all the pain and sorrow of the last year.

 What I wouldn't give for just one more family photo.

Memories of Memorial Day

Last year I spent Memorial Day sitting by Papa Bear's bedside, with the gradual realization hitting my soul...I was losing my Dad.  By the end of the day, I had first hand experience with what happens when a crash team is called into a room at a hospital. I stood in the corner, trying really hard to be brave and strong.  Really, I was falling apart.

The crash team was accompanied by the hospital chaplain, a woman, which made me extremely happy.  She made her way into the room, stood by my side, put her arm around me and said, "This is your dad?  Can I pray?"  I'm pretty sure I fervently said yes, please and then she prayed.  I don't remember the prayer but I remember the moment and the comfort I received, being reminded that God was there.

The past year has been tough.  Really, really tough.  In the last year I've realized that I didn't just lose my Dad that week, I lost one of my best friends.  The friend that greeted me each day when I came home.  The friend that I talked politics with, watched Giants (baseball) with and the Jon Stewart show on occasion.  I lost a friend who helped me see beyond myself and my little world, who urged me to explore, cheered me on and made me laugh, even when I really didn't want to laugh - I cannot tell you how frustrated that skill made me as a teenager!

A month or so after Papa Bear died, I was in Star$ and ran into a friend.  It was one of those days where I had woken up crying and just continued to cry throughout the day.  I was holding it as together as I could, while getting my coffee before going to work, when I saw this friend.  He came over and said "How are you?" and the tears started again.  This friend looked at me, with the wisdom of someone who knew about grief and said "It comes in waves.  Just ride the waves."

This week, I'm going to be riding the waves.  The waves of memories of the week when life changed irrevocably, the waves of pain that have been hidden under a protective layer for a few months, the waves of loss and loneliness.  Yep, this week I'm going to be riding the waves.  I miss my Dad...a lot.

Well Hello...

Long time no see.

Yes, I still exist.  Yes, I do remember I have a blog.  Yes, I do miss writing here.

I'm finding writing difficult, these days.  My work days have me up between 5:45 and 6:30am, depending on the day, out the door by 7:25 (at the latest) and home between 5:45pm and 6:30pm...depending on the day. There is a span between Tuesday evening and Thursday evening that I usually don't even see Yo Momma...and we live in the same house!  The last thing I want to do have energy for when I get home from work, in the two or so hours before I go to bed, is think and write a blog post.

The weekends aren't much better.  Being a true introvert, my Saturdays are usually spent trying to recharge so that I can call up all the energy I need to pretend to be an extrovert for work on Monday...and church on Sunday.  Add in the weight of grief and depression I've been dealing with for awhile now, and well, I just don't want to think very hard on the weekends either.

The time that inspiration does strike I'm usually either,

1. In the car driving to or from work.
2. At work.

Neither of those times are conducive to writing a blog post, so the blog sits, waiting for attention.

Actually, a lot of things, and people, sit waiting for attention.  I just don't have the energy, mental, physical or emotional.

I've struggled with the guilt of seemingly letting people down.  It is difficult to navigate the road of other's expectations and my own mental and emotional health.  I've had people try to shove guilt on my head and I've had people look me in the eye and say "You have permission to focus on yourself, to take care of yourself."  I'm trying to listen to the latter group.  What I realize is that I am not the person I was in April 2014.  I've changed...life has changed, not just in the last year but in the last three years...and I can't go back to being the person I was.

I'm wounded.  I'm healing. The scars are still fresh and painful to the touch.  I'm waiting for the day when they just ache but that's still a long ways off.  Until then, I get by the best I can.  It's all I can do at the moment...and that's enough.

Dear Facebook,

I saw the generated post on my wall the other day "It's been a great year!  Thanks for being a part of it!"  I saw the photo that the algorithms came up with as the one to highlight my "great year"...and I pulled the drop down arrow to hide the post.

For me, Facebook, 2014 was not a great year.  It was a pretty sucky year.  I would give pretty much anything for a do-over.  The photo chosen as the cover for that generated post was the last photo I have of just me and my Dad.  I know a bunch of people liked it, which is why it was front and center on that slideshow thingy.  When I saw it, though, I started to cry.  I'm not blaming you, Facebook techie people.  I know the intention behind the post thing was to remind people of the good things that happened, the places we've been, the people we've met, the memories we have, the things that occurred in our lives, so in one sense you did accomplished your goal.

It's not your fault, Facebook, that in 2014 leukemia disrupted my family.  It's not your fault this f***ing cancer wasn't eradicated by the massive amounts of chemo my Dad was given, opening his immune system up to the infection that took hold of my Dad's lungs and wouldn't let go.  The photo's that slide through my mind when I think back to 2014 aren't on your generated post.  They are in my head, snapshots of moments when I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same again, as I watched my Dad go from strong, healthy, happy and hug-able to a resigned, defeated man who spelled out the word "torture" with his fingers, because he was on a ventilator and couldn't speak, and mouthed the words "I'm ready to die".  You don't have the pictures of the wild look on his face when the fever spiked, nor the picture of the scene of the room when the crash team came swarming into his hospital room.  You don't have a picture of the hospital chaplain who stood by my side in those moments offering a silent prayer, with her arm around my shoulders, nor of the ER doctor who rode by on his bike as I sat outside by the fountain, the day my Dad died, and gently raised his hand in greeting as our eyes met.  He knew what was happening in the room three floors up.

I'm the only one who can see that slideshow.  It reminds me daily that 2014 was not a great year.  It was a year that my family is going to take a long time to recover from.  Yes, there are some good memories in there.  Somewhere down the road I'll be able to go back, look at 2014 and find the good memories.  So, thanks for storing those memories, Facebook.  But if you don't mind, I'm just going to skip right over everyone else's "It's been a great year posts".  It just hurts too much today.

Sincerely,
Brittany

Unpublished posts

There are 27 drafts of blog posts sitting in my blogger dashboard.  Some are deep, emotionally charged entries, some are pithy throw away things.  Some have been there for a year or more, many have been written in the past 6 months.

When Papa Bear died, one very wise friend who has been on the journey of grief more than once said, "Keep blogging...even if those posts never see the light of day, keep blogging."  So I have.

Blogging started out as a way of communicating with the people back home when we went on our Mississippi Mission trips (plus there was this one blog ring that had caught my attention and I wanted to be a part of that group!)  It was much easier to write on a blog and add pictures than to send an email to each person wanting to know what was happening while we were away.  Blogging also helped me process what we had seen and done those days.  I kept it up after coming home and soon started a separate blog just for the Mississippi Trips...ca2ms.blogspot.com.

Blogging has become an emotional outlet, a place where I can air my thoughts and feelings and either people read it or people don't.  Lately, though, the blog posts have started piling up.  I tend to edit what gets published for multiple reasons.  One is out of respect for those who read this page, another is out of respect for my own piece of mind.  Some would read what I have written and become VERY concerned about where I stand with God these days or how I am dealing with grief or my political stance or...  I need to write down my thoughts, my hurts, my heart on this journey of life and grief but I don't always need feedback or input.  I just need to write.  I've never been great at keeping a journal in handwritten book form (it's too slow!) but I can type my thoughts out, hit save and go on my way.  Blogging works, however irregular posting happens.

And so, my blogger dashboard has 27 unpublished posts just sitting, waiting, ready for that moment when I reread them, do a little editing and hit the "publish" button or simply hit "save" and let them sit for a little while longer.  So though it may be weeks between posts, never fear, I am here.  I am blogging...I'm just not publishing.

Okay...make that 26.

Blue Christmas - A reaction to a Facebook thread

Every once in a while something will trigger a reaction I did not anticipate.  I try not to be a reactionary person, but rather one who takes a step back from my reactions and examines the whole situation before moving forward.  What this means is that in conversations or places where I can leave a comment, I don't say anything.  Many times, my initial reaction will be off the charts ridiculous and it's better that I didn't say/write anything at all.  Sometimes, though, my reactions are sound and deserve to be aired, however long it takes.

When I was still working for Old Church, I became aware of a service that some churches hold around Christmas called "Blue Christmas".  Some call it the service "The Longest Night of the Year".  I prefer Blue Christmas.  The premise of this service, as I understand it, is to offer a time in the midst of the Christmas season, to remember, to contemplate, to acknowledge that for some people the Christmas season isn't a happy, joyous occasion.  I broached the subject of a Blue Christmas service with Old Church staff and it went nowhere.  At that point in time, I wasn't willing to push the envelope and yet I was constantly mindful that though the season of Christmas, for Christ followers, is celebrating the birth of new life in the form of a baby named Jesus, not everyone could embrace the celebration...even Christ followers.  The deaths, literal and metaphorical, in their lives simply swamped them and the joy of the season was muted.

A friend of mine, Ralphie, participated in a Blue Christmas service last year.  He and LN invited me to attend.  I had other things happening and couldn't, but this year, oh this year, I have been anticipating that service with a ferocity.  I need to be able to sit, in the midst of the joy of the Christmas season, and allow the pain and sorrow of this last year to surface.  I need the church universal to stand with me in my grief and pain and give me a space, with Christmas decorations all around, to allow the tears to flow and my heart to grieve the loss of my Dad.  (Of course, it will probably be held on the weekend that I have planned to be out of town but still, if I'm around, I'M THERE!)

Awhile back, in a group I am a part of on FB, a thread was started about Blue Christmas services and among the comments was one that triggered a reaction.  A very strong reaction.  I shut down FB, walked away from the computer and cried.  I don't believe the comment wasn't meant for harm, simply an observation from one person's perspective.  In that moment, however, I was thrown back into a state of wondering why I do church anymore.  

My reaction wasn't rational, yet at the same time there is an element that I believe church folks need to hear and be reminded of, as we approach the season of Christmas.   I can only speak from my perspective and so I offer my truth this Christmas season.  I love Jesus, I love the Christmas season and yet I'm going to have trouble finding joy this Christmas.

Please don't deny, belittle or otherwise make light of those who aren't joyful this Christmas season.  For it isn't Jesus' birth that makes us sad, it's the life and love we find and lose on this earth that brings sorrow, heartache and grief.  Yes, there is joy in Jesus and yes, there is joy in Christmas but the reality of life means we also deal with the reality of loss.  In diminishing or otherwise denying that reality, we risk alienating the very people who need us the most this Christmas season.

Ralphie asked if I would be willing to sing with him at the Blue Christmas service this year, a song that we had sung together three years ago at a joy-filled Christmas celebration.  I answered honestly, I'm not sure that I will be able to sing.  But, if I'm in town, I will pull out my guitar and play as he sings.  I will allow the words to penetrate my grief-stricken heart and give myself the space to be sad in a season of joy and take comfort in a body of believers who recognize "through all my tears, for what I've lost, there's still my joy for Christmas day."

http://youtu.be/qGLA3QNEyVA

A conversation with Adventure Boy

Adventure Boy and I were walking to an attraction at a famous amusement park recently when the following conversation took place.

Adventure Boy: Grandma (aka Yo Momma) is older than you.
Me: Yes.
AB:  So she will probably die before you.
Me: Yes.
AB: You're gonna be really sad then.
Me (thinking to myself: "Oh, I am no where near ready for that to happen and I'm trying not to cry thinking about that now.") Out loud: Yes, I will be very sad.
AB:  You're going to need me then because you will be alone.
Me (now desperately trying to talk around the torrent of tears threatening): Yes, AB, I am really going to need you then.
AB:  I will be there...because you don't have a husband yet.
Me (tears gone, laughter bubbling): Well, have you been looking for a husband for me?
AB: Yes, yes I have.
Me: Okay, let me know if you find someone.
AB: I will.

Sometimes the depths of this child's soul and thoughts astounds me...love, love, love him!

Grief check-up

Walking this path of grief, I'm always aware that my path is unique to me.  What I need, isn't what other's need.  What turns me off and makes me want to run away screaming, may be comforting and helpful to other people.  It's helpful to write down what it is I need, don't need, sometimes need and what I have to offer at the moment, so here goes.

Here's what I need:

• People to listen to me or read what I write.
• People who will simply pray or think of me throughout the day.
• Virtual hugs...RevGals introduced me to this one.  It's simple. Take a persons name and insert it into parentheses, such as ((Brittany)).  I dig those.
• Little simple notes "thinking of you", "love you", etc.  Or in the case of one friend, inappropriate text Fridays.  =)
• A lot of grace and understanding.  It's hard just to get up in the morning.  All I want to do is hide away from the world.  I'm working, really working, at being open and available but oh gosh, it's hard 'cuz I am wrung out emotionally.  I find myself exhausted at the end of the week, just from going to work each day and being "on".  My introverted tendencies are now swamped by the emotional overload of grief...it's just a tough time in life.

Here's what I don't need:

• Reassurance of God's presence...I'm fully aware of God's presence.  I'm not mad at God and I don't feel abandoned by God...y'all can stand down.
• To be told the details of your prayers.
• Detailed stories from your own walk with grief.
• Reassurance that "this too will pass"...yeah, that one isn't good.
• Scripture verses quoted.

Here's what I sometimes need:

• Physical Hugs.  This one is tough.  I've found that my inner sensitivity levels are interlinked to physical touch, if that makes sense at all.  Sometimes I am good with hugs and sometimes, wow, sometimes I really just don't want to be touched because I will come undone.

Here's what I can offer others right now:

• Not a lot.
• Honesty, but only if I deem you trustworthy or really willing to accept what I have to say...even then, I'm finding I don't have much to lose these days...either that or I don't have much of a guard/shield/filter in place.
• Tears on demand.
• Watery smiles.
• Sincere gratitude for those walking beside me.  

Road Construction ahead

Every day I drive the same road.  Driving south, I head to work.  Driving north, I head home.  I've been driving this road since I first got my license many a year ago.  The road hasn't changed much.  There have been new patches of concrete/blacktop added here and there.  A couple of stoplights have been added.  But the overall road hasn't really changed.

Driving south, I'm familiar with the bumps, the turns and where the potholes are that I want to avoid.  Driving north, it's the same.  There are some times (and I know this isn't a good thing) that I can drive this road and not really see much.  I'm on auto pilot.  I drive to work.  I drive home.

Recently, they have been working on the road at night.  Cutting down through the concrete to get to the water pipes below the road.  Honestly, they are making a mess of a once okay road.  Should it ever rain here in California again, there will be new potholes and bumps to avoid.

This road construction has meant one way traffic control.  The northbound traffic is now diverted into the southbound lane, past the construction.  The other night, as I drove northbound in the southbound lane I realized this road that I was so familiar with, had suddenly become something completely different.  The bumps and curves were different.  I was driving the same road but everything had changed.

The bumps and curves that I knew so well traveling south in the correct lane, felt different and unfamiliar traveling north.  I didn't know how to anticipate the road anymore.  I suddenly felt disoriented and was very glad to move back into the correct northbound lane as I passed the construction zone.

This road realization has a direct correlation to my life.  I'm traveling the same roads yet somehow the lanes have switched and everything is different.  The bumps and curves are hard to anticipate. I'm doing the same thing I was doing before April 29th and June 2nd.  Yet, I'm driving on the "wrong" side of the road because there's this big gaping hole that I'm maneuvering around, ever aware of it's presence and achingly aware that the hole is going to remain open and under construction for a very, very long time.

Driving north in the southbound lane...it's a whole new adventure.

On the path of grief

"Praying."

That's all the text says, most times.  Just one word and I'm moved to tears.

The texts have been coming for two months now, usually around the same moments when I'm feeling pretty shaky.

There is no expectation of answers or accolades.  No requests for prayer in return.  Just a simple acknowledgement of prayer and support.

I see the woman who sends me these texts, at church.  I usually walk right into her hugs, whisper a thank you and that's all.  I can't get any more words out.  The lump in my throat won't let me.

The beauty of these texts are two fold:

1.  She is acknowledging the pain, the grief, the tough journey I am on, and will continue to be on for a long time, and honoring the journey with her acknowledgement.

2.  Through this simple act, she is bringing me comfort and reminding me God is right here, in the midst of this storm.  The word content of her prayers does not matter to me, there is simply comfort in the knowledge of the prayer being said, to the God I follow.

To me, this is church.  This is being in authentic community with one another.  This is living out one's faith.  This is how we walk through grief with one another...simply acknowledging the journey.  I'm grateful to have her friendship on this road.

The gift of comfort from an unexpected source

"Hey," said the voice, as I walked by the table outside my favorite dining establishment in small town.  I braced myself as I turned to look at the person who belonged to the voice.  I was sure it was one of two types of people, someone from town who knew my family and wanted to offer their sympathy or one of the local homeless/down on their luck folks who occasionally ask for help.  Turned out to be both in one.

As I swung around, I looked into the eyes of R.  I've written about him before.  I smiled, as best I could, and said "Hey, how's it going," and there was this silence and a look in his eyes...then he got up and suddenly his arms were around me, holding me close as he whispered, "I'm sorry." 

I whispered back, in a very shaky voice, "Thank you, R.  Thank you."  After a moment, he stepped back and went back to his seat.  I smiled again, struggling to keep the tears at bay, and said "Thank you" again, before I turned and headed to my car.  I cried all the way home.  Shuddering sobs.  The gaping wound in my soul was opened again, but also soothed...by someone unexpected but very welcomed.

I caught a glimpse, yet again, of the beauty of R's soul tonight, of the person behind the addictions, of the person behind the label "homeless".  I was given the gift of comfort from an unexpected source.  It's a gift I'm going to cherish for a long, long time on this journey of grief.

Formation of a tribute

On Sunday, I will stand up in front of a crowd of family, friends, acquaintances and people I've never met before and talk about my Dad.

I've been thinking and praying about these words for weeks, but honestly, I've been thinking and praying about these words for four years.  Call it a hunch, call it facing reality, call it whatever you need, but I've been preparing for this day for awhile.

The last few weeks, as I have driven to work and driven home, I've been using the drive to talk out loud.  In the days when I was occasionally called upon to sermonize, I found the way I solidified my thoughts was to just start talking...if you know me at all, that's actually opposite of what one would think about my writing process...it's worked, though!

Except this time it's been harder.  I have things to say...I have so much to say...but the clarity has been missing, the twist, the part that makes this go from a daughter blathering on about her father to a tribute.  I couldn't grab that one thing that would make it all come together.  That one thing that would have made my Dad come up, wrap his arm around my shoulders and say, "You did good, kiddo."

This morning I woke up and suddenly the missing piece had appeared.  I grabbed my computer and the words started to flow...so did the tears...and since I'm being honest, the snot.  I wrote and cried for two hours.  Yo Momma came in a one point and I snapped at her (and apologized later) and I wrote and I cried and swiped at my nose and finally, finally, I think I have it.

Sunday is going to be really hard...but I think, at the end of the day, my Dad would throw is arm around my shoulders, pull me into his side and say, "You did good, kiddo."  and really, nothing else matters. 

This journey of grief

I'm not unfamiliar with grief.  I am unfamiliar with this particular road.

Losing a grandparent, a brother/friend, a job, a pet, is different, oh so different, than losing a parent.

The sorrow, the sharp, aching hollowness, the ever present "lump in the throat" that is unlike any before, the sudden, intense dislike of all things Father's Day, those things are new.

My previous experiences with grief have helped me walk through some aspects of this journey, though.

• The realization that there are people for whom I will be the one consoling not being consoled.

• Compassionately and gently deflecting comments meant for support and comfort that really do not bring comfort at all.  I move to ban "God has a plan" from all offerings of condolences, ever.  There is nothing comforting to me about God planning for my Dad to die. NOTHING.  As much as I have clung to Jeremiah 29:11 in the past, that verse isn't bringing me comfort right now.  So let's just drop the whole plan thing as a means of comfort, OK?  Thanks.

• The awkwardness that comes when someone just doesn't know what to say...I usually don't know what to say either, you are welcome to sit in silence with me and "hold my hand".

• The offering of food or help or "whatever you need".  The problem is I really don't know what I need...besides one more hug from Papa Bear and that's not an option on the table.

And then there are those things that have taken me by surprise.

• The overwhelming, and I do mean overwhelming, show of support and compassion from the people in our community.  Oh.My.Gosh.   

• Newish and older church friends who have reached out through phone calls, texts, cards, hugs.

• People I have known well that haven't said a thing...that has been pretty telling.  I'm not sure if that one is a reflection of me or them.

• Hearing stories from former students, Facebook group friends, and others who were impacted by Papa Bear.  There are so many things we never knew.

A few years ago, I read an article by someone who had explained grief as a winding road with many twists and turns.  Sometimes you will turn a corner and there will be something beautiful that takes your breath away.  Then you go around another corner and there will be something horribly hard to deal with and the tears and sadness overwhelm you again.  Two weeks into this time of grief and I know those words to be true.

And so, down the winding path I travel...

Papa Bear - March 1942 - June 2014

Maui, October 2014 - Our final father-daughter photo

Day is done,
Gone the sun.
From the lake,
From the hills,
From the sky.
Fare thee well,
Safely rest
God is nigh.*

(*Not the exact words but they are what I hear...so that's what I'm singing today.)

"I know this will pass, however..."

"I know this will pass, however..."

I read those words from a Christian dealing with a bunch of stuff in their life and they caught my attention.  The litany of things this person is dealing with is long.  There are things on that list that break my heart.  There are hard things, seemingly easy things, things that take up brain space and heart space and in general make a person weary.  And yet, instead of being able to state the crap in life, put it out there on the table and walk away there was an addendum, "I know this will pass..."

One simple sentence and yet it held so much guilt.  What I saw behind the statement was "I shouldn't be feeling this way", maybe that awful cliche of "God doesn't give us more than we can handle" (click here for the best blog I've ever read on that horrid misrepresentation of scripture) or the even more vile "God's just testing me" notion.  Behind that statement was a denial of self that, however noble, spoke volumes.  We aren't allowed to feel what we feel because...this too shall pass.

Sometimes I feel like the Christian world works overtime to hide the humanness within us all.  We are supposed to be above it all, and yet, we are human.  We are frail.  We get tired, angry, happy, sad.  One minute we can be overflowing with joy, the next despair.  From one second to another we can be calm and then overwrought with anger.  It's the way of life, it ebbs and it flows. Emotions happen.

I am so sad when I hear people disregard their hurts, their worries, their sorrows because, well, we're supposed to "buck up" and remember "this too shall pass."  Yes, yes it will but until the current problems dim, lets just face reality, shall we?  Life hurts sometimes. It's not always fun and joy filled. 

In those moments, instead of passing around cheap cliches (that actually do more harm then they help, in my humble opinion), let's look at the person who is hurting and call the spade, the spade.  Let's acknowledge the pain, the sorrow, the joy, the anger, the depression, the fear, the burdened shoulders.  Let's stop hiding behind the fear that God won't show up and save us from this (again, it's my humble opinion but isn't that what we are really saying with those cliches?) and just come right out and say it.  "I am overwhelmed.  This hurts.  I've had enough.  I'm scared.  It all just feels way to much for me to handle right now."

Papa Bear has been more emotional the last few weeks, as he has every right to be. We all have.  Tears come readily and easily as we contemplate the road ahead.  I have stopped myself, corrected myself several times when Papa Bear starts to tear up and I start to say "AGH, Don't cry!" (which I recognize is more a self preservation thing for me than about him.  If he cries, I cry.)  I've retracted that statement over and over reminding both of us to feel whatever we are feeling, be it tears, laughter, sadness, anger, joy, the emotions are valid and we need to feel them, to work through them as we walk this path.

Hello, my name is Brittany.  My family is going through some pretty rough stuff right now and we're all a little scared and anxious about what tomorrow will bring.  Thanks for listening.

It wasn't just a hand mixer

When I moved away for college, I moved into an apartment.  It was a cute little place close to campus.  I rode my bike across the street and then across campus most days.  Moving into an apartment meant that I got to open my "hope" chest and use all the pretty dishes that I had been collecting over the years.  Along with all the dishes, I took with me some hand-me-downs from family and friends to fill the cupboards of my apartment.

One of those hand-me-downs was a hand mixer that once belonged to Grandma O.  My Grandma O was a fabulous baker.  I never once remember going to her house and finding the cookie jar empty.  She made homemade rolls for special occasions that were melt in your mouth good.  Her apple pie was outstanding.  Grandma O wasn't good at verbalizing her feelings for people.  She wasn't an overly warm woman but I believe that Grandma O showed her love with food.  She baked, she cooked, she fed her family and friends and that is how she told us she loved us.


This afternoon, I pulled out Grandma O's mixer.  I had fresh lemons from my lemon tree and was determined to make a lemon meringue pie.  In college I had successfully made pies using that mixer, that turned out beautifully, with no weeping or shrinking or anything.  They tasted mighty good too.  Of course when I moved back home after college, the recipe I used to make those fantastic lemon meringue pies got lost in the shuffle.  I have tried to make that pie again, several times, with little success.  My Food Network magazine arrived Wednesday with an easier recipe, I had a fresh lemons, the kitchen was empty, I had the time and so it was time to try again.

I squeezed those fresh lemons (I should have taken a picture of my lemons...the rind is at least an inch thick.  They look like softballs.) and mixed together the ingredients for the base of the pie.  When ready, I poured it into the waiting shell (store-bought because while I have inherited a little bit of Grandma O's baking genes, I fail at pie dough.  FAIL.)  I then pulled down Grandma O's mixer, ready to tackle the meringue.

Upon putting the first beater in, I noticed that it wobbled a little.  The connection between the shaft and the beater blade seemed a little tenuous.  The next beater was a little more solid but when I put the second beater in, I noticed the two beaters came together too closely.  I tested it once outside the egg whites and they clanked together.  No good!  I pulled them out, switched places and tried again. A little less clanky, so I decided to give it a try.  Into the egg whites the beaters went.  I switched the mixer on and smoke started to come out of the motor, the beaters clanked together and then stopped, jammed together.  I looked at Grandma O's mixer and realized, the end had come.  There was no fixing this.  I pulled the cord from the socket, tried to eject the beaters to no avail.  I then pushed and pulled until they came apart.  The one tenuous beater was now even more wobbly.  The era of this hand mixer had come to an end. 

I washed the beaters, dried them, put them back into their rightful place on the mixer, loving wrapped the cord around the mixer and took it out to the recycling bin for their future ride to their final resting place.  It's just a hand mixer and yet, I will admit to feeling a little teary at the end of our time together.  They will be replaced by another hand mixer.  An updated one with a bigger motor.  But that mixer won't have the memories attached.  When I pull it out of the cupboard, I will no longer think of Grandma O and the wonderful things she made with that mixer.

As I started to write this post thinking about Grandma O and her baking, the dates started connecting and suddenly the tears that came weren't because of a silly hand mixer dying after, gosh, 40+ years of use. 22 years ago this week, Grandma and Grandpa O celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.  We had a grand party, a dinner of course, at a favorite restaurant of theirs with family and friends surrounding them, celebrating their lives together.  That night Grandma O went to sleep and didn't wake up.

Over the years, I have come to believe that grief meanders in ever widening circles.  The first days, months and years, we cycle through our emotions, feeling the loss of those we loved in an immediate and profound ways over and over again.  As the years go on, the circles of emotions become wider, with longer times between the waves of sorrow.  Little things will trigger our emotions and the grief will return, maybe less intense, maybe just as intense as when we first felt the grief.  For me today it was an electric hand mixer, an inheritance from a Grandmother who left earth years too soon.  I grieve, not just the loss of her presence, amazing baking and cooking skills, but the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter that was just beginning to form after years of relationship "misses".

It wasn't just a hand mixer, it was a memory catcher; a reminder of someone I loved and the way she loved me in return.