What is it about a dog that he can poop in your shoes (on your homework, under the dining room table) and you still lovingly pat his head?

What is it about a dog?!

What is it about a dog that he can pee a lake on the foyer carpet in front of a daughter’s friend’s mom you’re meeting for the first time and you still scratch behind his ears?

What is it about a dog?!

What is it about a dog that he leaves enough hair on the floor, couch, dining room chairs to supply 50 Build-A-Bear stores with stuffing for a year and you still rub noses with him?

What is it about a dog that makes a worse mess with one bowl of  dog food than a toddler eating spaghetti and you still spoon with him on the middle of the living room floor?

What is it about a dog that bolts for the hills everytime someone opens the door, and you still go get him even when it makes you late for a soccer practice, date night, doctor appointment?

What is it about a dog that tears up underwear, trash cans, furniture and you still buy him treats?

What is it about a dog that finds a special place inside an already seemingly-full heart? 

What is it about a dog that connects you to the joyful spirit of life and also the painful grief of loss?

What is it about a dog?!

What is it about a dog that he becomes an integral part of the family just by being ~THERE~  for all of it?

I was up by 5:30 this morning with my two youngest.  Not only does this mean a tired grumpy mama, but also a tired grumpy mama who had to miss her morning walk with a friend (much-needed adult conversation) and the return to a house of sleeping children (much-needed peace). 

I proceeded with the usual routine of getting the boys their “strawberry” (strawberry milk – blech!) and turning on their new favorite show, “Annoying Orange” (double-blech!).  And then shortly after 6 am, as I sat down to pout with my fresh cup of coffee, I was slammed…

…with conviction.

It’s 9/11. 

My perspective immediately changed.  This day was a tragedy.  (It still is for many.)  This day brings to mind many words:  confusing, overwhelming, saddening, maddening, shocking, heart-wrenching.  And also:  hope-filled, honoring, braving, rebuilding.  But the word that slammed me today was

Thankful.

It is so hard for me (for all of us?) to remember to be thankful.  Not a moment passes in my day where I shouldn’t be thankful.  Thankful for my next breath, for my shelter, for my family, for my everything. And so today:

I am thankful for the mundane:  the never-ending laundry, the diaper changes, the preparing of meals, the packing of lunches, the constant reproduction of dirty dishes in my sink, the school meeting, the soccer practice.

I am thankful for the little moments:  the extra-hard squeeze around my neck from my 2 yr. old; the 4 yr. old who wants to narrate his entire day to me as it’s happening;  the extra hug from my husband; my almost 12 yr. old actually agreeing with the clothing I suggest for her day.

I am thankful for the difficult:  the ”thing” no one else will pick up off the floor because it looks like it might be dog poop or perhaps an old jellybean; the nasty look from my 6 yr. old when he learns there is not time to play his DS before school; the cost of taking 5 children to the dentist.

There are some things that I am too “human” to be thankful for.  I will never be thankful for the suffering in this world, or Kate’s death, or the loss of a fellow soccer mom to breast cancer at only 38 yrs. old.  But I can be thankful for the lessons learned, the time we had with one another, and that hope and redemption can be found amongst the ashes and despair.

And just like that, the day has new meaning.  I wish I could hold onto this, this intangible thankfulness that slips from my grasp like my toddler running for the swings.  I want to put post-it notes on everything and everyone in my house, reminding me – “Be Thankful For This!” 

It’s just so easy to forget.  Thank goodness for grace…and remembering…and two little knuckleheads that wake their mama up too early.  I guess I can be thankful for that, too.

It’s in those peaceful, joyful moments that I feel her the most…and miss her the most.

We FINALLY got the pool set up this week.  We have this monstrosity of an aboveground pool.  It’s not that hard to set up (especially when you leave it up all winter, as I did), but it needs a solid three hours of cleaning every summer, not to mention the four hundred pounds of salt (no exaggeration) that need to be purchased, hauled over to the pool, and dumped into it.  It’s a large chore.

Once it’s finished, it’s so worth it.  The kids LOVE to swim, and not to have to lug all the swim necessities for five children to a local pool (and pay the cost) is priceless.  Their first days in the pool each summer are my favorite.  They are so giddy with the “new” pool that they play in it happily – without arguing – for long periods of time (that’s “Mom-speak” for 15 minutes). 

Two nights ago was their first night in the pool.  The oldest four were happily swimming and laughing together.  My youngest, having deemed the pool “too cold” was sitting happily (and still!) on my lap as we watched his siblings frolic in the crystal clear water.  There was a lovely breeze and the temperature felt perfect.  It truly felt as though all was right with the world in those few moments.  It was fifteen minutes of peace, joy, and…sadness because all will never be right in my world – in this world.

I don’t mean to be dramatic; it’s just my truth.   And it’s the moments I cherish the most that I miss her the greatest.  It’s hard not to wonder…who would she be?  how would she fit into this crazy family?  what would she love?  how would it be to watch ALL SIX of them frolic in that carefree water together?  That’s one of my greatest sorrows and my greatest hopes for heaven.  My heart will not feel whole again until I see them all together.  It’s my overriding prayer.

I woke up yesterday morning with the fear that I would not recognize Kate when I saw her again.  My image of  heaven these past years has been walking toward Jesus who has one hand extended toward me and one arm holding my Kate.  I knew her immediately as my sweet baby girl.  But lately the image has changed, and Jesus is holding the hand of a little young lady.  I can’t help but wonder if I’m creating this image as I imagine Kate as an eight year old, or if she is aging in heaven as she would on earth.  It causes mixed emotions to say the least. 

I have to find rest in the FACT that my God is not a God of fear, but a God of hope and love.  I have to hold on to the belief that Kate is His beloved as am I, and all will be perfect…someday.  Here in this life, however, moments of perfection are few and far between.  But as one dear friend suggested, maybe it’s in those times of stillness and peace that the veil lifts a bit and Kate sits beside me.  Perhaps she is always close by but at those moments all is calm enough for me to really feel her closeness.  It is certainly a comforting thought.  One to hold onto until the next fifteen minutes of peace comes.

I love you, Kate.

I have been avoiding my life lately.  Well…not avoiding life, exactly, but avoiding myself might be a better description.  My husband has been working and traveling in non-stop fashion for the past month, leaving me to handle five children in three different sports, and a demanding house and yard to maintain…

by myself.

Thankfully I have much help and love and support from family and friends. 

When my life and schedule get harried and overwhelming like this past month, I have a tendency to “batten down the hatches” and shift into “survival mode.”  Survival mode means looking at my very full, event-overlapping calendar several times a day.  It means using reading as a means to escape the stress of my life.  It means avoiding anything too emotional, too vulnerable, too revealing of my true emotions I’ve stuffed down into my soul. 

It means eating rice krispie treats when I don’t even like them.

It means avoiding this blog (which I love) because there is not time for me.  There is only time for what must be done.

I know the lies inherent in all of this.  Even as I’m avoiding and stressing and escaping, I know the lies that are there.  But sometimes it’s easier to wallow in the mudpit than fight my way out.  After all, I’m familiar with the mudpit.  I know the lies; I’ve heard them a million times before…I sing them to myself in a shameful lullaby.

It comes down to balance and grace – both difficult for me to maneuver on my own.  There are so many pulls on me from every direction.   I feel as though I waver between self-sacrificing martyr and selfishness.  I have yet to find the happy medium, if such a thing truly exists.  But I tell myself it exists…and I berate myself for not finding it.  More lies.

It’s a good, happy, fulfilling, albeit challenging life.  I am not complaining.  I am just treading water when I wish I could be swimming. 

I choose to find the joy – and there are moments of it everywhere.  But they tend to filter in and out of my consciousness as quickly as little silver minnows flitting through the water.  I wish I could catch them, hold them for a bit, live on them…but they escape through my outstretched fingers. 

My avoider-self says not to blog.  “Don’t share these shameful thoughts.  People have it much worse than you; quit complaining.  You are reaping the consequences of your own choices.  Quit whining.  You should be putting the laundry away; doing the dishes; weeding the garden; painting the pantry; organizing…something; sewing new pillow covers; etc.” 

And so today I am fighting the mudpit.  I am dogpaddling.  I am avoiding the rice krispie treats instead of this blog.  After all, it’s Mother’s Day.  And what better gift for my children than a Mom who loves herself?

Several months after losing Kate, I became aware either by a friend, a child’s grief book I may have been reading, or a personal realization (Who can remember such things at a time like that?) that I would have to relive Kate’s life – and death – at each stage of my children’s lives.  That as they grew and matured and reached new levels of awareness and understanding, they would need me to explain to them -once again – what had really happened that December morning.

At that stage in my grief, I welcomed that thought.  I was very desperate that Kate not be forgotten.  I was searching for ways to keep her memory alive; ways to keep feeling connected.  I vowed to myself that I would not exclude Kate when I was mentioning my other children, that I would always be open to discussing her life and death with the kids so they could know and understand who their sister was, and that I would include her in our meaningful times as a family.

Today I broke my vow.

Oh, I am giving myself grace (well, attempting it because I am so unpracticed at it).  There are times when the heart simply cannot bear another burden, and must turn inward to protect itself…and today was one of those times.  But it makes me realizes that this weight I carry – the weight of a mother who has lost a child, the WAIT of a mother who has lost a child – is always present, though at times it feels light or even forgotten.

My breaking point today was a cd. 

One of my clever sisters made a collection of songs (2 separate times, actually) each containing the name of one member of our family for Christmas presents several years ago.   My dad Will was represented, mother Betty, sisters, spouses, children..you get the idea.  (Didn’t know there was a song with the name “Becky” in it, did you?!   Two, in fact.)  Kate was included in both cd’s – one posthumously – and my children LOVE these cd’s so we listen to them quite a bit.

My 4 year old Colt is especially excited about his song these days so he requests it often.  (“Rag of Colts” is the name of the song, in case you were wondering.)  Because the songs are arranged youngest family member to oldest, Kate’s song is only the fourth on the cd so we always have enough time to hear it.  I often carpool when I take the boys to school, and the conversation among the 4 & 5 year olds in the car when this song comes on is something like this:

C:  What song is this?

M:  Kate’s

C:  What happened to her again?  Oh that’s right; she died.

T:  How did she die again, Mom? 

M:  She got a sickness in her lungs and died in her sleep. (quickly realizing this might make the kids afraid to go to sleep)  It was a very rare sickness that doesn’t happen to many kids.

H:  My mom’s cat died.  Somebody hit it.  Her name was Gabby.  I didn’t know her, either.

T:  What’s it called again, Mom?

M:  pneumonia

Ma:  I know people who have pneumonia.  They didn’t die.

M:  I know.  It doesn’t happen very often.  Kate’s little body just couldn’t fight it off.

H:  Is Kate the one we send our balloons to?

M:  Yep.

T:  Paige said she choked on M&M’s.

M:  No, Paige was just very little at the time and didn’t understand what was happening.

C:  I love M&M’s.  I hope I don’t die from them.

M:  I’m sure you won’t.  Just chew them up carefully.

You understand my point, perhaps?  While this conversation is endearing and even sweet, it happens every time we hear that song.  It is both charming and heart-breaking to hear their conversation.  To hear these little beings talk about death so matter-of-factly is something I want to honor because they are just learning and figuring things out as they should be at these ages.

The vow bids me patiently explain why they will not know Kate in this lifetime.  The weight/wait bids me hide, protect my heart.

There is no middle ground, no compartmentalization – it is bitter AND sweet.  It is joy AND pain. 

Today I skipped her song.  Tomorrow, I will try again.

“Sweet Kate, sweet Kate.  Rest your heart, and be still.  I love you now and always will.”  (author unknown)

I love my flower garden.  I love the life bursting within it, the  movement of pattern and color, the meeting of stone and soil and plant matter, and even the backbreaking work it creates.  It inspires me, challenges me, gives me moments of true joy and peace, and reminds that there is always hope. 

But I have a bit of a secret.  Sometimes I love it even more in the wintertime.

In the spring and summer, the garden is a noisy mass of expectations.  Weeds must be pulled; the dead growth must be removed to provide space for new growth to emerge; plants need to be divided, replanted; there is mulching, and watering, etc, etc.  There are busy bees and ants, butterflies and ladybugs, mosquitoes and crickets all voraciously announcing their presence. 

But in the wintertime, there are no expectations.  There is no cutting back, weeding, mulching, digging, path-laying, developing, planning, watering, fertilizing, and so on.  There is only silence.   It’s beautiful.  It’s powerful.  It’s alive.

It is as alive in silent winter as it is in busy summer.

As much as the work and activity and caretaking during the spring and summer fill my heart and spirit, the waiting winter months fill me with:

expectation

hope

rest

There is power in patience and there  is virtue in rest.  There is a time for things to live and burst forth in bloom, and a time for things to die or rest in slumbering silence.

I am reminded of this almost weekly, when my mother-in-law (and my friend) comes over to watch my wee ones while I have a few hours to myself.  Whether I’m grocery shopping, visiting the doctor, cutting the grass, or a myriad of other kid-free activities, I am usually silent.  And I usually turn off the radio.  And I am rarely on the phone or texting or words with friends-ing, or whatever else can fill me with turbulence and tumult.

It makes for a better, stronger me when I enter back into my world of bedlam and boisterousness.

Just like a long winter’s nap empowers a cacophony of spring blooms and re-awakened glorious-ness.

(Now if only I could figure out how to hold on to that powerful, peaceful  feeling when the kids start whining 10 minutes after I come home or the garden is overrun with weeds within days.  Hmmm…  But that’s another post.)

I love the word, “poignant.”  I still remember the time I first heard it.  I was a freshman in high school in Mr. Arnold’s English class.  He loved words, and poignant was one of them.  I remember him repeating it several times.  He loved the way it felt in his mouth and the way it sounded when it was released.  He loved the multiple meanings. 

And I fell in love with the word, too.  I guess I am a word nerd that way.  I love many, many different words.  But I think that moment was the first time I ever considered really enjoying a word, and that’s what makes “poignant” special for me.  That fragment of a moment is a savored memory.  It remains, ironically, “poignant.”

If you are new to this word, or haven’t heard it in some time, the first definition is “profoundly moving”  and “touching.”  The second definition is “physically painful.”  It is this word that so represents my “bitter~sweet” category.  Something that can be both those definitions at the same time describes my feelings when I write in this category.  And it describes my feelings today as I reflect on my grandmother’s passing.

My Grandma Shadowens passed away peacefully last night.  She was surrounded by her children, many grandchildren,  her husband, and other family members.  She was very, very loved, and was ready to be released from a life that had become filled with many health concerns, and go to a place where she could finally be without pain and at peace.

I lived 8 hours away from my grandma when I was growing up and still today.  Some of my memories of her include the orange slices she used to give me from the hutch in her dining room; the way she held my cheeks in both hands and planted big wet kisses on me when she first saw me; the many, many card games played at the dining room table; the chicken ‘n dumplins she made;  and the cards and letters she wrote to my sisters and I, telling us over and over again how loved we were.

I thought her passing would be a relief after years of many health problems, and knowing that she was “ready.”  I also thought it would be easier for me because I know with certainty that she will be welcomed by my Ka-Kate and they will be together in a joyful place.  I thought I would feel at peace knowing she was surrounded by many loved ones.

I was right…and wrong.

Her death was poignant.  It was the first AND the second meaning of the word. 

Knowing she is really gone creates another small hole in my heart.  Knowing what loss feels like so profoundly reminds me of my greatest loss and the pain that remains, always.  Knowing that I won’t be able to wrap my arms around her and receive her tight, loving hugs creates an ache in my chest.

One of my “sweet” moments that followed Kate’s death was the thought that her being in heaven would make the loss of other family members a bit easier to bear.  Knowing she would be there with them made it seem…lighter. 

 And it is. 

And it isn’t.

It’s very poignant. 

This is what life ~and death~ are for me now.  The most joyful moments are accompanied by a twinge of sadness.  The most painful experiences are somehow encapsulated with joy.  And I cannot think of a lovelier word to describe it all.

Thank you, Grandma, for the way you loved me on this earth.  And thank you for taking care of Kate until I can join you.

I am taking down Kate’s butterfly tree today.

It has consistently become the last piece of Christmas to adorn the house and then to be placed back in storage.  It’s not usually an emotional time or event, but one that I choose to do in solitude as it definitely makes me reflect. 

It’s interesting.  A few months after Kate died, after the initial shock and trauma started to fade, I began to have two conflicting emotions.  One was a desperate cry for everyone to remember Kate.  I didn’t want anyone to forget her or her short life because that meant she might fade into nothingness…into oblivion…and then what was the point of it all?  I could only wrap my head around her death if I was reassured that her life (and death) had meaning, purpose. 

The other overwhelming emotion was a desperate cry not to be defined just as “that mom who lost her daughter.”  I didn’t know exactly what I meant by that statement, but I knew it didn’t feel right to have that label.  I knew it didn’t connect with who I was in whole – a normal wife, an ordinary mother of 3 other children (at the time), etc, etc… 

So imagine the confusion…”please don’t forget my daughter who just died…and could you please quit looking at me with those sad eyes?!  I have to go scrub the toilet and make dinner for my family!”

In other words, I was – am – trying to decipher what it looks like to wait.

There is a song that often comes to mind when I’m reflecting on my life in waiting.  It’s called “While I’m Waiting” by John Waller.

I resonate deeply with those lyrics. 

“It’s painful…but I am hopeful, peaceful.”

 ”It’s not easy, but faithfully I will wait.” 

“I will move ahead, bold and confident.  Taking every step in obedience.” 

 ”I will serve you, while I’m waiting.”

That’s what it has to be about for me. 

“I will not fade.  I’ll be running the race, even while I wait.” 

As I take down this reminder of Kate’s life and light, I carry her love and sweetness and feistiness in my heart.  I am here to be so much more than that “mom who lost her daughter.”  And I am assured by loving friends and family – and even those I barely know - that Kate is remembered and honored and never, ever forgotten.

So even though the tree and butterflies are put away, I know that Kate is celebrating our moments with us.  And I clean the bathrooms and make tacos for dinner.

And I wait.

6 years ago today I lost my daughter Kate. 

6 years ago yesterday, I held her all day while she battled a virus – the same one that had caused high fever, fatigue, and normal viral symptoms in her older sister.  But it wasn’t cause for alarm.  She played some, ate some, drank some, and slept some.  I figured she would get a good night’s sleep and feel better in the morning.  I figured.

But she had contracted pneumonia in that night’s sleep.  Her little lungs couldn’t battle anymore.  And in the span of 10 hours, she was gone.  Gone. 

I have scattered memories of that day.  I am pretty certain that I retain the memory of the entire day, but my brain (or perhaps God’s grace) only brings a few memories to the surface at a time. 

picking up the phone to dial 911 then throwing it on the counter

answering a policeman’s questions while an emt removed Kate’s pj’s

rushing downstairs to grab clothes for the girls to wear to the e.r.

the drive in our blue Honda Odyssey down Bypass 4 alternately praying, crying, making phone calls asking for prayer acutely aware that one carseat was empty

the calm lady in the e.r. who told me I didn’t “do this” to my daughter

knowing - just knowing even before they confirmed it – that she was gone

holding her little body for an eternity but not long enough

being surrounded by many different family and friends

not being able to walk away until my Mom had arrived

that devastating walk down the hospital corridor knowing I was leaving my baby girl somewhere other than in my arms

There are more, but I am not interested in reliving that day on this blog.  I just wanted to visit it a bit to share it with you and to share the other memories that are from that day. 

The spiritual memories.

When I walked into Kate’s room  – before I even knew anything was amiss – there was a sense of coldness; a sense that something warm had just left.  Upon later reflection, I know with certainty that Kate was not alone when she left our family.  I do not know what it was; I just know it was.

That evening, after the funeral arrangements had been made, after the dr. appt. to make certain my older 2 daughters were healthy, after the gathering at our in-laws’ house with family and friends…we went home.  Home.  A place that had been a safe haven was now the place of our greatest tragedy.

Sitting on the floor in the living room that evening, my husband and I were finally faced with the silence of what had happened.  The overwhelming, deafening silence of a body with one less arm, a house with one less room.  The girls – just 2 of them now – were tucked away in our bed, finally sleeping after a day of confusion and trauma.

I was embraced by the oddest sensation.  Joy. 

Joy?  After this day?  Why joy?  But I heard myself telling my husband how thankful I was that I had known that little girl as long as I had.  That we could parent her in the time we had.  How blessed I was to have been her mother even for that short amount of time. 

I can’t explain that moment – those feelings – other than being comforted by the holy spirit.  There was a confidence in joy, a freedom from guilt, an absence of fear.  It was reminiscent of the feelings I had when Kate was born, when I felt very clearly that God used her birth to affirm my calling as a mother.  The same joy…the same peace…

My life since then has been filled with an overriding purpose – to make sacred of the profane.  How do I honor and remember my beautiful daughter in light of this painful world that encourages me to forget?  How can I make certain that others remember her?  How can I introduce her to her brothers who never got to meet her?  How do I share that gift of the holy spirit with others who are in pain? 

I don’t have answers.  I am just putting one foot in front of the other as I travel along this new path.  New relationships emerge and new traditions evolve.  Enlightenment, bitterness, memories, and time wax and wane as the day I lost Kate travels farther into my past and the day I hold her close in my arms comes nearer to me.

One concrete way that my family has chosen to honor and remember Kate is her butterfly tree.  I was desperate to make December 22 be more than a day of sadness and loss in our family.  So on or around that day, we put up a second Christmas tree – one that family and friends have lovingly filled with butterflies of every shape, size, and color.  It has an ethereal beauty that seems to reflect the joy and peace – and light – that Kate must have everyday. 

It shines with the love of those who will not let her memory be lost. 

I feel the weight of that phrase, “make sacred from the profane.”  It weighs heavily when thinking of Kate and her memory.  But isn’t that really what we are all trying to accomplish?  Aren’t we all trying to seek meaning, fulfillment, joy from our everyday lives?  And especially followers of Christ.  We are called to see the beauty in the ordinary, the love in the loss, the joy in the suffering. 

The Christ in the manger.

Wrap your arms a little tighter when you hug today.  Linger a bit longer over that coffee with an old friend.  Call that someone you’ve been meaning to.  Write that letter instead of that quick email.  Invite the lonely neighbor over for dinner.  Cook an extra casserole for a busy friend.  Turn off the tv and talk to your family.

There are no limits to ways that we can make sacred the profane – to make meaningful the common – to make joyful the ordinary. 

To find Christ in one another.

In honor of my beloved Kate, my daughter whose life – and death – have taught and encouraged and challenged and stretched me in ways I still do not fully understand or comprehend, may you have a peaceful, joy-filled December 22nd. 

I am not a “big picture” person.  I have never been and I don’t really foresee this happening in my future. (If I was a big picture person, I might try to foresee whether or not this may be true, but since I’m not I’ve already forgotten what I was just talking about.  Or maybe that happened because of the 20 mo. old that kept me up until 3 a.m.) I tend to dwell in the moments as they are happening.

This gets me in trouble sometimes.  I rarely know what is on my calendar more than a few days in advance, let alone next week or month.  I am often getting to places by the “seat of my pants” (where did THAT phrase come from, I wonder?!) and often forget to breathe because of the stress this can cause.  I usually catch my breath once I’ve sat down at the end of the day, but it often takes me a few days to recover.

But most of the time this awareness of the present is a blessing.  It seems that when we can really focus on the little moments as they are happening it brings a joy and contentment that no well thought-out plan can offer (at least in my world).  Case in point:

I am having a hard time navigating this Christmas season:  the many gifts yet to buy, finances to maneuver, parties to host, songs to sing, presents to wrap, decorations to hang, traditions to fulfill, memories to create, etc, etc.  (breathe, Becky, breathe!)  And because this time of year is extra painful for me, and I am an avoider of the highest level, I tend to try to put my focus anywhere BUT the current moment which fights my natural tendency and causes a major disruption in my universe.  (Which means I sit on the couch and eat lots of chocolate and watch all my dvr’d Ellen shows back-to-back.)

But several nights ago we had a moment.  And I caught it.  And I’ve been able to marinate in it a bit which has brought some of that joy and contentment back into the scene.  The Charlie Brown Christmas movie was on television.  I remember those days when it was on once, and if you missed it (which I did one specific year and can still feel that heartbroken-ness) you didn’t see it until the next Christmas. 

My husband and I were very excited it was on and really wanted to watch it as a family.  But one daughter had homework, and the 3 year old determined there just wasn’t enough singing, and the baby found a drumstick under the couch and was practicing his swordplay, and the 5 year old decided that coloring and a little Justin Bieber-singing were calling to him.  This meant it was my husband, me, and the obligated daughter (who was wishing she was reading her Goosebumps novel) watching, and the rest of the kiddos circling in the near vicinity.

The show was at the point where the kids decorate Charlie Brown’s pitiful little Christmas tree and start singing the “loo-loo-loo’s.”  My husband and I of course sang along, and then shortly after that the show was over.  Ian – the 20 mo. old – cried out, “NO!” and said, “Again.”  So (thanks to the blessed dvr), we rewound the show back to the “loo-loo-loo” place and watched it again.  This time the toddler and preschooler were drawn into the show and watched it until it was over.

Ian was still not having it and said, “Again” when it was over.  So we rewound it again and this time the 5 year old was drawn in and the homeworking daughter wandered into the room as well.  After it was finished and we obeyed the “Again” command once more, I looked around at my family.  The faces of my darling children were mesmerized by the singing (and I like to imagine) the love and community of those little children on that screen.

And I began to cry.

It was an overwhelming, beautiful moment.  7 of us, sitting together, mesmerized by a simple, loving moment from dear old Charlie Brown.  As I looked around at their faces, I was filled with a deep contentment as well as the deep sadness that always accompanies it for me.  For it is in those type of moments that I feel closest to Kate.  That veil between where I reside and she resides thins a bit and I can almost reach out to her.  It is at once heart-breaking and joy-filling. 

And so I practice gratitude in the midst of chaos.  Joy in the midst of pain.  Fun in the midst of obligation.  Presence in the midst of absence.  Christ in the midst of this world. 

Charlie Brown in the midst of the Grinch.

The little moments in the midst of the big picture.