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.

There is so much more to say...

5th grade Odyssey of the Mind

Yesterday I had the privilege of speaking at my buddy Michael's celebration of life.  His sweet momma asked me to a while back... likely because she knows I've never met a microphone I don't like.  I pointed out that I was better equipped to speak to 4 year old Michael than 40 year old Michael, but you don't go through roughly 37 years of a friendship with someone and not have a few stories to share of your time together.

I shared this as I opened: Dan gave me the laptop that I'm typing on now with one instruction... "Write your damn book."

Well, that's daunting.

Even for someone who loves writing... and who often feels like there is a story in there somewhere... the first step of writing a book is paralyzing.

So eventually, I wrote what I know.

I wrote about Michael.

And to this day, that's the only chapter I've written ...

I shared a bit of my relationship with him yesterday, but there is so much more to tell.  I walked away from the microphone- overwhelmed with emotion and love for my buddy- and realized I left so many things out.  Rather than jump up and say "OH WAIT! I FORGOT....", I decided to share some of that here.  For the rest of it, you'll have to buy my damn book.
---
Michael and I met in the late 70's at Hominy Baptist Church- either in preschool or in Sunday School.  We remained friends for all of the years after- even in the times that we argued. #Mistyliker  Michael was, however, the only person I ever hit.  (Other than my brother, of course.)  In seventh grade he said something to me worthy of being hit- and when I went to hit him, he let me.  He knew he was in the wrong, so he stood still and "took it".  And when the teacher responsible for us asked what happened, he quickly said "Nothing."

In 12th grade, we had the privilege of registering to vote in our school cafeteria.  Michael said to me before we went in, "I might as well fill out your card for you... you're going to be a Republican, right?"  I'm guessing he assumed that because I spent more time in Bible Study than in Bent Creek, I would align with the Religious Right.  Whether to prove a point to him or not, I was pleased to check DEMOCRAT on my card.  And even though my Momma told me politics were private, I immediately went to tell Michael that his guess was wrong and I was not a Republican.

Along those same lines, he constantly was unimpressed with my music variety.  He rolled his eyes at my love of Amy Grant and 4Him, and rather than just harass me, he put into my hands new music.  I have a tape he made for me with Red Hot Chili Peppers on one side and Soup Dragons on the other.  I kept it for his handwriting- my cassette player long gone.  That was the first "mix tape" he made me... and why I wrote a RHCP shirt yesterday.  He opened my eyes to music beyond my own preferences- some bands I loved and some I didn't- and I'm grateful that like so many of you, he educated me.  And constantly encouraged me to go see live shows.

One day, someone brought acid to school.  It was the first time I'd ever seen it- and I was surprised at how pretty it was.  I said "If I could afford that, I'd wallpaper my house with it."  Michael said (without skipping a beat) "And I would come and lick your walls." (#justsayno)

Michael was so fun to be around.  His laugh was infectious.  His smile was radiant.  And he never smiled bigger than when he was talking about his kids.  After the football game we saw during our 20th Reunion Weekend, Michael drove me and Emily back to her car.  First, he took Trenton to a youth group activity.  When we dropped him at the church, Michael said "Can you believe my son is going to a church thing instead of a bonfire? I'm so proud of who he is. He's a much cooler kid than I ever was."  And that says a lot, because Michael was the coolest kid I knew.  He raved about Savannah's artistic side.  Every time he mentioned her, he'd say to me "You would love her."  I do, Michael, I do.

So many more stories. Hours of stories- only about Michael.  Many people told me yesterday that maybe he should be the focus of my whole book- not just a chapter.  I got offers for "guest authors" helping write it.  There's something that makes my heart smile to think of that... the story of Michael. The story of us.

Let's write it together, friends.
Let's #makeithappen.

Connection.

I'm currently sitting on my couch... watching Grace and Frankie.

Dan and I started watching it several months ago, and then we never got past the second episode.  It didn't "hook" us like we were hoping.  All of the reviews and hype just didn't click.

Until....

Some time recently I decided to give it another shot.

Something was different.

It clicked.

And it was because I knew it was something my Mom would have enjoyed.

Maybe it was because of 2/3 of "9 to 5" actresses were showing the world that their heyday wasn't over.  Maybe it was because I knew she would cringe and laugh with every moment that they were bashing their exes.  Or maybe the time was just right.

I've recently entered a new phase of looking for- longing for- connection.  Finding something that would bring my Mom... or my Daddy... or Michael, joy.  I enjoyed the BNL concert even more than usual... because of the company, the beer, the music- all because I knew Michael loved each of those things.  I enjoyed buying a new grill because I knew Daddy would want to buy it for us- he actually bought our previous one.  I enjoy wearing earrings of my Mom's because- while she would still be frustrated that I had been in her jewelry box- I long for the connection they bring.

I think this is a normal part of grief.  I think I'm actually in a healthier spot these days- trying to connect with those I've lost.  I feel more like "myself" than I've been in the last 5 years.  It feels good.

----

I haven't updated my blog since September.  A lot of that is because of lack of connection.  I attempted to update it in October, but the words were half-assed, the sentiment wasn't genuine.  I wrote out of a sense of obligation, not out of the love of writing.

And this has mimicked itself throughout my life- not just in writing.

A friend said to me last week "I've missed you recently"... Funny, I've missed myself.

In September, right as I was writing my last post, I spiraled.  An off-handed comment from a friend pushed my tentative self right off the ledge of grief.  It has taken me months to claw my way out of that hole.  It's not been a straight up journey- I've fallen back down a time or two.  Hurtful words from people, feeling left out, not having a "place"... those tend to trip me up.

But thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, good therapy, a purpose, a strong church community, and some helpful friends who won't let me fall off the ledge alone... I feel like I'm back.

I've missed connection.

I've wept over friendships that have slowly faded away- ones that I thought would last a lifetime.

We've hosted fewer events in the last 9 months than we ever had... partially because I've started a new job, partially because we have a new dog, and partially because I've been too weary to be social some days.

But that job?  That dog?  They have given me connection.

----

I share all of this with you not to make you feel uncomfortable.  It's not to put grief upon you if we have faded apart recently.  But I share this to you to let you know that sometimes when people fade away, they need you to continue to reach out.  They may not respond, they may blow you off, or they may legitimately be too busy/ tired/ whatever to hang out.

But sometimes, as was the case with my buddy Michael, they are on that edge of the hole and just need to know that they are not alone.

That's the whole premise of Grace and Frankie- finding connection when the connection you thought you had is no longer there.  I'm still making amends with my heart and it's broken connections... but even in this bizarre social media connected world, I'm thankful for what connections we have.


Here's hoping you find your Grace (and Frankie), too.

Piles and Rugs and Pain and Faith

Growing up, I thought that by the time I was "an adult", I would be done changing.  I assumed that by the time I was "grown up"... and surely being 40 would be grown up... I would be who I was for better or for worse.  Right?

Wrong.

Our house has been one big pile recently.  Piles of paperwork, piles of plastic toys, piles of Julianna and Elizabeth's clothes because they continue to get bigger and outgrow them before I can even put up the most recent load of laundry, piles of photo albums, piles of books I bought but haven't read, piles of things that make me feel overwhelmed.

I am just now able to sort through those piles.

That was a side of grief I wasn't prepared for.  The debilitating feeling of being overwhelmed.  Not even seeing an end in sight- so much to do, such a constant reminder of being the only one who is going to be able to get it done.

Also in those piles of being overwhelmed- somewhere tucked in between the death of each of my parents- was the remnants of my previous faith.

I never renounced my faith.

I did, however, try to work through how my faith looked on the other side of chaos.

I never doubted the reality of Jesus.

I did, however, wonder how a sovereign God lined up with all of the pain we experienced.

I never ran away from the Lord I knew so well.

I did, however, yell at Him with all I had in me.

In all of the chaos... in all of our piles... as my new self is starting to break out of the debris... I am just now starting to deal with the crap left behind.  I am just now filling bag after bag of trash, making lots of trips to Goodwill, and sorting through some precious heirlooms that I've been handed.

One of the material things we've "inherited" is a rug that was in my Mom's house.  Mom didn't have air conditioning until a few years before we sold her house.  (One benefit of living in the woods is that we rarely needed a/c!)  We're not sure what happened during the installation, but something made the entirety of Mom's house smell like burning rubber for a while.  (Comforting, right?)  The smell eventually went away- except for in that rug.

It's not a smell we necessarily like, but it definitely reminds us of Mom's house.

That's how so many of the things are in our house now... and in my faith.  I don't always like what I smell, or see, or feel... but I'm grateful for what it reminds me of.  The places I've been.  The people who have mentored me.  And the faith that is evolving.

We are still nothing more than a bunch of piles in this house.  There is a good chance that when you stop by, we'll have to move the laundry before you'll have a place to sit.  But I'm hopeful that eventually the piles won't bring panic and pain, but will show the strength of where we've been.  Even when we have a bizarre smell because of it... maybe eventually it will make us all feel a bit nostalgic.

Growing up is hard.

Maybe when I get to be an adult, it won't seem like it's been that difficult.

I'll let you know when I get there.

Juggling Chaos

I have a precious friend who once said that she needed a business card that explained her job title as this: "Managing Crazy, Getting Sh*t Done."

These days, mine would look an awful lot like that but I would change it to this: "Juggling Chaos, Getting Sh*t Done... Or Maybe Not."

Yesterday was a typical day for us.  Julianna and I drove to Hillsborough to get a copy of a form we needed for her adoption.  Then we stopped by our attorney's office to sign some paperwork, then home for a missed nap time.  (That always leads to a super fun afternoon!)  E got home from school, the mail came with a random check for Mom from an account we knew nothing about, so I began the investigation to see what was going on there.  Then when Dan got home I passed off kids abruptly, ran to the bank, then took part in a Grief Group at Hospice for people who have lost their parents.  I cried with strangers who became friends and then ran back home- getting gas on the way so that AAA didn't have to show up on the side of the road.  I walked in to find an anxious daughter who wasn't able to finish her homework on the computer because she'd lost the privilege of the computer for making a poor choice.  So as I sat down on the couch, I caught Dan up on it all and I cried.

I cried because I'd had a conversation with my brother about when to scatter Daddy's ashes.

I cried because the people at Hospice "get it" and have brought up so many things in my heart.

I cried because a friend unexpectedly lost his Dad yesterday.

I cried because our house was trashed... and I'm tired of it.

I cried because I just plain miss my parents.

During my productive morning, I juggled our chaos and I got stuff done.  A lot of it, actually.  So when I hit the moment that I just couldn't do anymore... it was okay to not do anymore.

We are raised to be finishers... we want to complete the task, mark it off our to-do list.  I am this way as well.  But I am also a starter.  I have a bazillion started projects downstairs- books I didn't finish, things I wanted to paint, old stationery projects uncompleted, half done scrapbooks... I am a pro at starting.  Finishing, however, is not my strong suit.  Don't believe me?  Check my college transcript for the dates between Freshman Year and Graduation...

In this season of grief and exhaustion, my Juggling Chaos is never harder than when it's trying to determine when to be productive and when to rest.  I teeter between excellent self-care and slothfulness.  I hover over the line of giving myself grace and giving myself permission to do too little... or sometimes, too much.

In between picking up forms and signing things yesterday, Julianna and I stopped at a park to play for a bit.  Near us was a woman sitting alone on a bench who was wrecked with sadness.  I'm not sure if she was suffering from mental illness, or if a situation had left her incapable of anything than sitting on that bench and crying.  Her sadness was palpable... maybe I picked up some of it along the way.  As I pushed Julianna in the swing, I prayed for the woman.  I prayed for myself.  I prayed for the pain and the drowning feeling of the Chaos we both were feeling.  All while I pushed Julianna "higher, Mommy... higher!"

Maybe my Chaos will get better today.  Maybe it will get better next week.  Or maybe it won't get better at all.  I don't know what's next for my schedule, my laundry, my bank account, or my heart... but I do know this:  Not one thing got knocked off my To-Do list yesterday while I was pushing this little girl on the swings.  But nothing on it was more important than pushing her, either.

So here's to being a finisher of the important things.  And a juggler of everything else.

And the wisdom to know when to stand back and just push the swing.

Mom

Mom died on December 22nd.  She fell on December 17th... her 4th fall in 2 weeks.  Her last fall required dental surgery and the bleeding on her brain was too great for recovery.  In the end, with Chris and I by her side, she was released from the bondage of dementia and was whole again.  While I'm unsure what the first moments looked like as she crossed through the pearly gates, I feel certain she immediately combed her hair, brushed her beautiful teeth, and then set about doing the business of heaven-ing.

The loss of Mom was so very different than any of my other losses... we lost her long ago due to that nasty disease.  I've wanted to share with you all some of my thoughts on that... but before I do, thought it might be best to share the words that I shared at her funeral.

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Chris and I grew up in this church. Our roles were very different: Chris would sit in the sound room which he helped develop. I would sit with Kristen at the piano, in the choir loft, or right up here, or more often with Mom- midway back on that left side, right at the aisle, and just behind Glenda and Jack Roberts.

The times I was up here are the ones that sit in my memory most about my Mother.  Each time I spoke, or sang, or spoke some more... I would see her- not beaming with pride as you might imagine... but sitting anxiously tense- wondering what words would come next out of my mouth.  She was nervous because not only was I her daughter, but I was Stan’s daughter... and he didn’t pass down a lot of filter in the ol’ gene pool.  I was so proud of a speech one time that I gave at our eighth grade graduation... only to come home to Mom saying “I canNOT believe you told all of those people THAT story.”  My Mother was a painfully private person... and while I might have thought it totally acceptable that you guys hear that Katha Phillips drove me home to get things I’d forgotten to get because my Mom was out of town and Chris and I woke up late and had to rush to school and he told me we didn’t have time to go back... Mom wasn’t so in love with the idea that all of the people in attendance at Enka Middle know that gem.  Nor would she love that I just told you all again, but what are you going to do.

So this morning I have the freedom of telling you some of the things about my Mother’s life without worrying about her being tense and hearing them.  Because this morning she is anxious no more- unless Jesus has a dirty kitchen which might push her over the edge- and I get to tell you some of the things I love most about my Mother.

The Mother that I knew was never really a trouble maker.  Shocking.  But that didn’t mean that she didn’t have certain ideas about how she had been wronged and that she didn’t choose to fight for a way to make it right.  The first time I realized this was when she told me the story of how I got my name.  My birth name is Rebecca, but I’ve gone by Becky my whole life.  Because that was a decision Mom was in charge of.  Her birth name was Rebecca Jane.  And she went by Jane- because my sweet Grandmother didn’t approve of nicknames.  Mom told me that her whole life she wished she had been called Becky instead of Jane.  Rather than complain about that endlessly, she did the next logical thing: she gave birth to her own Rebecca and called her Becky.  Problem solved.  

Later as I was telling my Mom names we had thought of for potential babies, I told her were thinking of naming a daughter Allison Jane and calling her Allie Jane.  She begged me to not do that- saying over and over “I hated the name Jane.”  That was the biggest reason we kept our daughter’s name a secret during my whole pregnancy.  As Mom was in the room with us when Elizabeth was delivered and we announced her name- Elizabeth Jane, Mom immediately responded “That is the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard.”

She also was thrilled when Katherine and Chris named Alex “Alexander Christopher”... She loved the name Christopher so very much- but you’ll note that my brother has always been called Chris.  Except for those 18 or so years he made me call him Fred, but that’s a story for another time.

Mom taught us well the value in buying well made products.  And I don’t mean value in that they were the most reasonably priced, I mean that they were the items she valued.  I honestly didn’t know that there were other options for toothpaste besides Crest until I was at Martha’s house one time and discovered Aquafresh.  In case you aren’t certain what you should be buying, feel free to begin taking notes now: Crest. Bounty Paper Towels. Cottonelle toilet paper.  Tide laundry detergent. Cascade dishwashing detergent.  Coke. And when you go to a restaurant to order and they ask you if Pepsi is okay, you politely say no.  Ruffles potato chips.  And even when you’re cooking- always buy real names.  It’s Chex Party Mix, not corn, rice, and wheat cereal Mix.

With the beauty of branding, my Mother had her own scent.  Until the later stages of her illness, she always smelled like a lovely combination of WindSong powder and Belk bought moisturizer.  She used to smell like Ultima II, but in more recent days she switched over to Lancome.  She taught me the value of spending money on what you love- whether that is good sweaters from Orvis, good shoes from Tops, or good fudge in Hilton Head... she had standards that brought her- and us- joy.  Just as her obituary said- she never went to the movies without popcorn and a Coke.  When Dan and I started dating he looked at me strangely when he suggested not buying them before a movie... I looked at him even more strangely when he suggested it.  We almost didn’t continue dating until I convinced him that it was a splurge worth considering.

My mother was the sweetest soul you’ll ever meet.  However, this week I stumbled upon this gem:  This is a paper my mother wrote in 1958 when she was a freshman at Mars Hill high school.  The whole thing (with her immaculate penmanship) was about her life- appropriately titled “October’s Gift”... there were stories I’d heard before: stories of her first words, her first steps, when she was baptized... and one I didn’t know.  In her own words... "Everyone who knew me as a child said that I was mean. I pushed my sister off of the porch just because I thought it would be funny to see her fall."....

This was one of the stories I almost missed out on with Mom.  Unlike some parents (myself included) who push their children into something they are interested in thinking their children can follow in their footsteps, Mom had the opposite response.  She was concerned that we would feel pressure trying to walk in her shadow.  Instead, it was as I graduated high school- having done Student Council my entire time there- that I learned that my Mother was her class president.  The only thing she told us as way of advertising for how we should do something was when she told me that she graduated college in 3 years- with all A’s except a C in swimming.  When I went to Carolina, Mom said she didn’t care what my grades were... in swimming.

Most importantly, the thing I remember my Mother saying most as I was growing up was “You are known by the company you keep.”  That could be because she knew I was friends with those trashy Cable twins... or it could be because she surrounded herself with such great company, she wanted the same treat for me.  It wasn’t until Mom was in the hospital this last time that I began thinking about how I knew my Mother’s friends before I knew my own.  When I would describe her friendships, I often found myself saying “Mom’s best friend Martha”... or “Mom’s best friend Bunie”... or “Mom’s best friend Brenda”... she filled her life with so many best friends... the ones that lived on Bradshaw Lane, the ones from Day International, the ones in England, the ones from Mars Hill... clearly, I learned from her example.  My life is richer from my mother’s best friends- and modeled today with so many of both of our best friends being here.

In addition to teaching me the beauty of being a friend, Mom modeled for us how to be a good Mimi.  Mom became Mimi once it was apparent that her first Grandchild, Alex, couldn’t say her hoped for Grandparent name of “Grandmother”.  They tried and tried to come up with something that would work for both of them... and when he was able to say “Mimi”, it stuck.  I remember searching high and low for just the right John Deere toy for Alex the year that he was into those... and making sure Mimi always had him a birthday cake when they came to celebrate Christmas.  Those of us in the Waldrup Family know a thing or two about having birthdays near Christmas, and Mimi wanted to be sure that he was appropriately celebrated.  (I’m fairly sure she didn’t want to take focus away from your birthday this year, Alex.)  When Elizabeth Jane showed up a little bit later, Mimi immediately formed a connection with my girl.  Every chance she would get, the two would go to “The Bit-More House”... and always end with chocolate ice cream.  When Julianna joined our family a couple years ago, Mom couldn’t have been more proud to show her off when we came for visits.

I am grateful that my mother brought me here, to this special space with this special congregation to help me begin my faith journey.  She opened my eyes to the body of Christ as being one of inclusion- one that would celebrate my giftedness as a woman, not in spite of it.  Wayne’s reading of Psalm 1 perfectly embodied not only my Mother, but the beauty that come from a life that is faithfully lived.   My friend Caleb used the phrase “an epitome of southern class and sophistication” when he described my mother this week. And while those earthly words ring true... I am most thankful that today my Mother is not only faithful, but joyful and triumphant.  I am grateful that she has joined the Citizens of Heaven Above.  Please join me as we worship the God who gave us Momma Janer, and as we sing....Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.

-----

My mother was faithful.  And I am grateful.

-b 

Making a Path

Today is Elizabeth's second day of school.  She got on the bus yesterday morning full of excitement and possibility- beyond proud of her Hogwarts backpack and ready to see all that Second Grade would hold in store.  As I walked to the car later that morning, my sweet neighbor (who has an only child herself and fully understands all that each landmark holds) asked me how I was doing. Funny enough, yesterday's new adventure seemed shadowed by the minutae of the morning: the baby pouring hot coffee down my pants, finding our dog had destroyed a bag of garbage all over our bedroom floor, realizing E's fish tank pump was broken.

I spent the remainder of the day tending to those crises of the morning, and trying to get my feet under me with a late afternoon bus, a fussy baby, and all that comes with Back to School life. So, to answer my neighbor, yesterday came and went without the heart pangs of realizing my baby is growing up too quickly and instead being grateful for her help.

This summer was a blur. We got started on "summer" so late thanks to the end of school chaos of responsibilities there, then heading straight into Vacation Bible School at our church. We lived up trips to Wild Goose, Wet and Wild, the beach, Camp of Kids, Merriwood, art camp, Oonie Koonie Cha, and reading book after book after book. So many things around our house got put on the back burner as I tried to be intentional about living in the moment with the girls and tried to be as present as I was able (minus a few interruptions of Netflix binges and Frozen Freefall.)

So today I find myself beginning the process of making a path. Those of you who know the events of our last few years understand that we have inherited lots of items from my Daddy's house, my Mom's house, and most recently my Grandparent's house. In the grief of shock of the Daddy's death, some of the things of his house got put away until I was able to deal with them. I had just gone through them when we brought in items from Mom's. Some days as I sorted through box after box, I just couldn't take it anymore. I would feel like I was drowning with the reality of losing both of my parents- and in those moments of drowning, I would often close the door to our garage and walk away from the task at hand. Add to that our tendency to tuck things away that need more attention than we could give... our storage room and our garage have become unbearable. From time to time we would stick things "out of the way" to deal with later.

Now is the later.

This summer, I began making a path through my pain. With the help of good friends, good routine, good truth, good meds, and good intentions... I have set my mind on not just surviving this season of life, but thriving in it. I am trying to no longer just stick things "out of the way." Just like our garage, that is a process. I have pushed things to the side so often that there are lots of layers to sort through as my heart continues to heal.

And just like my heart, our garage has layers upon layers of stories. The chalkboard one of my grandparents used in school. My Mom's Day International water bottle. My Daddy's ash tray. Elizabeth's bike that is too small. My Grandmother's painting of The Last Supper. Extra water balloons from this summer's water balloon fight. With each memory I unpack, sort, purge, and process. Some pieces make me think of friends who could use that item better. This process not only becomes a practical "To Do" task, but a spiritual one as well as I pray for those people who are called to my mind.

I am far from done. But there is now I clear path- letting me know I can function in the days to come. 

two months... two years...

I CANNOT believe our sweet friend has been with us for 2 months.

2 months of remembering what it's like to function without sleep.  (We've about mastered that... zeesh.)
2 months of remembering how amazing those coo's are when she babbles.
2 months of asking each other "wait... when do they do ___?" because we can't seem to remember.
2 months of loving one of the dearest souls we know.
2 months of joy.
And goodness.
And hard times.
And sweet times.
And tears.
And fun.

So that's it, right?  There's our update?

Nope.

Because life just keeps coming at us.

Today, Dan and I drove with the Wee One to Mars Hill to meet a mover about moving some things here from my Grandparents' house... which will be sold within a couple of weeks.

The gravity of that hit me yesterday.

At the same time as the unbearable pain thinking about next week... the second anniversary of Daddy's death.

2 years of moments where he should have been here.
2 years of times I almost called him to tell him a story... or ask him a question... or call for a recipe... or to tell him something funny Elizabeth had done.
2 years of days when my heart hurt.
2 years of missing part of me.
2 years absent of my biggest fan.

Yesterday as I thought of closing the house up in Mars Hill... I felt sorry for myself.  Truly.  I have closed up THREE homes of my childhood in the last 18 months.  And I am DONE.  I am so super sad that I have no more "roots" in WNC.  And while I am BEYOND blessed with friends who are like family, let's all be honest... on the holidays, people go home to their own families.

I cried buckets of tears yesterday.  About closure.  And grief.  And missing Stan.  And missing Mary.  And missing Mom.  And being overwhelmed.

So today, as we were talking with the mover, I told him I was just over it.  I was sad that this was the second time we were using his services in 4 months.  And that I was sad I was saying goodbye again.  And that I didn't have roots anymore.

And he looked at me... and at the wee one in my arms... and said, "Yeah, but look at all the Good you're Doing with this little one.  She needs you right now."

Ahem.

Indeed.

On this International Happy Day... fresh from a big ol' dose of "Get it Together, Lady" from my mover... I'd love to tell you what I'm happy about.

*That I've had 2 months with this Sweetie.  (See above.)
*That she's growing and eating and sleeping and laughing tons more than when we met her.
*That my big girl is growing, too, into a kind big sister... something we never thought she'd get to be.
*That I got to "smell" my grandparents today in their belongings... and that feels like home.
*That tomorrow night I get to hang out with some amazing women.
*That I have friends who have consistently checked on us throughout this last 2 months... and these last 2 years.  (It does take a village, y'all.)

For those things, I am thankful.  And for the moments when the sadness of 2 years missing my Daddy overshadow the happy of the 2 months (or 2 days, or 2 hours...) I will not offer apology.  I will continue this journey authentically even when it sucks... yet I will try to graciously accept the kind words of movers everywhere who want to point out the Good.

Happy Happiness Day, y'all.

A Change in Heart in 2013

Yesterday morning I was up before my family and had some time alone in our kitchen with my thoughts and the sausage balls I was making.  I was thinking through the "What would a 'best of 2013' blog post look like" and all of the fun things that I would include.  These same thoughts went through my mind as I typed our New Years letter... still with our cards that I'm hoping to finish before the weekend.

It's no surprise that in my heart of hearts I've been in a hard spot these last almost 2 years.  Losing people I love has caused me to lose a a little bit of myself.  While, at first, I was ashamed of what those losses changed me to be, I now embrace the new and am hoping to honor the life with which I'm left.  And don't be distraught!  This will not be a "what I lost" post... but rather a "what we gained" reflection.

Our personal 2013 highlights, in no particular order of importance or calendar dating:

September 24 has become Do Good day- not only for just our family, but for so many who have spread the love in their own circles.  This year was no exception.  We opened our home to locals to join us as we celebrate the Good.  Not only was I floored during the day (Daddy's best friend from home SHOCKED me when she arrived unannounced!), I was amazed throughout that week as I heard stories of people Doing Good.
  * We collected over $500 in gift cards to distribute as needs arise.  We have already given several to families in need of some Good, and have been blown away at the stories of how our friends' generosity has met their need in immediate ways.
  * A friend in Asheville put together a drum kit with the help of local musicians to give to a child who was taking lessons and did not yet have a kit.  While his mother may not see hear the Good always in such a LOUD gift, she was thrilled- as was her son- with such a significant gesture.
  * People sent me story after story that day of paying for others' meals, coffees, groceries in anonymity and how amazing that felt.

Goodness won on September 24.  I invite you to mark your shiny new 2014 calendar with Do Good Day.  I'll be posting again in the month of September to remind you of it.  Let's Do Good throughout this new year.  (And, if it's not too much to ask, I'd love you to message me how your Do Good gesture affected you and/or the recipient.)

****

We made it our mission this year to say "yes" to things that would bring us happiness.  Several events led to big smiles for all 3 of our family.  We enjoyed a Disney trip during Star Wars weekend- I've never seen many happy nerds in one place (my two included.) I finally met Jen Hatmaker!  I saw Glennon Doyle Melton twice.  I told Philip Yancey how much I've enjoyed his books through the years.  I had a life-giving conversation in the rain with Frank Schaeffer that I reflect on often.  I went to see my other half in Arizona and experienced some of her life there.  I took part in a Grief group at Sawtooth that was healing to my soul.  I ice skated with my little girl in Rockefeller Center as it snowed.  We saw 5 (ridiculous!) shows on Broadway.  Dan and I shared a meal with his best friend from college (and his gorgeous new bride!) and I saw him grin in a way that I've missed.  We had Camp of Kids again with days full of crafts, snacks, and giggles.  E attended her first "grown up" concert- The Indigo Girls- in an amazing venue with amazing people singing loudly all around.  Dan and I saw the Barenaked Ladies, Guster, and Ben Folds with some of our best friends (and rode home with the top down in a convertible... lovely.)  I then followed up with a second BNL show in which I finally met the band.

As silly as some of those things sound- they restored pieces of my heart that had been knocked away by pain.  While it would likely get me a restraining order, I thought about writing BNL a "fan letter" and telling them how their shows connected me to years gone by and how healing they were in my 2013.  I'll never forget Brad Spires introducing me to them in 1996, and I've listened faithfully for the last 17 years.  Singing songs (loudly) that I loved in my 20s reconnected me to the girl I was then... and for that, I am grateful.

****

The turning point in my year happened on June 15.  Just two months prior I had sunk to my lowest of points and grieved in new and painful ways.  That Saturday in June, E and I were doing some grocery shopping when I got a text from a friend.  He asked my opinion on ring sizes for his beloved- and I am not exaggerating at all when I say my heart grew two sizes that day.  I got taken out of my hurt and put in the middle of his joy.  While his reasons for including me in his planning were likely practical, for me it became holy as the Joy began to outweigh the Pain.  I texted him yesterday to tell him that while I joked after that moment that he was "better than Xanax" (or Zoloft, depending on the day) that honestly was not far from the truth.  My life is better because of that day, my 2013 was better because we celebrated their engagement, my 2014 will be better as we celebrate their wedding, and my friends' lives will be better as they will share them in marriage.

"Oh, the feels."

****

While your 2014 may not be filled with engagements and concerts and celebrations, I pray that your heart will be filled with moments of joy.  We know that there will be dark days amidst the light ones, but I'm committing to focus on the light this year.  Happy New Year, my friends.

Giving Grace: a Hall Pass for the Holidays

Just before Christmas 2005, Dan and I were in the waiting room of our Fertility Clinic awaiting yet another round of "trying."  I had been a regular in this room for months by this point, so not much of the reading material was new... except for a pamphlet they had out that talked about "Protecting Your Heart During the Holidays."  I read through it and felt as though someone understood our struggle.  It talked about giving yourself grace during a season that could be potentially difficult.  It mentioned giving yourself permission to skip walking by the Santa in the mall and seeing all the happy families with sweet babies waiting to see him.  It went as far as to say that if being around your own niece and nephews would be too hard, to excuse yourself from that year's holiday celebration.  While I was not about to walk away from our family's traditions, I imagined that having that "hall pass" was helpful to some people even further down the road than we were.

The "protecting your heart" theme has run rampant in my life in the last 2 years, and especially since we lost our baby in April.  I have had conversations with friends who have new precious children in their lives and apologized that I've not been in a place where I've been able to love upon them yet.  I've struggled with buying baby gifts- not at all because I begrudge them their happiness, but because at moments I've still been drowning in our own sorrow.  Friends who were due the same time I was, in full disclosure, were hard for me to see.  As their baby bellies grew and then became amazing miracles in their families, all that was growing for me was the vacant space in my heart.

Through the years, that brochure has popped back into my mind on occasion.  There have been moments that while they are non-baby related, I've relied on those same words.  In 2010, I was about six weeks out from losing my Stepmother to cancer, and I found myself stuck in a room where people were making jokes about death and dying.  I piped in and asked if we could change the subject.  I'm sure that it was not intentional, but my pain from that recent loss wasn't on the forefront of their minds.  They continued a discussion about "donating (someone's) body to science"... at which point I left the room.  In that moment, rather than lash out at those speaking, I instead needed to excuse myself.  Grace.

Pain seems to hover just at the surface of the holidays for so many people.  I remember one Christmas Party my family hosted in the early 90's- a friend came who had recently lost her husband.  My Mom was playing "The Carpenters' Christmas Album", and "I'll Be Home For Christmas" came on.  Very gently and tactfully, our friend asked my Mom to skip that song.  When Mom skipped ahead to "Merry Christmas, Darling" and saw a similar look of pain in our friend's eyes, she jumped ship and moved on to The Beach Boys instead.

So with all of that hurt ready to erupt during "the most wonderful time of the year", I give you your very own hall pass.  While you may not need to use it now, please understand that someone in your life might... and please accept their pass with grace and and understanding of all that it took to have them present it to you.

HOLIDAY HALLPASS
-Too hard to be around kids because you find yourself longing for one or missing one of your own?  Say no to the activity that will cause yourself pain.  The kindhearted people who invited you will understand your need to miss a year.

- Miss your spouse/partner/ex so much it hurts? Skip the "Couples Only" event where there will be lots of laughter and memories shared in lieu of some pampering just for yourself.

- Can't be around certain family members because they say hurtful things?  Excuse yourself from those painful situations.  It's okay.  They're family.

- Don't feel like hosting even though you always do and people expect it?  Let someone else take on that burden this year.  Shoot, go out to eat for once!  It's one year- people will survive.

- Just don't think you can handle one more sad holiday at home?  As a wise friend said to me last week- "I knew I'd be sad at Christmas, so I told my husband I'd rather be somewhere sad... and WARM."  Take off!  Get out of town!  Or even take a day trip to get you out of that memory drenched location.

- Old traditions too hard to handle because someone won't be there?  Make new traditions!  One of my favorite holiday traditions- our neighborhood Christmas party- was started because my Dad had just moved out and Mom wanted to do something fun and new.  She succeeded... even with the occasional music fail.

Now one caveat in the way of a warning: just like "Baby Blues", sometimes "Holiday Blues" are a much deeper seated issue.  Rather than just escape or hide or run- if you are at a place of significant pain, please get professional help.  Don't know who to talk to?  Message me- I have good connections with some mental health professionals.

Protect your heart this Christmas.  Use the Hall Pass when you need to.  Accept the Hall Pass when it's given to you.  Give grace, receive grace.

And God bless us... everyone.

Doing (some more) Good

Yesterday, one of my best friends asked me if I was dreading next week.  Wholeheartedly I said yes.  Tuesday, one week from right now, will be my Daddy's birthday and my due date- all wrapped up in one hard day.  Those anticipated events would arrive with little fanfare if I would allow it... but y'all know that's not how we roll.

Before this most recent loss, we lost two other babies.  Their due dates came and went- "celebrated" and remembered by Dan and me.  We would cry- longing to have a child, yet never knowing if we would have one.  I wasn't yet in a place where I felt I had words to express to others what that pain was like- so I smothered it all deep down in my dark places and became a wounded heart.

The loss of this baby is different.  This baby was so loudly celebrated at his or her "arrival" into our lives that it feels only necessary to celebrate the due date, too.  We knew this baby in more intimate ways- we had names picked out, plans made, nurseries nearly assembled.  We were unable to discover the gender, but when I think about our child, I tend to think it was a girl.  I didn't have strong feelings about gender with the others, but maybe it was because I was so closely tied to the girl name that when I think of what she (he?) would be like, I see her as female.

This summer as Dan's aunties were loving on us, we talked about the fact that when I get to heaven, I'll have four children. FOUR. What the what.  I understand that many of my friends have more than that now- but in my earthly home, I only have ONE.  Four will be a huge leap.... thankful that I'll be surrounded by God's glory and not need to worry about raising four children!!

So as we anticipate the 24th and mourn her due date- as well as my Daddy's birthday- we are turning our thoughts away from our own sadness and hurt and looking toward the needs of others.

That day, we are asking some local friends to join us for lunch and to join us in Doing Good.  Our hope is that we will surround ourselves with the people who have supported us mightily in the last several years, enjoy being a community, and take care of the needs of others.  In my email invitation to my Tribe, I asked them to consider Doing Good by one of the following:

- Donating gift cards (that we will in turn distribute as needs arise)
- Give to Meadowlark Meals- a backpack program that helps feed at risk children at our local school
- Donating toward a childhood cancer charity.  (I'd love to recommend this one.)
And, since that initial email was sent, a friend has taken on the task of sending supplies to friends affected by the flooding in Colorado. Maybe you'll donate to that need?

Or maybe there's another need near you that you feel compelled to support... if not, I'd love to help you find one.  As I have said before, in the last 500+ days, some of the times I have felt the most "whole" have been when I've been taking care of the needs of others and not my own.  This is the heartbeat of the Do Good "movement", and it's my hope that you will join us in intentionally Doing Good on September 24th.

What a lovely tribute it would be to my own Daddy, his grandchild, and our community.

hard days and tough battles

Overall, we're doing fine.

Overall, we are blessed.

Overall, we have more good days than bad.

BUT... sometimes there are days like today that knock you back a bit.

There are days when the grief of the world around you- recounting tragedy from a horrific moment in our nation's history- takes you down a slippery slope of sadness.

There are moments when you see pregnant women or new babies in passing and realize that you are a mere 13 days away from your due date... and all of that hurt bubbles up to the surface again.

There are times when loving friends around you ask the innocent question, "How are you doing?", and you answer honestly... with tears and truth flowing faster than you can wipe them up.

There are afternoons when you are left making hard decisions about your mother's long term care and you are just sick of being a grown-up.  And in that same afternoon you get sucked in to the vortex of sadness over her condition and you miss your old mom and you just want to go back to a time when she rocked you in that big (ugly?) yellow chair.

There are times when you can't remember something from your family's history and you want to pick up the phone to ask your dad... only to have your heart leap in your throat as you remember.

And there are weeks when you fall out of a healthy routine because of a ridiculous injury that occurred after cutting an avocado and unintentionally stabbing your hand and needing stitches.  So you sit on the couch and allow yourself one more Fresh Prince episode and spiral down toward self-pity and frustration.

And days like this are real.  And are painful.  Both literally and physically thanks to my hand.  And I share all of these thoughts not to have you on red-alert for my mental health, but to say that I'm sure I'm not alone.  Sadly, I know too many who are hurting in their hearts, their lives, their families.  Who knows what their trigger may be- 9/11? a Hallmark ad? a life event?- but when their trigger occurs... they, too, spiral.

Give grace, share love, be patient... we never know what sort of battle someone is facing.

Unless, of course, they are ridiculous enough to post it on their blog.

Windows on Grief

I have sat down multiple times to begin this blog post and I do so now with fear and trepidation.  I have wanted to share with you my thoughts on what was helpful in my grief- but I have been anxious that those around me would feel this is a passive-aggressive way to give praise or penalty for those who loved us in our pain.  It is not.  It is merely a response to our journey.

While I have begun this in my head at various points over the last 3 years, it finally is being written now because of the horrible tragedy that has affected my community in the last week.  A precious 4 year old boy died tragically this weekend.  Loads of this family's friends are friends of mine- and several of them have asked "how should I help?"

Goodness knows I am no expert on what to do in moments like this.  Rather than rely merely on my own experience, I have been pooling responses from friends.  I've talked to several dear friends who have recently lost someone, as well as I've asked those in my Grief Class at Sawtooth.  In these words you will find the collective experiences of those who have lost parents, friends, spouses, and children.  We cry tears together and lean on each other because the wound is quite raw.  So while I tread in to dangerous waters of offering "advice" on how to love someone in pain, know that I come to you humbly- bringing words from my friends as well.

the view from our classroom

Across the board, we were able to laugh at some of the things that people attempted to do to "help" that were far from helpful.  Yet as a whole, we all know that people come to you in those first terrifying moments just as scared as you are.  No one knows what to do- including the bereaved- and so we bump against each other in our hurt hoping to provide some peace along the way.  One thing that we shared in our class was remembering the statements people made in those first few days that could be remained unsaid: "I can't imagine losing my husband."  "I'll hug my babies extra tight tonight."  While we should love people with our empathy, we should speak to them with our sympathy.  Your friend did lose her husband.  She won't be able to hug her baby tonight.  Speaking those words- while thought to be comforting or showing your connectedness to the moment- aren't always helpful.

In fact, there was a great article around this same subject that was recently making the Facebook rounds.  We should chose what we speak to those in grief/crisis carefully, and this article lays out well the hows and the whys.

When talking to my friends, it was nearly universal of the same things we didn't want to hear: "It's okay."  "It's going to be alright."  "It's part of God's plan."  While those statements are so very well intentioned, they are unfortunately painful in the moment.  Most grievers know those statements are merely bandaids for their situation.  They will have to learn a new reality- and while it will involve God's plan, it's quite painful to think of Him as wrecking their life in the moment to get there.  (Note: one friend even went as far to say "don't push your belief system on someone who is grieving.  While you may be sure that adding your Truth to their hearts in this moment of pain, it may do nothing but push them farther away.)  When it comes to "well then what should I say?"-- keep it simple.  "I'm so sorry" is genuine, heartfelt, and doesn't try to "fix" an unfixable situation.  Never feel like you are responsible for "explaining" the unexplainable.  Having no words and just hugs is completely appropriate.  And hard as it may be, try to avoid the phrase "I understand."  While you may have had a similar experience, their moment of grief and their situation is their own.  You will likely not understand.  "I'm sorry" and "I love you" are enough.

What about bringing things by the griever's house?  Absolutely, if they are accepting visitors.  (Don't know?  Ask around.  While you may not be able to reach them in the time of crisis, ask someone on a closer "ring" than you are what you should do.)  Across the board, though, most people on the receiving end of grief mentioned that they loved gestures of love from friends, but requested that people drop of the gift, meal, card, or hug and then promptly leave.  While it seems that sometimes we suffer from this bizarre desire to get near the bereaved, we should not jockey for face-time with them in their moment of pain.  One friend commented "if you were not having regular lunch dates or coffee dates with them prior to the event, don't try to start now."  So true.   One thing to consider while dropping things by: don't give the grieving friend more work to do.  While I was so blessed with a bush to plant at the loss of our last baby (and look daily at my laurel with joy), another friend was given a tree that became a job in her early moments of grief.  Make sure you know their desires well enough to bring something by that requires more work.  And keep in mind the "nature" of the grief.  A friend said to me that while she enjoyed cards and meals at the death of her grandfather, that when her father committed suicide- cards weren't what she needed.  While it is more work on our end as friends, it's more helpful to evaluate the gesture through the lens of the recipient.

Another thing to keep in mind is that the bereaved should feel in charge of the situation as much as possible.  You don't need to play Dr. Phil to get your friend to talk- allow them to invite you in to their grief.  (And LISTEN!  Don't make it a grief competition or use their story to springboard to another horror story that you heard or read on Facebook.  Be present with your friend- while they may be unable to talk in the moment, being with them in silence is just as precious.)  Allow them to take the lead.  Hard as it may be, don't try to assume that what you would want is what they do.  Last summer when a friend died, his wife asked us to remove his clothes from their shared dresser before she and her kids returned home.  Months later when we lost our baby, a beautifully well-intentioned friend removed my baby "items" from our line of sight before we returned home.  And I lost my mind.  While it was exactly what my friend needed to begin her never-ending job of finding her new normal, it was the exact opposite of what I needed.  Those mementos of a child never coming to live in my house were all I had to hang on to the reality that I, indeed, lost a family member- and didn't just experience a medical anomaly.  Allow the bereaved to tell you what they want, and try not to make any executive decisions on their behalf unless you've asked.

After my fabulous experience this summer in several grief groups, I feel like I could go on and on about what I've learned about others' experiences with grief.  Instead I'll direct you to several resources and leave you with some action steps.

Read these:
Farther Along: The Writing Journey of Thirteen Bereaved Mothers
     I've had the honor of meeting one of these mothers this summer in my class.  This book contains writings from women who have lost children, as well as writing prompts in the back.  Also included in the back is a list called "I want to help."  One of the most helpful points for me was the line "It's never too late."  I've found myself going back now to friends who lost loved ones in my former, grief-free life and saying "I'm sorry.  I didn't respond in the way you may have needed."  I've gone back and told stories of loved ones who have died to their remaining family members.  It's never too late.

A Force of Will: The Reshaping of Faith in a Year of Grief by Mike Stavlund
     I met Mike at Wild Goose.  His book is a collection of his writings dealing with the death of his son.  It has given me tons of practical reflection on how losing a child is in a field of it's own, just as the women in Farther Along share.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion
     Joan put into words some of the pain in my heart.  She talks about the fog of grief and how you believe "magical" things about the death of your loved one.  While it's a hard read, as are the others, it's beneficial to have first hand accounts of grief to reflect upon as you wade through your own or try to love a friend in their own moments.

Some practical "action steps":
*Meals are great.  Keep in mind that mass quantities aren't always helpful because those grieving aren't always able to eat.  However, if there is family in town, helping to feed all of them is a huge relief for everyone.  Make sure you know dietary preferences- one friend received amazing chicken and beef casseroles... and she was vegetarian.  When bringing food, drop it off quickly.

*It's lovely to think of any children in the home.  Elizabeth got some spot-on craft supplies which helped not only to make her feel loved, but to help busy her in moments of overwhelming grown-up stuff.

*Don't say "let me know how I can help"... figure out something to do and then gently execute it.  A text message saying "I'd love to take your child to the park.  Is Friday or Saturday better for you?" is much easier to respond to than trying to think of how you need help.  Because in all honestly, your grieving friend doesn't likely know how they need help.

*Keep calling and texting your friend even when you don't get response.  I read through some old messages the other day and found this beautiful exchange:

I'm not ok. :/ thanks for continuing to call, even though I've not been able to pick up yet. Love you.

Totally understand. Just know I'm thinking about you. Love you

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When it comes down to it, caring for those who are grieving is a yucky, tricky road.  It's painful for all involved.  My summer of delving through my own experience has shown me just how different each experience can be.  But know this, dear friend... your gesture is appreciated.  One friend who I'd asked about her journey shared these words with me:

photos courtesy of Amanda Sullivan

I have realized the best thing from my perspective is to be grateful for what anyone does, since no one has to do anything and I know too well how busy life alone can be.  I truly can say no one has really done the "wrong thing" in trying to help me personally, because anyone who has tried has done so out of love.  So maybe the only advice to those wanting to help someone who is hurting is to do so only if you truly feel led, and if you are truly doing it for the other person - not for yourself or out of obligation.

Wise words.  On behalf of those receiving your love and compassion, thank you.