Of Loss and New Life

Spring time has come to Quebec...and to Massachusetts.  A world that seemed dead just a few months ago, brown and limp, crushed from the winter's onslaught of ice and snow, is now green with life.  I spent an hour in the bush behind Brian's house yesterday, walking winding paths through the vibrant new growth, paths that took me all the way around Depot pond.  There were streams with rocks for steps across and fallen trees that, in my imagination, were obstacles to be valiantly overcome, even if it only took a step to accomplish the task.  So much newness, so many different shades of green, so much depth and life.

Life surprises me sometimes, how painful and lovely it can be, seemingly simultaneously.  A friend of mine passed away recently. His name was Mark Tasse. He was a close friend, and in the past week as I have been remembering him, I see that he has been a part of some of the most significant times in my life.  One of my favorite memories of him happened several years ago when I was in the hospital after having had a heart attack.  I had been discharged, but didn't have a ride home. I was sitting on my hospital bed, feeling a little panicked, when Mark walking in with a grin and a muffin.  Not only did he take me home, he took me out to lunch first (for some "real" non-hospital food.) Once I got home, he stayed until he knew that I was okay. That is who he was, to everyone. All of the time.  He loved to give gifts, the kind of things that speak of someone who really pays attention and knows what will bless the recipient the most. One of my most precious possessions is a volume of the complete works of Oswald Chambers, my favorite devotional author and teacher. It was a gift from Mark, and I was beyond delighted when he gave it to me. What a treasure!

For a few years, Mark came to our place every Tuesday night for supper. It started when the television show, Lost was on, and we'd watch it together.  After Lost finished, we switched to movies.  Mark ate a lot of his meals at restaurants and on the go, so a home cooked meal was a gift for him, and I took this seriously.  Every Tuesday late afternoon I'd receive a call from him, usually from a local grocery store.  He'd want to know what the plan was, and could he bring anything? He'd say, "Listen, salmon is on sale, do you want me to get some?"  Salmon was a favorite.  I'd tell him what I had, and we'd decide what he needed to get. Then he would arrive with a grocery bag full of goodies.  I would cook it all, whatever he wanted.  It was the highlight of my week.  I also loved the way he talked to Grace, not in that mildly amused, patronizing way that middle aged men often talk to teen age girls. He spoke to her like he spoke to everyone else and he really listened to her. He treated her with respect, like the intelligent person that she was, not a brainless boy crazy stereotype.  She loved him for it, as did I.

For the past few years, Mark's visits have been less frequent. He'd show up at the door with his lunch in hand, just bought at the grocery store.  I'd make coffee and we'd use the short time he had to spend with us to catch up.  A couple times he showed up after snow storms, sporting a shovel and his customary grin. He was always, always, always welcome.

I don't know.  It is hard to imagine him not here.  I feel a little like I did when my mum died, that Mark's death leaves a huge, gaping hole in the fabric of my life.  I feel like I have spent the last week staring at the hole in confusion, trying to look beyond it to see where he is. I am glad that there is a "beyond," that Mark is gone from this world, but not gone forever. I am grateful that he is with God, and somewhere in the pain is a tickle of excitement for him.  He's gone home, he's with Jesus! 

But.  Yes, the but is about me, not him. But it's real. But, I miss him.  I cannot yet see the world without him. I understand this, I still struggle to see my world without my mum.  It takes time.  Still, there are memories. Oh, blessed memories! 

Mark used to talk fondly of his times hiking in the woods.  He felt quiet and peaceful there. At home. Close to God.  He'd love the woods here, although I imagine that he would want to veer off the beaten track, where I dare not. 

So I will stay on the paths.  And think about Mark. And remember. And cry, and laugh. I am grateful that there is Light in this sadness. Mark has walked down a path that I haven't gotten to yet. He is alive in a way that we can't even imagine. He has turned a corner, and those of us who are left behind can't see where he has gone.  We can see the path, though.  We can keep walking, keep believing, keep loving and growing and learning. 

We can be grateful, to have known him, and to have been called friend.  Every tear is a sweet reminder, not only of what we have lost, but what we have had.

 There is much to be grateful for.

Paths

“The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say” Bilbo Baggins, Fellowship of the Ring


I love paths.  There is something gloriously hopeful about stepping into a forest and seeing a path before you, cut through the brush and trees by use or design, calling forward around corners and through twists and turns leading to places and things that I know nothing about. Yet.

I didn't always feel this way. Growing up with an undiagnosed anxiety disorder, paths into the unknown were to be avoided, certainly not sought.  I spent hours in the bush behind our farm, and felt at home there. It was known, though. The paths were well worn, by my father as he cut winter fire wood and cleaned out the tangled mess each spring. It was as familiar to me as our front lawn. Familiar and safe.

The unfamiliar paths were to be avoided.  Before I knew enough to ask how or why, I knew that the world was not a safe place. I wanted to be safe. I needed to be safe. Unknown paths are not always safe.

When Brian and I went to Maine last Friday, I picked up a copy of The Hobbit at a thrift store.  I've read it before, and having given my copy to a fellow fan, I had been on the lookout for a new one for some time.

I was buried in The Hobbit early this week, and came across Bilbo Baggins expressing his very definite opinion about adventures -

"We are plain, quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can't think what anyone sees in them,"

I had to smile. I remember thinking and feeling like that.  I wouldn't have expressed it so, because while going on adventures terrified me, wanting to go on adventures has always been fairly fashionable.

Somewhere along the years, though, my heart has changed.  Because that is what was missing. I had the mind for adventurous paths, but not the heart.  I was broken, and needed to be healed.  God did that in me.

"It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm then and do not let yourselves be burdened by a yoke of slavery." Galatians 5:1

What is more enslaving than fear?  I lived in a fear that was overpowering in its intensity The fear was real because the danger was real. I do not feel ashamed of it.  No amount of positive thinking or motivational Facebook post could battle it.  There is a brokenness that words cannot fix, a fear that clings because it makes sense.  To say that I could overcome was foolish, because I couldn't. To say things would be alright was lunacy, because they wouldn't.  To say that there was nothing to be afraid of was insulting, because of course there is much to be afraid of.  Real stuff too, not the fear-mongering threats of a world that seeks to create fear in order to sell protection.  Real stuff.

God did not swoop into my life and tell me that I would never be hurt again.  What He did do was show me a part of myself that, once in complete and trusting union with Him through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, COULD never be hurt again.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." Ezekiel 36:26

Life is an adventure. So many things are happening, and there is always potential for complete disaster.  Or  extravagant joy. Or both. At the same time.  Life is weird like that.

I love paths. They remind me that I am on a journey, that there are new and wonderful and scary and challenging and exciting and odd and joyful experiences awaiting me.

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step out onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."  Bilbo Baggins, Lord of the Rings

"When the path ignites a soul, there's no remaining in place. The foot touches ground, but not for long." Hakim Sanai

About saying good-bye and smiling hello and ancient grounds and cheap cheese and life and peace and gratitude...

You know what happens, don't you? Stuff happens, big stuff, trivial stuff, I have thoughts and feelings about it all, can't for the life of me put it all into words other than the rambling that happens with close friends and loved ones, then I try to write about it all, grind to a sludgy halt when the feels start and end up with 7 unpublished posts. Sometimes I suck at blogging.

Not that sucking at blogging is going to stop me from trying. For all I know, this may be unpublished post #8. Then again, it might not. And that is worth the effort.

I am in Massachusetts with Brian and his family. I love it here. Every time I write that, I feel an insistent urge to point out that I also love my home in Quebec. Which I do. I am discovering that there is a bit of guilt attached to leaving home there and finding home here with Brian. I am a woman between two lands. Which sounds much more dramatic than it actually is. What it actually is, is confusing and uncomfortable and interesting and bittersweet and lovely and sad. It's deep (what exactly does it mean to be a Canadian living in the U.S?) and simple (whoa, look at the price of CHEESE here!) It's celebratory (I am a 2 minute walk from Dunkin donuts AND from a huge, lovely bush behind the house that I can wander about in for HOURS!) and sorrowful (I keep dreaming about my mother, and our house on Linda St. in Ormstown.)

I am fully aware that I am in denial about some aspects of moving here. My head keeps reminding me that I am going to be leaving my best friend and soul sister, and my family, while my heart frowns and grumbles, "Shut up...we're not there yet!" Grace is moving to England, and I know that I cannot cheer my child on as she moves out on her own adventure if I am thinking about her being so far away. So I don't think about it. Well, okay, of course I think about it. But I don't THINK about it. We're not there yet, either.

One thing I do feel very clearly is peaceful. Yesterday I went for a walk in a cemetery that is just down the road from us. It's a lovely place, with tall trees and quiet. As I walked, I thought that it felt old and full of memory, which I think might be a Lord of the Rings quote about Fangorn forest. In any case, it fit.

It was peaceful, and I felt at home. There was a time when places like this, or the woods behind it were the only places I felt at peace. Not any more. The peace that is within me reaches out and rejoices in peaceful places and circumstances, but it does not rely on them. It is a peace that I don't understand and could never have manufactured for myself. It is real and persistent and solid and good.

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:4-7

There are a lot of big changes coming up. There are going to be extravagant gifts and gut wrenching losses.  It is the nature of life.  There are no gains without losses, no love without pain, no hello without good-bye, no laughter without tears, no joy without sorrow. Still, there is peace.  Jesus is like that. He is like that in us. And He is like that in me.

So where am I now, with everything that is going on? I am at the place that I always end up. I am at the lovely, nurturing, soul-sustaining place of gratitude.

And I couldn't be happier.

Just a thought.

Relaxing bedtime yoga pose...not so relaxing.

A couple of nights ago, I did a google search for pre-bedtime relaxing yoga poses. Now that I think back, I'm not even sure why I did the search. I take evening meds to calm and lessen pain in my IC bladder, and they pretty much cover the whole "relaxing" thing.  Still, I googled it, and got a few poses that seemed to be good options.

http://www.fitnessmagazine.com

One of the poses involved lying on the bed with my legs facing the headboard. I was then to skooch my behind up as close to the headboard as I could get it, with my legs pointing upward, leaning against the headboard/wall.  It was supposed to look like this -

I didn't have any problem getting into the pose, aside from the need to skooch.  There I was, lying on the bed in my softly lit bedroom, feet up the wall, eyes closed, breathing and praying quietly and relaxing and stuff.  It was actually quite nice.  Even the whiskers of a curious cat tickling my forehead did little to mess with my calm. I was supposed to hold the pose for 2 minutes, although from my position the clock was upside down, so I've no clue how long I was there.

When I decided to come down, though, I was met with a problem. Notice the lovely lady in the picture, on a neat, pillowless, catless bed.  Mine didn't look like that. In fact, I had a mound of pillows, quilts, blankets and cats on one side of me (I think there were a few books in there too) and on the other side was the floor...a pile of books, a garbage basket, a lamp, some candle holders and did I mention the floor?

My bed is also quite soft, so it took a fair amount of rolling, grunting, pushing, leg waving and kicking, and more rolling to get over the dam of pillows and blankets. I felt like a turtle on its back. In a very soft bed surrounded by pillows and amused cats.  By the time I got to a sitting position, I was panting, facing the wrong way, the bed was a mess (stupid pillows), the cats had left in a huff, and I had kissed my zen good-bye.

Still, aside from discovering that  yoga is best practiced on the floor, the experience was one more step in the lifelong quest to take myself less seriously.  Which is surprisingly relaxing.

Besides, it amuses the cats. And that has to be worth something.

Grace, England and Growing Up

So Grace is in England. If you are a Facebook friend of mine, you already know this.  And due to my inability to suffer in silence, you also know that sending her off on the trip of her dreams was both personally thrilling and maternally traumatic.  My baby!

When we returned from the airport, I wrote this on Facebook - "I just watched my daughter navigate a labyrinth of ticket scanners, preteen hockey players from the Czech republic, airport security and a weepy couple blowing kisses to each other as they parted. I knew that this was the parental paradox. We realize that we have somehow managed to do it right when our children are able to walk away from us, in freedom and strength and love. She's holding onto God's hand now, not mine. And I am thrilled. And proud. And a little broken. But in a good way."   

The wonderful and odd thing about seeing Grace off was that I wasn't worried.  I knew that she'd be safer in the air than she is, say, walking down our stairs or riding in a car on the 401.  I trust her judgement, her wisdom, her insight into people, her knowledge and faith in God. I wasn't worried about her safety.

My daughter was taking a major step of independence, and I knew that when she returned, she would be different.  We say, they will always be our babies, but the reality is that our relationships with our children change as they grow into adulthood. They have to. If we keep treating our children like, well, children, we will either cripple them or push them away.  We have to see the maturity and depth as it builds up and flows from our young people. We have to acknowledge and honour it in them, because in most cases, it is hard-won. It is not easy growing up. It hurts. It's scary. It's hard. And when our children go through everything they need to in order to get to where they need to be, we as parents had better be there cheering them on, because it was not an easy journey for them.

More than anyone else in Grace's life, I know what she went through to get to the place where she was able to get on that plane.  And I applaud her for it. I celebrate her strength and faith. I honour her perseverance and courage, and her willingness to humble herself and seek God for help when her feeble resources run out. And I know that when she comes home, the fruit of all of that work will be ripening in her. She will not be the same. And I rejoice in that. And weep, because the bittersweet truth of it all is that in order to have a healthy, strong, loving relationship with the young woman who will be returning from England in a month, I have to say good-bye to baby Grace....and toddler Grace....and kid Grace and pre-teen Grace and adolescent Grace.

I will do it, because it is right, and good, and what both Grace and I need. While I am doing it, though, all of this dreadful, painful, healthy letting go, I will find myself adopting the slightly confused, wondrous, wounded and proud demeanor of all parents of young adults.  You've seen them.  They tear up at odd moments.  They carry pictures in their wallets and whip them out with the least encouragement, of graduations and engagement parties and brides and grooms and babies.  They ask questions like, when did this happen? How did they grow up so fast? Where did my baby go?  And then they laugh softly, not expecting answers because there are none. No one knows where our babies went.  We'll never understand how our kids got so smart, or accomplished, or strong, or faithful, or brave.  We'll always wonder where the years went, and we'll never figure it out.  We'll marvel the fact that joy and pain can exist together so eloquently in our hearts.


 There are moments along our journey as parents of young adults that grant us grace in the midst of our loss.  Today, while collecting clothes for laundry, I found out where all of our socks have been hiding. On the floor under Grace's bed.  There had to have been at least 10 pairs, plus the customary assorted singles.  We've been wearing mismatched socks for weeks.  I told her about it on Facebook. She blamed the Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc, with feline disdain, refused to comment.  I reveled in a brief glimpse of my baby.  I am still needed.  I remain Mom, "she who finds that which is lost."

It's not much, but I'll take it.

Valentine's Day 2014

For the past couple of years, I've written Valentine's Day posts mostly focused on how incredible God's love for us is, and how we can choose to love others regardless of what does or doesn't end up in our mailboxes or vases.  This year, I am engaged to be married to a really special man, and we did send lots of love across the miles to each other - using the internet of course, because apparently our respective postal services missed the memo that Valentine's Day cards and gifts are supposed to arrive on or before February 14th!

Still, God's love ruled.  I've been thinking a lot about the way God sees me, how He feels about me when He looks at me, whether He ever grows weary of my feeble efforts to please Him.  Last week I spoke to a small group of young people at an Ashes Arise get together in Ormstown, and my message centred around the parable of the prodigal son.  There is no denying that Jesus was trying to help the people listening, religious leaders as well as those living their lives without God, that their Father God is madly, extravagantly, passionately in love with them.  When we look at people and situations through eyes of love, we see things differently than we normally would.

This brings me to Brian. Because I have learned over the past year, that in many ways, he sees me differently than I have ever seen myself, or have been seen by others.  My gift to Brian was a series of glamour shots that I took at home. Grace curled my hair, I smeared a bit of make up on and did my best to take some pictures that would show how special he makes me feel.  Pictures are an important part of the long distance relationship experience.  We have sent each other pages and pages (and pages and pages) of emails and messages, but the pictures add something that cannot be expressed in print.  Pictures of our children, our homes, our activities, the weather, ourselves...they help us feel close to each other, and included in each others' lives.




In the beginning, the whole picture thing was a struggle for me. I don't like pictures of myself.  My theory has been that I am one of those people who looks better in motion, that I don't take good pictures.  I have also always had a bit of an ugly duckling complex.  I have never been able to see myself as attractive.

Consequently, my first few "selfies" to Brian had me looking a little "deer-in-headlightish."  I was looking at some of my later pictures once, and said to Grace that I looked like I was tired in all of them, compared to the earlier ones. She informed me that I just looked relaxed in the later ones. Ah...so that's what relaxed looks like.  As I kept taking the pictures, and seeing Brian's response to them, I have begun to feel more and more comfortable. I've even started enjoying the process.

Hence, the glamour shots for his Valentine's Day present.  For the first time in my life, I had fun taking pictures of myself.  Of course, the years of fundamentalist church teaching is having a bit of an effect, and I feel squirmy inside, actually enjoying taking pictures of myself. I mean, really!  Our faith, though, is about truth, and when I look at these pictures, and listen to Brian maintain that this is the way I look to him all the time, I have to stop and think about what is really true.  Is this what love sees when it looks at me?  If so, why have I been cringing at every glance in the mirror, for all of these years?

These pictures are of a woman who is loved, and cherished, and cared for, a woman who has been made strong through Christ in the face of her abject weakness.  This is what acceptance looks like in me, what peace, joy, love and comfort look like. This is the best that a webcam, a piece of black lace cloth, a huge, red heart pillow and a loved woman can come up with.  This is love.

Most importantly, it is what happens when we allow God to love others through us. Brian's love for me is an extension of God's love, just as mine is, for him.  That makes it true.  And because it is true, it lets us see ourselves as we really are.  It's not all good, because we are not all good. But God's love has an amazing way of maintaining His passion and power and grace in the face of our "not goodness."  And it is that grace, that glorious undeserved love, that births in us a longing to be more, out of love, not fear. Out of His riches, not our poverty. Out of His compassion, not the enemy's scorn.

For me, Valentine's day will always be about God's love.  I am grateful, and thrilled that the man I am about to marry feels the same, and that his Valentine's day morning email contained this line - "My dear Kelly even though we can not be together on this day to celebrate the love we share we can both examine our lives for our love for the LORD and see that HE is the true meaning of celebration of the love we share." 

Now...Canada Post...I need to have a word with you...

A note about houses and dreams

I spent the day in a painful IC fog,  had to euthanize one of Grace's ratties (Hammy was a sweetheart and there's a story here. Details will follow in an upcoming post) and then went to work at 4pm, so I didn't get a chance to post this until now, at midnight, but something really neat happened this morning.

I woke up at the tail end of a dream that was taking place in Brian's home in Massachusetts. Which is a significant thing, for me.  I don't generally think of myself as someone who gets attached to places, but in my dream world, location is everything.

When I was a teen-ager, the farm house that I grew up in burned down. We weren't living there, my parents were divorced and I lived with my mom in a duplex in Ormstown. My dad had renovated one of the outbuildings on the farm into a smaller house, and was living in that. So when we visited him, which was often, we stayed there too. The big house was empty when it burned, and it was pretty much completely destroyed.

The farmhouse was very much a character in my childhood story. For years after it burned down, every dream that I remember having took place in that house. The geographical location could be anywhere, the people involved were varied, and the story lines were typical dream-type stuff. But the house was always a presence in my dreams. It still is, to a lesser extent, to this day.

The same is true for the duplex in Ormstown, although not with the same frequency. I always thought that the persistent presence of the farmhouse in my dreams was a way of keeping it in memory, as it doesn't exist anymore. The Ormstown place became a much more common scene for my dreams after my mother died, two years ago, and that was really more about going back to where she was, keeping her memory alive.

Lately, both of my childhood homes have been frequently cropping up in my dream world. No big surprise there. I am preparing to leave this place, this valley, the only home that I have ever known.

Which is what makes it so nice to have Brian's house serve as a back drop to my dream last night. I don't remember details.  I think there may have been pizza involved.  And Christmas lights.  The basic weird dream stuff.  It feels really positive, though.  After all, it's not just any house that gets to be the backdrop for my dream land story lines.  Just the important ones. The ones that matter. The ones that are home.

I'm not going to analyse the death out of this.  Okay, I'm tempted. But I'm trying really hard not to.

It's just neat, that's all. And as the start to a day that involved mind-numbing fatigue, crippling abdominal pain  and the death of a family pet, I'll take all the neat I can get.