I have been thinking of my friend Linda quite a bit recently.  To say only that I taught at the same high school with Linda would do a disservice to our relationship.  I did teach with her, but I also prayed with her, cried with her, laughed with her, traveled with her, admired her, and grieved her…I grieve her still.

Linda died in November, 2008.  She had the same kidney cancer my husband had been diagnosed with, but they found hers after it had spread into her body and beyond remedy.

I don’t claim that Linda and I were the best of friends.  She was closer to my mother’s age than mine, but it never really mattered.  She was such a young spirit, full of spunk and sass.  She and I had the honor and blessing to attend our school’s Kairos retreat with many different groups of seniors over several years.  In sharing Kairos ~ or “God’s time” ~ with each other, we had time to share beyond our Math or Religion curriculum, beyond our school assemblies or student dramas; we shared matters of substance.

We shared about our hopes for the future, our relationships with our husbands, our questions regarding spirituality, and of course, the minutia of life:  board games, beer, poker, jokes, and lots and lots of good laughs.  I loved her.  I loved the way she talked about her husband Jim and her kids.  I loved her honesty and frankness.  I loved her determination to live life in that moment and not to wait until it was more convenient.

For some reason tonight, I was looking up some old Catholic cd’s one of my other friends introduced me to a long time ago.  As I found “Simple Gifts” and  ”Instruments of Peace” on Spotify, I was immediately transported in my mind back to a road trip I took with three lovely ladies to visit another one of our good friends.  What a fun trip!  Linda was there, Sue (owner of these cd’s), and my good friend Gina.  We were traveling to visit our friend Ellen, another teacher with whom we had bonded over Kairos who was now teaching in New Jersey.

There are several moments on that journey that stand out to me as I reflect upon it tonight.  I remember talking about not expecting our husbands to fulfill us, but looking to God for that instead.  What did I know?!  I had been married for such a short time and I was spouting off about something I knew very little about, really.  But these women gave me such grace.  I didn’t know at that moment how important that lesson would one day be for me as well.  I also remember talking about being a vessel for God.  This phrase has resurfaced many times in sharing my experience of losing Kate.  The excursion was also a major crossroads as I would come home from that trip, take a pregnancy test, and turn a very important corner in my life’s journey.

Linda’s husband gifted me a pair of her earrings.  They are beautiful gold butterflies.  My first instinct was to tuck them in a special box only to be pulled out for sacred, special occasions.  But then I had to check myself.  If I learned one thing from Linda, it was that every moment of our lives is sacred.  Chatting with neighbors, playing games, dancing at weddings, changing diapers ~ there is something sacred about every moment we experience as long as we acknowledge it as such.  Life is not something to tuck away in a box, even a beautiful one, hoping for the perfect moment to enjoy it.

Life is about grabbing on with both hands, and taking it for the wild ride it is.  It’s about finding the sacred in washing the dishes, kissing a boo-boo, reprimanding (while trying not to laugh at) the 7 yr. old for the wedgie he just gave his 5 yr. old brother.  It’s about a purple iris broken in the rainstorm now adorning the kitchen counter in a Mason jar.  It’s about weeding those damn dandelions and thistles even though you just weeded them yesterday, or maybe just ignoring them after all.  It’s about wearing gold butterfly earrings to watch a soccer game or for a day at the park.

Even life’s ordinary moments are sacred; perhaps, especially those.

And so I offer my starfish, Linda.  I hope this humble blog serves as a vessel for God’s love.  I hope in some small way to honor your life by sharing a bit of mine.  If it helps even one, it will be worth it.  In the midst of writing this and remembering you, I shared a beer with my neighbor, admired the beautiful lush overgrown lawn after an afternoon rain, baked brownies and ate them with my children, cleaned up after my family, refereed several arguments, scratched my son’s back, carried my baby to his bed, laughed with a friend about a fake mustache… familiar, humdrum  yet hallowed moments.

I miss you, friend.

Hope

Today is Kate’s birthday.  She would have turned nine.  It’s my absolute favorite time of year with everything in bloom or ready to burst forth in great color and abundance.  But alongside that fullness exists such emptiness for the one I no longer hold in my arms.

On that day, nine years ago, God gave me yet another gift.  As I stared at that bundle of baby lying in front of me and stared into those beautiful calm blue eyes, I felt a joy invade every pore of my being.  That I was touched by the Spirit on that day, I have no doubt.  This was a deeper experience than the joy I had felt with my other girls.  This was an onslaught of love that was bigger than childbirth, bigger than motherhood, bigger than human love.  I have often wondered if that moment of rapture was not merely a gift for that moment, but a gift meant to provide the sustenance I would need to live a life without Kate, but with hope.

HOPE.

It’s such a little word for the incredible power it holds.  And our overuse threatens its value.  I do it all the time:

“I hope I get some sleep tonight.”

“I hope it doesn’t rain on our picnic.”

“I hope no one notices that I’m wearing two different shoes.”

The definition of hope is “longing; a dream.”  In the dictionary, hope is associated with words like expectation and await.  I cling tightly to the hope and expectation that I will see my girl again.  I pray fearfully that I will recognize her.  I pray fervently that my entire family will be reunited with her.  I pray daily to have the patience it takes to live a fruitful life until that day arrives.

But what happens in the meantime??  How can this mother walk through this world without her child?  I see different responses in others who have lost someone they love.  Many create rituals around the day their loved one passed away.  A dear friend of mine celebrates a “Heaven Day” with her family in honor of her daughter.  There are many 5K walks/runs set up to remember a loved one and provide funds for something related to that person’s life or death.  Others continue to celebrate the day their loved one was born with a cake or treat provided in remembrance.

Hope

None of these feels quite right in my world.  In the past, I have met friends and family at Kate’s grave and sent up balloons or even shared popsicles.  For two years, I held a “Kate’s Day” at my house where I celebrated the mothers in my life.  I wanted to share with them a fraction of the love I felt on the day Kate was born.  One year I mailed flower seeds to a handful of deserving moms.  All of these were worthwhile offerings, yet none truly fulfilled that empty space I longed for them to satisfy.  But I think the lesson I have learned is that nothing will suffice; it is a void that demands to be filled with hope.

This does not mean the waiting is all despair.  Hope might fill a space that feels like the deepest ocean depths, but the surface of those depths reflects the most beautiful skies, the most radiant sunsets.  It reminds me of a lilac bush I planted outside my garage when we moved into this house six years ago.  It is a beautiful, tall bush with gorgeous green foliage that provides beauty and structure every year.  But it has never bloomed.  I have researched how to prune it, fertilize it, and nurture it in order to help it produce those fragrant purple blooms permeating the air right now in my neighborhood.  But with all those efforts, still no flowers.  By last year, I had accepted that it would just exist as a stately green bush and I would just hope that someday it would surprise me with some blooms.

This year:

Hope

Sometimes our hopes are fulfilled.  Sometimes our longings or expectations change and evolve into new hopes and dreams.  And sometimes we must make the difficult choice to find beauty and peace as we anticipate the hope that one day will be realized.

I still pray that I can honor Kate’s memory in a way that provides light and love to others.  I know that some have been affected by our story and Kate’s life, and I am profoundly thankful for that.  Selfishly, I want more.  I want the immediacy of knowing HOW Kate’s death is being redeemed.  My human impatience makes unfair demands on hope.  It calls for a feel-good “fix,” a grandiose garden luncheon for two hundred, a 5K for hope.  But hope refuses to be forced.  It craves room in which to abide ~ sometimes in silence like the lilac without a bloom.

Today I honor Kate’s birthday with a blooming lilac.  The void feels a tad lighter with this physical reminder of hope.  I also honor her birthday with the remembrance of that Spirit-blessing, that abundant joy which has provided a foundation of survival without my girl.

Hope

We have been talking a lot about Kate these days.  It’s not her birthday yet or any “special” day, but my 3 year old Ian just learned about his third sister.  I don’t know exactly what he understands about her, but he calls her his “sister Kate” and refers to her quite a bit right now.

“Mom, my sister Kate is on the phone…want to talk to her?”

“Mom, my sister Kate loves these animals.”

“Mom, where is my sister Kate?”

“Mom, what is dead?”

“Mom, I miss my sister Kate.”

Me too, buddy …me too.

But the thought occurred to me several weeks ago, that while these conversations I have with my kids regarding their sister Kate can be painful, uncomfortable, awkward, and sometimes humorous, they are absolutely necessary.  In fact, they are probably some of the most important conversations I will ever have with my children.  I am preparing them for my death.

Death is not an easy topic, is it?   I even hesitated writing this blog and sharing it because it seems depressing, dark, even taboo.  And yet it is part of the human experience that we ALL share.  We ALL lose people we love and we ALL will die.  So why can’t we discuss it?

In my life, death has become as common a topic as why wearing shorts in 20 degree weather might be a bad idea.  We discuss death at the dinner table, walking to the bus stop, lounging on the couch, folding laundry.  It is common; it is often casual; it is our normal.  This doesn’t make it easy, exactly, but it does remove some of the fear ~if not fear of death itself, then fear of the idea of death.

As the children learn about Kate’s life and death and mature into new levels of understanding, it is inevitable that deeper and more complex conversations about death occur.  A lot of the time I find myself saying, “I don’t know.”  Sometimes the children have answers for questions I didn’t even realize I was asking.  And always, always, always  I feel more connected to them as a result of our conversation.

And I think that is the way we were meant to think about death.  It really is the common denominator for us humans, isn’t it?  No matter what our beliefs might be about what happens after death,  death itself should be enough to help us feel connected to one another.

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I do not walk carefree through this life, completely fearless of death.  I pray often that my life is a long one that sees the rest of my children grow, marry, and have children of their own.  I pray often – and sometimes gripped with fear – that I don’t have to bury another child.  I cannot imagine walking through this life without my husband.

But every time I have one of these moments, it is accompanied by some relief, some hope, even some joy.  One of my earliest comforting thoughts after losing Kate, was that her loss would ease the loss of every family member after hers.  Specifically at that moment, I thought of my mom.  I cannot imagine my mom not being here.  I pray stubbornly and selfishly that she lives to see great-great-great grandchildren.  But in that comforting moment, I realized that my mom would be going to be with Kate.

Relief.  Hope.  Joy.

I am preparing my children for my death.  Every conversation we have, every tear we shed, every loss we endure, every joy we experience…I am preparing my children for my death.  I want them to be assured that “Mom is going to be with Kate.”  I want them to know how joyful that day will be ~  only second to the joy I will feel when we are ALL reunited together with Kate.

Henri Nouwen, in his book Turn My Mourning Into Dancing, writes of a story about a soldier:

“A soldier was captured as a prisoner of war.  His captors transported him by train far from his homeland.  He felt isolated from country, bereft of family, estranged from anything familiar.  His loneliness grew as he continued not to hear anything from home.  He could not know that his family was even alive, how his country was faring.  He had lost a sense of anything to live for.

But suddenly, unexpectedly, he got a letter.  It was smudged, torn at the edges from months of travel.  But it said, ‘We are  waiting for you to come home.  All is fine here.  Don’t worry.’  Everything instantly seemed different.  His circumstances had not changed.  He did the same difficult labor on the same meager rations, but now he knew someone waited for his release and homecoming.  Hope changed his life.”

I am preparing my children for my death.  I am teaching them what it means to hope.

I am teaching them hope.

When we lost Kate, I was 5 months pregnant with our first boy.  When Ty Jeffrey blessed us with his presence later that April, it taught me that I could once again feel joy, and began to teach me how my life would be an ongoing journey of intermingled bitter and sweet.  I made certain choices and promises to myself those last several months that I carried him:  I continued to eat when I wasn’t hungry; I made sure to sleep although my heart fought it; and I kept up with all the doctor appointments even though each one meant facing sympathetic and sad, caring eyes which cut me to the quick.

But while these choices and promises were important and meaningful, and the choices we made with ALL of our children valuable… perhaps the most significant and hopeful promise I made was with my husband, just minutes after learning Kate was lost to us in this life forever.

We promised each other we would have another child.

In those moments of shock and grief and despair, we said to one another that we would have another little girl together.  But that was not to be.  Instead we had 2 more boys after Ty was born.  Although this is another topic to chew on, I do think there was a gift in not having another girl.  I still cannot face the bin of clothing Kate was wearing when we lost her ~ not to give it away, lend it to friends, or make something memorable.  7 years later and it’s not something I can yet face.  So I cannot imagine re-living Kate’s short life with another little Long baby girl.

In that moment of promise, we were (without realizing it) taking a stand for hope.  We were making a commitment to our family and to God that we were going to go on living and not give in to desperation or fear.  And it has not been an easy path.  Seeing our 3 boys through the nights, through ordinary illnesses, through everything that reminded me of losing Kate meant many battles faced and fought.  It meant forcing myself to stay in bed instead of checking on my 1 yr. old one more time that night.  It meant facing the very virus that took our sweet girl when it reared up once again in Colt’s little body.  It meant fighting fear when they slept instead of finding rest.  And in some ways, those battles continue.  But I am willing to fight them…

for hope’s sake.

The power of a promise

That promise we made gave us Colt Joseph.  Today this fierce, intense firecracker of a boy turns 5.  I simply cannot believe it.  He is literally our thickest, sturdiest little one ~ an irony that does not go unnoticed by me, the one who has had to lean on his presence to be reminded of hope and joy more than once already in his lifetime.  And oh, how intense this boy!  Everything about him screams, “I AM LIVING THIS LIFE!!”

The power of a promise

When he eats chocolate, he wants the whole bag.  When he plays Mario on the Wii, he enacts each scenario with his whole body.  When he is happy, he wants to tell the whole neighborhood (by yelling it from our house).  When he is angry, he wants to tell the whole neighborhood (again, by yelling it from our house).  When he is sad, my heart breaks at the crushed look on his face.

The power of a promise

He is hope.  He is Kate’s light, carried on in ways he will never understand.  He is my stand against fear and darkness.  And, oh my…

The power of a promise

He is joy.

It’s happened every New Year’s Eve for the last 7 years.  Well that’s not exactly true.  The first one, 7 years ago, it was too new…too raw.  I remember sitting in my in-laws’ living room after everyone had gone home, not able to sleep, writing furiously in a new journal, grasping to remember and record every detail I could before they started to fade.  It was 2006, people were dancing and kissing and singing and I was facing a new future – one without my daughter Kate.

Ever since then at that moment the ball drops and people start their celebration, I pause.  It’s natural to me now – like a breath.  It’s not so much a choice; just the reality.  I don’t think it’s obvious.  I don’t know why it would be.  It’s just a moment.

In that moment I am faced with one more year without her.  One more year of the hum-drum of my life: driving my taxi, soccer games, school days, volleyball practices, exercise, cleaning, showers, laundry.  One more year of 5 kids and all the experiences – the joys, the boredom, the trials, the time – that accompanies them. One more year of finding the balance of wife and mom and Becky.

all.

without.

kate.

It’s:    Sadness

Overwhelming

Gut-wrenching

Anger

Fear

Bitterness

Vast

Heavyheartedness

But it’s just for a moment.

Because then my 12 year old tucks her arm under mine and nuzzles my shoulder.   ”Happy New Year, Mama.”

And my 10 year old looks over and gives me that smile that means she likes me; she really likes me.  ”Happy New Year, Mom.”

And I take a breath.

And I walk over and give my husband the obligatory New Year’s kiss, but it isn’t obligatory at all.  It feels real and solid; 14  years of substance.

And I give my 6 year old’s shoulder a squeeze and kiss his moppy ginger hair.

And I take a breath.

I clink glasses with sisters and brothers and parents – all through marriage, but all the shoulders on which I can stand; the arms in which I can rest.

I carry the 4 year old and 2 year old to the car, letting their bodies melt into mine as they struggle for comfort and warmth.  And I buckle them into their seats in spite of their sleepy protests.

And I take a breath.

And I am thankful for ALL OF IT…the good and the bad and the painful and the joyful.  The loss and the lessons.  The hope.

just for a moment.

No Clear Definition

I have blogged before about not wanting to be defined as “that mom” who lost her child.  I guess my fear was that this would limit who I was/am as a person and as a mother, or that it would mean always carrying this heavy burden of grief.  But as I reflect on that fear on this seventh anniversary of Kate’s passing, I see now that this is exactly what has happened.  And I think my early fear had more to do with the realization that this WOULD be my truth for my entire lifetime, and not yet wanting to face that reality.

It looks much different than I thought it would, being defined by losing Kate.  The heavy burden of grief has become almost like an injury to my soul, flaring up from time to time as old injuries will do.  The instant pain can be sharp and steal my breath, but eventually it dulls once again to a light ache, a familiar nudge passing vigil.   There are times when I know I can expect it to erupt once again, and moments when it catches me off guard, demanding attention and acknowledgement.

There were two injuries that occurred that day:  the trauma of losing Kate, and the ongoing loss of Kate’s physical presence in my life.  Both are intertwined as injuries to the same muscle; one not being felt without the other causing notice.  Recently I have had friends and family members experience trauma in their own families.  One close friend’s daughter was viciously attacked by a dog.  One cousin’s child had a frightening allergic reaction to peanuts.  And another cousin’s child sustained a head injury at a family Christmas party which caused much alarm and concern.  Thankfully, all of the children are fine.  They are with their families where they belong.

And I have to fight the bitterness.

Not that I would ever wish a different outcome for them, of course, but that I had to walk out of the hospital without my child in my arms has defined the way I react in these situations.  My immediate reaction to these instances takes me immediately back to the trauma on that December day.  I have learned to cope:  seek a quiet place to myself for a few moments where I can shed a few tears, take a few deep breaths.  And then I can re-enter the conversation, the situation.  And I cannot help but pray that they are so, so thankful to hold those children in their arms.

Sometimes I cannot enter in at all.  The recent shootings that took the lives of so many innocent children are an example.  My mom called to see how my heart was handling all of it, especially since it took place in a vulnerable time of the year for me.  And honestly, I told her that I couldn’t let myself enter into the story.  I haven’t watched the news; I haven’t looked at the names of the kids; I haven’t seen their faces.  Because I know.  Even though my story contained no obvious violence, Kate was still violently ripped from my arms and my life.

I know the loss those parents are experiencing.  There is  physical pain, confusion, inability to make even the easiest of decisions.  I know what it’s like to donate already-wrapped Christmas presents, to follow a familiar tuft of hair in the store because it looks just like hers, to handle practical details like funeral cards and headstones in the midst of overwhelming despair.  There will be details that they can never share with another person as there are things too heart-wrenching to share.  There is trauma in the loss, and then there is the trauma of the realization that life will never be the same.

BUT…

 I may be defined by the bitter, but I am also defined by the sweet.

Alongside this new definition of loss, of trauma, of injury is a new understanding of hope.  I experienced God and God’s love more intimately in those darkest moments than ever in my life.  And God continues to sustain me as I live within this new definition of me.

Even though losing Kate has defined me, it has not confined me.  It offers deeper relationships with my husband and children and family as we all attempt to find understanding and peace with losing Kate,  and how that defines us as a family.  It offers a peace midst the sadness in losing other family members as I know they are going to be with my beloved daughter, and that they will mutually care for each other.  And it continues to be a beacon of hope for those who hear our story.  I don’t always feel called to share this part of our family’s story, but when I do it is usually meaningful far beyond my expectations.

This little blog is just one example.  I feel very much like a vessel for God’s love and words as I write ~ especially when I write about Kate.  There is an ongoing ache in my heart to be able to make sense of losing Kate, to be able to see her loss bear fruit in this world in some way.  Every time I post a blog,  it resonates with people from all over my life’s story.  I hear from high school acquaintances, extended family members, childhood friends, former teaching colleagues, college buddies, lifelong friends.  It is really remarkable and unceasingly surprising to me the impact a few heartfelt words can make; and that’s how I know with certainty that something bigger than me is at work here.

When I first felt so fearful of being defined by losing Kate, I had no concept that I would also be defined by the hope and expectation of seeing her again.  In the midst of  sadness, remembrance, and trauma, it is one of Kate’s earliest and favorite words, “Light” that offers me the most hope.  As we put up Kate’s butterfly tree today, the effervescent light will once again brighten our home and our family.  And I am thankful for the defined life of love I am blessed to live.

My beautiful Kate

Of all the holidays, this one tends to bite me the hardest.  I carry Kate’s life – and loss – with me everyday, and there are moments when the grief sneaks up on me, sucks the breath away from my lips.  There are moments I can treasure and remember with joy and gratitude.  And every milestone – large or tiny – that my other children experience leaves me with a bit of sadness at the loss of not experiencing that with Kate.

But there is something unique about Thanksgiving.  Perhaps it is the outpouring of gratitude that heightens this bittersweet-ness of my life.  I am both overwhelmed with the gratitude of the short time I was able to hold her, care for her, love her, know her… and leveled by the fact that this is not a part of my daily life any longer.  Perhaps it is holding family close and special on this day, and the fact that my family will never be complete in this world.  And perhaps it is simply that the joy and gratitude are so magnified on this day that the bitterness and loss can’t help but be included; the enlarged image doesn’t exist without the enlarged shadow.

It’s not a day of overwhelming sadness.  I will laugh out loud today, be frustrated when my children spill chocolate pudding on their nice clothes before we even make it to the family dinner, be irritated that my husband has to run into work for just a few minutes before we leave, be annoyed that I forgot to buy wipes yesterday, give and receive many welcome hugs and hellos…it will be a good Thanksgiving.  The joy is legitimate and welcomed.

I am so blessed to see my sisters and their families today…I haven’t seen them in WAY too long.  I get to put my hands on their shoulders and drink in their familiar eyes, their changed hair-do’s, their warm smiles, their held-back tears.  I get to wrap my arms around their husbands and my nieces and nephew.  I get to hold my family close for a few moments – all together not just in spirit, but in person.  And I know that she will be there, too. 

Above all, I am thankful that my God-given, God-blessed, God-beloved little heart is large enough to hold the joy and the loss.   Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, the ones you held and the ones you hold.

I was on my way home from dropping Colt & friends off at preschool last week when I reached a familiar crossroads.  This particular intersection I always pass through has a memorial on one corner called, “Meg’s Corner.”  On this day there was what appeared to be a married couple, probably the parents of this “Meg” tending to that corner.  There was a lovely rose bush and some plants nicely weeded and mulched, and one parent was mowing the grass while the other secured the sign.  Their car was off to the side of the road, with a fold-up table being used as a ramp for the lawnmower. 

They were tending a sacred place.

My first thought was, of course, of Kate and her sacred resting place.  I, too, have added some plants and mulch, and go fairly often to tend to the area around where her body is buried.  While it will always be a place of sadness, it has also become a place of hope.  It is a place to reconnect with the pain but also be reminded of the temporary nature of this world, and the hope of when she and I will be reunited.

As my week progressed, I began to expand my view of this idea of “sacred space.”  Much of what occurred to me had to do with time, intention, and priorities.  This world often pulls us in many directions.  In my life, that looks like soccer and volleyball games and practices, girl scout activities, school conferences, out-of-town meetings, preschool carpool, housecleaning, laundry, car maintenance, doctor appointments, etc, etc.

And in the midst of the aforementioned list, I find ways to squeeze even more out of my time.  I clean out pumpkins in the trunk of my car during soccer practice.  I run to the grocery in between appointments.  I throw a load of laundry in the washer so it will be ready for the dryer when I am home from carpool.  ETC.  ETC.  Multi-tasking at its best (or worst?!). 

But where is the time to tend the sacred?

Even with our to-do list whittled down to what we consider our bare minimum, we still have 5 children with lots of activities and needs.  My husband has to work to support this family.  I still have to do the necessary tasks to keep this household running somewhat smoothly.  We try to maintain the priority of God and family first, school activities/sports next…but even with that, the schedule is booked. 

So then I guess it comes down to time and intentions.  How am I using my time and intentions to tend the sacred…

…with my children? 

Oooh.  This one is convicting.  I am often so overwhelmed by our schedule, getting places on time with proper equipment and clothing, and preaching seat-belts, commitment, time management (insert Charlie Brown’s teacher voice here:  “mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah”) to the children as we drive that I miss opportunities to tend the sacred.  They ALL talk to me right now.  (And I know this may start changing soon with my 12 year old as her circle of influence expands more and more.)  How well do I listen?  My 4 year old is asking questions about everything from “What’s my brain made of?” to “How does the car stop, Mom?”  How well do I answer him?

There are chances around every corner to tend this sacred time with my kids.  I have been making them turn off the computer games and movies, and put away the books in the car just to provide the opportunity for more conversation, more paying attention to one another.  I’m hoping to provide not only sacred space for us, but also for them to experience with each other.  I’ll be honest.  There are more arguments.  There is more whining.  But sometimes there is conversation and laughter.  And sometimes we all learn something from a discussion I”ll entitle, “Why can’t people pee outside all the time, Mom?”.  Sacred space.

…with myself?

Daggonit…another convicting one.  I was doing pretty well for a while.  I was actually getting up early (something I HATE) to go walking with a friend:  exercise and adult conversation ~ perfect.  But then Ian decided to start waking me up by screaming, “Mom!  Becky!!” as loudly as he could at 4 a.m. (consistently) so the walking plan was kaput.  During that same week, however, my friend decided to freely impart her treadmill to me and now I can exercise WHILE my children play and ask me questions about gray matter in their brain.  Not only does it feel good to exercise, but it promotes me feeling better about myself which results in better eating choices (doughnut vs. apple!), and better all-around mama-mental-health.    Sacred space.

…with my husband?

Perhaps this one is most convicting of all.  I haven’t blogged much about my husband; mostly because I don’t have a blog nickname for him yet.  Most blogging moms I see call their spouses “DH” for Darling or Dear Husband.  I just can’t in good conscience label him like that.  Don’t get me wrong; I love my husband very much and he can often be darling or dear, but it just doesn’t fit the nature of our marriage.  (And just for the record, I doubt very much he’d label me as such either!)  I have some other ideas… “CWH” (Crazy Wild Husband) or “MTBOHODH” (March to the Beat of His Own Drum Husband”) but nothing feels “just right” yet. 

But I digress… (I do that when I feel conflicted about something!)

Most of my husband and my conversations are centered on his work schedule and our kids’ schedules.  It’s just where we are in our family right now, and I know it’s a necessary evil.  We are both fairly overwhelmed by the necessary tasks we face that it’s hard to find anything left for each other.  I know I’m not alone in this.  Often after a long day with children pulling me in every direction, the only thing I want at night when they are FINALLY sleeping is a glass of wine and a book and NO ONE speaking to me.  And after his long day of work and dealing with the kids’ extracurriculars, all he has time for is…a little more work. 

This is one of the most sacred relationships I will ever have.  And I need to start treating it a little better.  All it takes is a little time and intention.  An unrequested shoulder rub, a glass of tea (without huffing and puffing that I have to get up from my cozy spot to go pour it!), a question about something other than the kids or work…all little things that can add up in our marriage.  I just get so sucked into the “me” of it all – I feel overwhelmed; I am so tired; I hate being on a budget…I I I I I I I.  And the crazy thing is the more I let go of my “I” issues and tend to him…the more it becomes sacred space for the both of us. 

It’s more than this, of course.  It’s a constant battle.  Constant communication, constant forgiveness, constant grace, second and third and twenty-sixth chances ~ for all of us:  ourselves, our kids, our spouses.  But it just starts with a little time and intention and priority.  And really at the heart of it all is gratefulness.  I’m overwhelmingly grateful to have this time to tend the sacred space with my loved ones.  And nothing reminds me of that more than tending to Kate’s sacred place or driving by “Meg’s Corner.”

“To make sense of it – that’s the challenge.  To bear witness to the death, without being broken by the weight of it.“  (quote from Light Between Oceans by M.L.Stedman)

There are many quotes in many books that refer to this phenomenon; this action we all must face at some point in our lives, and it makes sense.  Death and loss are very real parts of our journeys as human beings.  And yet we aren’t given any instruction on how to deal with it; survive it;  bear witness to it without being broken by the weight of it.  We don’t really talk about it until we have to…until it’s happened.  There is no pamphlet or guide or brochure that I have seen which teaches how to prepare for it. 

Once it’s happened, there are plenty of resources.  Some that give us permission to grieve, to feel angry, to feel numb.  Some that teach us to have hope.  Some that encourage us to talk to others, to reach out for help, to put one foot in front of the other.  And we grasp for these like a thirsty child at his mother’s breast – desperate for comfort, for companionship, for familiarity, for answers. 

I don’t know why we aren’t better prepared for these circumstances.  Perhaps it’s a bit like having children.  No matter how many children and parents you are around in your life, until you give birth and raise your own it’s not something anyone can fully comprehend.  Perhaps we cling to the ignorance to avoid the pain and reality.  Perhaps we are simply too busy.

And it’s such a personal experience.  While there are common themes and emotions, everyone experiences death and loss differently.  There is not a well-paved path of steps and rules that can be prescribed to fill every void, to ease every heartache.  There are stages, generalities, possibilities of how one might navigate his or her own loss.

I bore witness to Kate’s death in a tragic way.  I found her unresponsive.  I failed to resuscitate her.  I – who knew her longer than any other while I held her in my body – had to let go of her and leave her with someone else.  I had to walk out of that hospital without my baby.  I will physically walk without her for the remainder of my days on this Earth.  And I have to bear witness to it without being broken by it.

Parts of me will always be broken.  To remain consistent with the theme of the book in which I found this quote, I feel very much like a rock on the shoreline.  Kate’s death – along with all the losses in my life – slam into me over and over at different stages of the tide.  They mold me into the person I am today.  They continue to shape me into the person, the mother, the wife, the friend I hope to be.

And at my most broken, I was most filled.  When there was less of me, there was more room to experience the real-ness of God.  And I don’t mean the reality.  I know God is real.  I mean the real-ness — the alive, fullness of the living God –that can really move into a body that has been emptied.  I don’t know how better to explain it.  When what I knew of myself and my life had just been shattered by Kate’s death, I felt more certain of God’s love and presence than ever before.  I think it was always there, but I was too self-focused, self-aware, too “SELF” to notice.

And that leads me to another step in my healing process.  To keep my rock from falling into the ocean altogether, I needed to turn away from mySELF and turn outward.  I remember sending out an email asking for prayer requests from friends and family.  I ended up praying for people I had never met.  In what may have seemed like avoidance at the time, I was desperately reaching out for a way to stay rooted and grounded and connected to more than just my pain.  I needed the reminder that there were many people out there, each being buffeted by their own tidal pain and loss.  And I felt a connectivity that was stronger than in my best days of health and happiness.

There is a depth to my emotion that didn’t exist before I had this experience of losing Kate.  There are moments when my 4 year old does a fancy dance trick, spinning on his head which can make me tear up with joy.  There are traditional experiences like preschool graduations, girl scout ceremonies, family dinners, first days of school that cause such twinges of pain I have to catch my breath.  There is an appreciation for little moments with each of my loved ones that I wouldn’t have known; wouldn’t have realized.

It’s not always this way, of course.  I am far too often turned to SELF; I avoid without even realizing it; I am too quick to be ready for the next milestone, the next experience, the next night of rest.  I will forever walk along this line of bearing witness to Kate’s death without being broken by it.  I will have the bitter with the sweet.  I will continue to be shaped and molded as each new tide slams into me.  But my rock is grounded.  I stand firm on hope.  I face the swells by the grace of God, and the love of my family and community.  The weight will be borne.