Alarm clocks and Polly and joy.

Dan's alarm clock woke me up this morning. Early. And loud. Louder, truly, than during the week because for some reason he had changed it from the regular "beep" that is maddening to a "radio" setting.  Honestly, I didn't even know that his alarm clock had a radio on it.  But it was LOUD. And it was early.  And I was frustrated.


The last few weeks have been rough- to say the least- for our family.  I have been drowning a bit- and can admit that now as I am coming out of that space.  Several weeks ago it became apparent that something big was going to change in my beloved job.  I was in regular contact with our board chair- nothing was a surprise for me- but my heart has been broken as we have put The Abraham Project on hold for the upcoming year.  I don't know if down the road it will rebirth itself as something new or not.  But as of now, this program I have fallen head over heels in love with has come to an end.

At the beginning of those weeks of conversations about closing it down, I'll admit that I took part of it personally.  Then I began to see that parts that were outside of my control and then my heart was able to look more clearly at what truth was already there- that to all things, there is a season.

Unfortunately, during the same time this was all going down, it hit Elizabeth for the first time that her Mimi wouldn't be there for her 5th grade graduation.  This was the first "big" event that Mimi hasn't been there for, and it stirred up in both of us the realization that this is what a future without her looks like.

And to create the perfect storm, after going through 4 pregnancies, 1 birth, and loads of issues along the way, we determined that I need some minor surgical help to take care of parts of my body that weren't "cooperating" with what was normally expected of them.

The week of Elizabeth's graduation is when we announced TAP was closing and when I got the call to schedule my surgery.  Of course it was.

Now, one week post-surgery, I'm doing well, Elizabeth is fine (and is excited to be one of the Cats today in Seussical the Musical!), and plans are coming right along to make our TAP closure smooth.  All of that is said with no tears- the storm has happened and I am safely to the shore.

Back to this morning: that damn alarm clock.

Dan and I were hosted for a delightful dinner party last night.  There was great conversation, amazing food and wine, and it was the first time I'd put on "real clothes" in a week. (I came downstairs and both girls ooohed and aaaahed... maybe a week in PJs is more than they're used to for me?  Let's be honest... probably not.)  We got in late and both girls were awake.  Julianna took more convincing than E that it was time to sleep, so I was grateful we had nothing early on our Saturday morning agenda.

Until that damn alarm.

Frustrated and awake, I started catching up on social media.  So many pictures of vacations and exciting things.  So many political and painful posts.  And then I saw it:  a sweet woman I had the privilege of hanging out with last fall during Medicine and Ministry had died.  When we hung out in November, I had absolutely no idea that she was unwell.  And yet, today she is gone.  It literally took my breath away.  


From our brief time together here's what I know about her life:  she loved her husband.  She loved her job.  She loved her daughter.  She made it a point to maintain friendships she had from years past (I happen to be mutual friends with two of them!).  She was fun and wise and calm and a delight to be with.  And now, she is gone.

Our family has gotten in the habit of watching James Cordon's Carpool Karaoke together.  This one brought us all to tears.  I told Dan that if I were famous, I think I would want to be like Paul McCartney.  I get the feeling that he enjoyed this day- bringing joy to everyone he interacted with.  James Cordon does it too- he makes people light up around him.  I want that.  Dan, being the good doting husband taking care of his post-break down wife, encouraged me that on some level I do that now... but oh, to be able to say that across the board.  I want to bring people joy and make them light up.  Polly did that for me.

Yes, there will be job losses.  There will be bug bites like the ones on my elbow (!!) that are currently making me bonkers.  There will be events where loved ones aren't there.  There will be surgeries that bring out our anxiety.  There will be alarm clocks that ruin good sleep on the one morning you plan to sleep in.  But there will also be Pollys.  And Pauls.  And Jameses.  And joy.

Dan and I are heading off to our own version of summer camp after we drop of the girls at theirs on Sunday.  We are indulging in seeing a couple Broadway shows and going to the concert of my favorite band.  All of those events were decided before we knew that I would be 10 days post-op.  Rather than let my physical limitations ruin our trip, we've just altered our schedule and planned more down time.  We're choosing joy.

Here's to the people around you who bring you light.  The ones who bring you meals for your family.  The ones who swoop in and send a card at the perfect moment.  The ones who make you laugh even when it hurts.  The ones who serve good wine.  The ones who send you silly gifts.  The ones who constantly play Words with Friends with you while you're recovering.  The ones who recommend new shows to watch.  The ones who hold your hand.  The ones who bring you joy.

May we all know those kind of people... and more importantly... may we try to be those kind of people.

And may we always remember to turn off our alarm clocks on Friday night.

Rest in the light of joy and peace, sweet Polly.

On being sad.

Today, 6 years ago, I entered a new kind of nightmare.  I got the call that my Daddy had died unexpectedly.  There are loads of posts about it here on my blog, I don't need to rehash it in this one.

Six years is a long time.

Six years without his laugh, his kindness, his smile.

Six years without all the bad stuff about him, too... but that's not what my heart holds onto.

In all of the grief workshops/ therapy/ reading I've done in the last six years, I know that everyone grieves in their own way.  That time doesn't exactly heal all wounds.  I know that.  But this yearly loss anniversary caught me by surprise.

Last Sunday as I was driving back into town, I began to ache in an indescribable way.  It was almost a heart pain.  Before I even remembered the week coming up, I attributed it to the stress of what I'd left behind when we went out of town: bills unpaid, a tree that fell on our deck while we were gone, laundry that had to be done.  But as Dan and I began to debrief the anxiety that I was feeling, I realized my body knew the sadness of this upcoming "anniversary" even when my mind hadn't fully processed what was happening.

Dan and I talked about how to handle this week of grief and came up with tangible ways to protect my fragility.  I said "no" to lots of things this week.  I made an appointment to check in with my therapist.  And, I made a reservation at a nearby hotel so that I could cocoon this weekend.

There was a season in our lives when running away from home would not have been possible.  Whether it was that we didn't have the financial resources or that our children couldn't handle me leaving, it just wasn't in the cards.  But now is a different season.  It's still not ideal for me to be gone from my kids.  It's not great that I've missed some things at church this weekend.  I will go home to a potentially chaotic reentry which will undo some of the good self-care I've done this weekend.

But I needed to be sad.

I am not in a bad spot.  My mental health is in a solid place today... there are some days I can't report that with such authority.  But I'm sad.  AND THAT'S OKAY.

It's awkward being sad, you know.  People don't like to be around sad people.  They want to fix it- to make it better.  Often times that comes from the best of intentions... we don't want other people to be lonely or suffer.  But sometimes we want to "fix" their sad because it could potentially rub off on us- and make us sad, too.

Being sad isn't fun.  And staying sad is when things derail.  One wise woman in my life told me that I wasn't just dealing with grief- I was dealing with grief upon grief which can break someone.  There have been moments it's almost broken me.

Last weekend at Why Christian, I heard a minister say words that were life giving to me.  She stated that anxiety and depression aren't a result of something wrong with us- they are often a NATURAL RESPONSE to trauma.  Lord knows I've had trauma.  I lost all 3 of my parents in 5 years.  One right after another.  During those same 5 years, I was caregiver for my Mom as I watched her disease progress and wreck her life.  I was sad.   To add to that pain, I experienced the loss of my known community when we changed churches.  Sad.  I lost friends.  Sad.  And all of that pain changed who I am in some ways.  And during that time, I often stayed sad.

Continual sadness has made me more tender.

It's made me ache.

It's made me sensitive to suffering.

Those aren't bad.

Sometimes, it's caused me depression and anxiety.

Those can be bad.

But today, I'm just sad.

The thing that keeps me whole when I'm sad is those who aren't scared of my sadness.  Those who send me gifts of journals and cookie dough.  Those who send texts and call to let me know they remember the life of my Daddy... and they acknowledge my grief.  Those who let me escape and let me run back to open arms.

This morning I drove past a junkyard while listening to The Wailin' Jennys sing "The Valley".  It was a perfect moment of reflection of what this feels like.  A visual reminder of what the "piling on" looks like.  Grief upon grief.

I live in the hills  

You live in the valley
And all that you know
Are these blackbirds

You rise every morning
Wondering what in the world
Will the world bring today
Will it bring you joy
Or will it take it away?

And every step you take is guided by
The love of the light on the land
And the blackbird's cry

You will walk, you will walk
You will walk in good company

The valley is dark, the burgeoning holding
The stillness obscured by their judging
You walk through the shadows
Uncertain and surely hurting
Deserted by the blackbirds
And the staccato of the staff

And though you trust the light
Towards which you wend your way
Sometimes you feel all that you wanted
Has been taken away

There are days when I'm in the valleys.  And days I'm on the hills.  Through it all, I will try to trust the Light.  That trust may happen while I'm eating spoonfuls of cookie dough... and I think that's okay.