Putting Together the Pieces

Today I got out a giant umbrella and walked with Luke to his bus stop. There were giant white snowflakes falling all around us and I imagined how warm and cozy the bus must feel for him as he got on board. I caught a perfect view of him out one of the many windows as the bus drove by me, walking back to the house, and I smiled my biggest smile and waved my happiest wave. I thought about how it won’t be long before I’ll wish for moments like that back. I thought about how fast time goes.
I used to sit on the tiny balcony of an apartment Ryan and I lived in when our oldest was a toddler and the next was a baby. We had lived there for a couple of years and we didn’t mind the daydream of moving on, owning a home, feeling financially secure. But I remember, perfectly, sitting out on that balcony, looking past the generic, colorful playground equipment, past the shared swimming pool, to a barrier of other tall apartment buildings all filled with young couples like us and thinking, “One day, this view will be a distant memory. It is so familiar now. It’s all I know, all I can imagine, but one day I’ll never lay eyes on it again.”
I remember last Christmas like it was yesterday. It does not seem like a year ago. Not a whole year since I hid Alli’s first cell phone away in my sock drawer, anxiously awaiting Christmas morning. Not a whole year since I turned down desserts and exercised feverishly so I could feel good about myself while Christmasing with my family and then ate all through Christmas break and gained it all back.
I teach my kids the same little songs and actions that my Mom taught me when I was little and I can still hear the echo of her voice when she taught me. I can still feel the warm sun on my face, still feel the pavement under my feet as we walked to the local library, singing with her all the way there and back.
That’s how short this life is.
It’s comforting in a way, focusing on and lamenting over scales, clocks, money and technology. Little things. Fleeting things. However, in the moments when you have that out of time experience, when you stand out in the gently falling snow and usher your kindergartner onto the school bus and watch him smile and wave goodbye, you just want to wrap your arms around the people you love and make sure they’re happy and taken care of. You just want to wrap all of your memories up in the little antique doilies you got from your Great Grandma and tuck them away in a hope chest that smells clean and old at the same time and keep them forever safe… and you want to make more.
My Mom is dating someone, and it’s serious. Many of you will be wondering what the story is, so I’ll try to summarize. He was a friend of my Dad’s in high school. They hadn’t stayed in close contact, but he came to visit my Dad once when he got really sick. He also came to my Dad’s funeral. I so appreciated everyone who travelled to come and pay respects to Dad. A few months later, this man’s wife, who had been sick for many years, also passed away. My Mom travelled with friends to the funeral. Later, emails began between my Mom and this man because (and I believe this with all of my heart) no one can understand losing a spouse except for someone who has experienced it. They talked of nothing but their spouses and their grief for months. The emails began to be so healing that phone calls seemed an even better opportunity. By the time they went on their first date (which kind of freaked us out) they were already close and only got closer. There was a shift in relationship, so natural, that my Mom said it felt right.
This is where it starts getting a little tricky for us, the onlookers. This is where a thousand questions, questions you never even thought of asking, come into your mind. Justin, Jeremy, Jordan and I are Monte Gee’s kids, and being like him in many ways, we don’t enter into ANYTHING without thinking it over to the result of at least five headaches and a goodly portion of heartburn. Rest assured, we have taken our feelings and the circumstances apart and put them back together like a jigsaw puzzle, and before it’s over we’ll be able to put the puzzle together blindfolded, our spouses will too.
The pieces of the puzzle are like our daily stresses about scales, clocks, money and technology. Each piece is important. When the puzzle is put together, it’s like the out of time moment I had at the bus stop today. The picture is a man and a woman who have had their hearts broken; who have been through more than most of us can understand. It’s a picture of them finding happiness when they once hoped for only survival. It’s a picture of two families standing behind them in support because life is short, and they just want to wrap their arms around the people they love and make sure they’re happy and taken care of. My mom’s only daughter is in that puzzle, and while she’s still coping with these new ideas, and writing a blog post about them, she’s also wrapping up her memories in little antique doilies and tucking them away in a proverbial hope chest that smells clean and old at the same time, she’s keeping them safe forever… and she’s willing to open her heart and make new ones with new people because there’s still room in her hope chest for that.

In The Quiet Moments

Things have been a little mixed up lately. I guess I’ve been missing my Dad. Fall is all about my Dad. It’s strange to see the leaves change without him here to point out how pretty they look. He’d be out on the mountain with my brothers, even if he was here, and sick, that’s how they’d celebrate their October birthdays (his and the twins’ are just a day apart). We wouldn’t even get to Thanksgiving before he’d be scheming about how to get away with spending more money than he should on us for Christmas.
I’ve been on a kick since he passed away, talking about how life is mostly hard. Which is just a basic fact. Day to day, there are mostly challenges and setbacks, annoyances, diets, reasons to cry, reasons to zone out and distract ourselves with TV and computers so that when we turn them off we can face reality again for a little while. My argument is usually that every once in awhile there is a magical little moment. Something like you hearing your kids laughing in the other room, during one of those rare occasions when they’re playing amongst themselves instead of thinking of demands for you to fulfill. My theory states that those moments, by some miracle, make the tough moments (numerous as they are) all worth it.
My sister in law, Tasha, and I were discussing the theory the other day on the phone. She said, “It’s true. Life is mostly hard. But what do you think about in the quiet moments? Do you think about how hard everything was that day?”
I said, “No, I guess I don’t.”
She said, “My mind automatically goes back to how cute my kids looked doing this or that, or how much fun something coming up is going to be. I don’t find myself thinking about the hard stuff.”
Today I was looking through old pictures, trying to find one of Luke when he was a pirate, so that I could convince him that it’s okay for boys to have make-up on their faces if it’s Halloween, especially if it’s to create a beard.
I found the pictures of him when he was a newborn. I remembered being pregnant with him. I was really sick for the first months, and no sooner had that ended than I got two severe cases of the flu, seemingly one right after the other. Ryan went to Christmas parties without me while I lay in bed next to a garbage can, sweating, uncomfortable and massive and sure I’d never live through it. I hated not being well enough to take care of my kids. I hated pleading with God to make me well and still feeling sick. I tried to think of the “something that I’m supposed to learn from all of this”, but I couldn’t think of a darn thing.
I thought of Tasha’s words. “What do you think about in the quiet moments? Do you think about how hard everything is?”
I looked at our smiling pictures, holding baby Luke.

I looked at one Ryan took of me, after I fell asleep while praying because I was so tired that I couldn’t get on my knees and stay awake through my prayer. I can even smile and chuckle at that one now.
I looked at a picture of my Mom, trying to figure out the camera so that she could take a picture of my Dad holding the baby… and I wasn't sad.
Maybe life isn’t so hard after all. I think what matters most is what settles into your heart and mind… in the quiet moments.

Luke and his cousin Dax.

My Dad and Luke.

My True Love Story

He’ll Be Somewhere in the World

Day 1,972ish

I’m travelling home from college, but I’m not really behind the steering wheel of my car. Really I’m travelling through the years of my life. Most of the roads have nothing but golden fields on both sides, and few other cars to distract me so there’s nothing but time for quiet contemplation, for my life’s soundtrack to pour out of the speakers, for questions about what the future holds.
My mind flashes back to a week ago, to a conversation that could change the past and the future. It was a conversation bigger than, “Who was that guy you were with?” Bigger than “Will you write to me?” Bigger than “Can you forgive me?”

It’s another weekend of shuffling around dates with two boys back home. I spend a sunny Saturday with Ryan, still amazed at how his apparent sincerity is holding up. In the back of my mind, I keep waiting for him to blow me off for some other girl. I steel myself against it, making sure the walls are strong enough that it won’t hurt much if he does it.
“Aim, there’s something I need to tell you about.”
“Okay.”
His voice has an anxious quality to it. It’s different than I’ve ever heard from him. I can’t quite predict what’s coming, but my caution meter is in the red zone.
“You know how when you’re getting your mission papers ready, you have to go in for a physical?”
“Yes…”
“Well… they found something unusual when I went in for mine. There was an abnormality and there’s… well, there’s a possibility that it could be cancer.”
This is not what I expected. This isn’t even in the realm of anything I could’ve predicted. Ryan’s too strong for fear, too untouchable for sickness. My eyes grow small, the world grows too big in an instant, and my heart grows tight in my chest.
“Don’t worry! It’s gonna be just fine. It’s in a place where they can operate. There’s a surgery scheduled and uh, they’re just gonna get rid of it.”
“Get rid of it? But they don’t know that it’s cancer?”
“No, they can’t really know until they remove it and test it.”
“Ryan…”
“I don’t see any way around explaining it to you. I mean, you need to know, but it’s kind of a forbidden topic.” He sucks in a breath, an almost embarrassed breath, and I find I’m blushing a little and don’t know why.
He says, “They suspect… testicular cancer. Do you know what I mean?”
“Oh man. In my family we don’t even say the word ‘cancer’. We call it ‘the C-word’ when we’re forced to talk about it at all, and now here we are putting the C-word and the T-word together,” I force out a quiet, nervous laugh.
“I know that this is awkward,” he says. “I know that we don’t normally discuss anatomy and you may not be familiar with my unmentionables, but… they’re pretty familiar with you.” Okay. Now he’s being shocking and funny and now I really am blushing.
“Oh! Ryan. Don’t deflect right now. Please do not deflect right now! I’m worried about you!”
“I know. That’s why I’m deflecting,” he says with a confident smile.
“What does- Is- is your family okay with all of this?” I ask.
He’s quiet too long before he says, “Yeah, they’re fine. The doctors are gonna take care of this.”

I pressed for more information after that. I was able to coax him into admitting that his family is worried. That his Mom has shed some tears. Moms can’t avoid tears when they think of their babies and the C-word. Families can’t avoid falling to their knees and sending up desperate and fervent pleas when they think of their loved ones and the C-word.
I’ve been sending up some careful requests since then, myself. Ryan has been the subject of my prayers for a long time. Somewhere around 1,972ish days. First I was a young, foolish girl, trying to get some sort of reassurance that he was my future husband. Then I was a heartbroken girl, pleading that I could get through one day and then the next. And then of course, there was a time when I bitterly forced myself to pray for my enemies, to find some forgiveness for the boy who spitefully used me and persecuted me. A little dramatic, but totally the way I felt. Now, no sooner have we come to a tenuous truce, a cautious understanding, than I’m on my knees again, pleading for his health, for his safety, for his life.
It’s almost dark when I pull into home’s driveway. I go inside and greet my parents, call Ryan to tell him I’m here.
“I’ll walk over and meet you,” he says. The plan is for us to watch a movie at his house tonight.
I don’t ask about the surgery yet. It took place a couple of days ago and I still don’t know the outcome. That’s how distant I’m still keeping things between us. I’m torn between being this supportive person that, maybe, he needs, and being this jaded girl that doesn’t plan on ever getting hurt again.
I catch up with my parents for a few more minutes and then tell them goodbye and head out to meet Ryan. I get to the front lawn when I see his dark figure, drawn up straight, but limping just a bit as he nears. The supportive person that, maybe, he needs comes out in me and I run up to him and throw my arms around him. He stiffens in my embrace and I pull away to find an almost hidden grimace of pain at the corner of his mouth, followed by an attempt at an appreciative smile.
“Ryan,” I breathe, my concern stealing my voice away, “You’re in a lot of pain.”
“Nah. Not too much.”
He turns for us to start walking back to his house, but now I can really see how carefully he’s walking.
“Are you even supposed to be out of bed?” I ask.
“I wanted to walk over here and meet you,” he says.
“That didn’t answer my question,” I say, leaning toward his waist and wrapping my arm around it for support. The pain must be really bad because he accepts the help by wrapping an arm around my shoulder and leaning some of his weight on me as he walks.
I’m more afraid now than I’ve been since I heard about the possibility that he might have cancer. Now I see that he’s masterful at hiding things to protect the people he cares about from worry. Now I see that sometimes it’s so bad that he can’t hide it. Now I see that he can be vulnerable.
So as we walk carefully down the lamp lit street, I start pelting him with anxious questions. “How did the surgery go? Did everything go as it should?”
I see anger darken his eyes as he practically spits out the words, “Oh yeah, the surgery went great if worthless surgeries are the goal of the medical world.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they found out that it wasn’t cancer, and I’m going through all of this for nothing.”
I balance my relief with sympathy and I cast my next words out to him the way he casts out the line when he’s fly fishing. “Isn’t it a blessing that it wasn’t cancer? That you’re going to be okay? I know I’m really happy to hear it…”
His anger dissipates, leaving him to respond in the right way, but with deflated words. “Yeah, of course. It could be a lot worse. My family is extremely relieved that it wasn’t cancer.”
I smile. “I bet your Mom has been pampering the heck out of you.”
That coaxes a genuine smile from him in response. “Almost enough to make it worth it,” he says. “She cooks me anything that sounds good, I have a supply of my favorite candy, and she has a cushy bed all made up for me on the family room floor in front of the TV. Right now it’s really calling my name.”
“Well then let’s get you back to it,” I say, helping him up the stairs of his front porch.
Once we have him leaned back against a plethora of overstuffed pillows and covered in soft, colorful quilts, hand quilted with lots of love by his Mom, I cuddle in next to him and we start the movie.
I’m not watching it though. I’m sneaking looks at him, still so shocked that any of this is happening. I realize that even when I was trying hard to forget all about Ryan, it was still so good knowing that he was somewhere out there in the world. That he was out there making people laugh, delivering the perfect line, being enthusiastic about a football game, feeling passionate about a book, believing in himself like nobody else I know can do. I’m realizing how empty the world would be if he left it. If we don’t end up together, if we marry other people, if he spends the next two years in… in… Cambodia for crying out loud- at least I get to know that he’s out there somewhere making this world a brighter place.
He looks over at me then. “If you keep looking at me like that, your promise to green lid guy is going the way of my recent cancer scare,” he says.
I giggle. “I don’t have any more promises to keep,” I say, “The next two years are going to be absolutely promise free.”
It’s abrupt the way he turns his face toward me and his expression holds a little bit of a question and a lot of a purpose. I look back at him. “I talked to him,” I say. “We’re still seeing each other, but no more promises. I can’t do the next two years with the pressure of promises.”
Then Ryan’s hand is at the back of my head, his lips are pressing against mine, and the world is turning into a brighter place indeed.
The kiss is something new. It’s got a drop of familiarity, but it’s got loads of new excitement, new possibilities, fear and thrill and passion and caution and restraint. Restraint. Ryan pulls back, blinking the heat out of his eyes and taking a deep breath. He looks at me and nods, like his mind is listing reasons to end the kiss right there. Then he deflects one last time. “Well, my unmentionables still recognize you, so I guess the doctors didn’t ruin me completely.”
I gasp, and my cheeks heat up like a furnace. I smack him in the shoulder and he laughs.
“Hey!” he says, “Be careful! I’m delicate!”
“Please, you haven’t been delicate a day in your life,” I laugh, and after that, it’s safest if I stop watching him and watch the movie instead.

Family. Everything Else Can Take a Backseat For Awhile.

I was going to apologize like mad because of slacking on my writer's blog. I was going to explain that my focus had to shift to my family for awhile when school got out and then we went on a summer vacation. I was probably going to complain about how crazy things are and how I have to compete with my kids for my computer now and how if one child isn't talking to me then more than one are at a time and it's been pretty hard for me to zone in on my writing.
I AM going to recommit and tell you that I hope you'll still visit, because my Monday stories are totally going to pick up again and get pretty juicy! I was even going to publish a Monday story today to make up for missing two weeks, but something happened in our neighborhood last night.
A friend, a mom, a beloved primary teacher near me passed away last night very unexpectedly. Our neighborhood is heart-broken.
I don't want to be presumptuous and talk about her too much, even though I admired and loved her.
I want to say that perspective shifts a lot when something like this happens. Life has to go on at it's crazy pace, but today there is going to be a lot of reflection. There will be a lot of hugs, a lot of "I love you"s. A lot of pulling family close and remembering what is much more important than anything else in this world.
I know for sure that the family will be cradled by heaven at this time. I know from experience that they will feel comfort from a world beyond this one and it will get them through.
Today, stop everything and have a conversation with your kids about whatever they like to talk about. Pass on that compliment that you've always thought of your neighbor, but never quite grabbed the moment to say it out loud. Today put aside petty differences. Today set the stress aside and sit next to your husband on the front porch swing.
When my Dad got sick, he started, as the saying goes, "living like he was dying". He said and did everything, and cherished all of the moments. How thankful we are for those times! But I always thought that was quite a bit of pressure on him, and kind of a sad way to think of things. So I say: Live like your living. Really, really live. I say, we don't necessarily need to cling to things with desperation. I think it would be nice if we just stop and allow ourselves to take joy in the good things of life. They're kind of rare, because life's hard. But they're kind of magical too, because they somehow make all of the hard stuff really worth it.

The Pleasant Scowl

What does your face look like when you walk through the grocery store? Are you deep in thought? Are you smiling at people and looking them in the eye? Are you cussing at them in your mind because they’re inconsiderately taking up the whole isle? Sometimes when I bump into someone going around a corner, I say, “Oh! Excuse me. Sorry,” then as I’m walking away, I mutter, “I don’t know what I’m apologizing for. I know the proper rules of navigating a grocery store and you were in the wrong.”
Yesterday I was happy, and I was walking through the store, smiling at people. They smiled back, the smile that’s one part polite and three parts, “Do I know you?” That made me smile bigger… and it made me think of my Dad.
One night Ryan and I were sitting in my parents’ living room on their big, comfy, inviting and still marvelously stylish couch… one of the many things in the house that Dad put ever so much thought into before purchasing. He was lying on the floor, a place he was always the most comfortable for some reason. Mom was sitting next to him, probably rubbing his feet… a place she was always the most comfortable for some reason.
Dad was being philosophical. “I’ve been thinking about my facial expressions,” he said. I try to go around with a friendly look on my face, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. In my mind, I’m almost smiling, but in my reflection the expression couldn’t even pass for pleasant!”
By this time Ryan and I were laughing. Laughing because we didn’t know anyone who would think Dad anything other than pleasant. Laughing because he had given a small thing like that some thought. Laughing at the ludicrous notion of trying to give someone a gentle smile and feeling like you end up scowling at them instead.
I’m my Dad’s only daughter. If there was anyone in the world afraid of his stern gaze, it was the boys who came to pick me up for a date. Even they… the most questionable on the list of applicants to receive my Dad’s glowing smile respected him so much, that they probably would have counted themselves lucky to get the “pleasant scowl”.
It’s memorial weekend. I miss you Dad. I can’t listen to the message you left on my voicemail yet. The one I’ve saved since last May. The one where you wished me a happy birthday in the way only a Dad can. I can’t listen to it yet, but I hear it all of the time. I’m still smiling. Right now, though, my smile looks like tears streaming down my face. I have reasons to smile, reasons to laugh… because I have you, I have Mom, and I have everything else that you gave me. Today I’ll smile at people and I’ll think of you.

I Lost My Dad and Everything Is Going To Be Okay

I want to start by saying that this is my personal experience with the loss of a loved one, and I would never presume to tell anyone how they should feel or react in their own unique situation. *My Dad had a genetic liver disease. He started getting severely ill about 13 years ago, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. *When I was at his house last, I saw his pill holder. It was the length for the amount I’ve seen sick people take in a week. It was labeled Monday. There were six others just like it, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. *Our hope was that he would get a liver transplant, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. In the hospital he was sick. He was suffering. We sat at his bedside and agonized, but that isn’t what I’ll hold onto. *He was 56 years old, too young for a life to end. He has grandkids that he won’t meet on this earth, but that isn’t what I’ll hold on to. *My Dad loved us. He told us. He spent time with us. He saved the pictures and notes we gave him. That’s what I’ll cling to. *My Dad took great joy in his Grandkids. They elated him, and he spent quality time sharing the things that mattered to him with them. That’s what I’ll cling to. *My Dad’s heart was pure. He taught me that a suit and tie and regular church attendance didn’t necessarily make a man a good man, and that a rough appearance or a bad habit didn’t make a man a bad man. He taught me to respect all people. *He taught me about love. He and Mom have a spectacular love story. *He taught me to make sure I had the key in my hand before I walked out of a locked door. *He taught me to serve people without any thought for the credit. *He taught me a true appreciation for nature’s beauty. *He taught me countless things and that’s what I’ll cling to. *He taught me that family is everything… and that’s WHO I’ll cling to. I didn’t expect my first writer’s blog post to be this heavy, but now I will tell you something you need to know about me. I believe in fairy tales, more now than ever. My Dad isn’t far away. There are no sad endings for him. For him, there are no endings! I’ll be with him again. In this life, we know pain, we know sickness, we know heartache. We don’t know joy, not like we will. I know a lot of people that don’t believe as I do. They might find it hard to believe in heaven. After the experiences I’ve had in the past two weeks, I’d find it much harder NOT to believe. Angels and comfort and light and peace may seem childish notions, but in the face of tragedy I can tell you that they aren’t really. They’re deep and intellectual and perfectly suitable for grown-ups. I walked alone out of that hospital where my Dad passed away. There was a wall of windows to my left that led to the outside, and to my right, hundreds of sick people, hundreds of worried people. I remember there was a breeze blowing down the corridor and brushing my hair away from my face as I moved toward the exit. I looked around that terrifying place. The place my nightmares have been made of for years, because of the fear of what I could lose and what Dad could suffer. I squared my shoulders, I held my head high, and I thought to myself, “Hospital, you’ve got nothin’ on me. Not anymore. Death can’t take my Dad away from me.” In that moment, I knew what I was made of. I’m stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. You are too. You can handle more than you think you can. It’s because you have people watching over you, people you can’t see, people who love you. Trust me.