Paradise

 

Well, I have finally seen, with my own eyes, crystal clear waters and sugary white sand beaches. 

I took my sister on a quick trip last week.  Our father loved the lower latitudes, but neither of us had ever been much south of, say, Orlando, Florida.  We went a bit farther this time.....

Do you wonder what heaven is like? I think it's entirely incomprehensible, something that our feeble brains can't understand, some dimension that is more beautiful and full of goodness than anything we could imagine on earth.  

I have no idea if heaven looks like this, but this is truly beautiful. I believe that all of the best things on earth--our most loving relationships, the most striking natural landscapes--are pale shadows of What's To Come.  So heaven probably isn't like this; it's probably much, much better.

The clarity of the water! It astonished me.  It's real! I kept thinking.  It's really real!

I think maybe that's what people say when they reach heaven.  The rumors are true! they probably think.  It wasn't photoshopped. It wasn't made up. It's real, and it's more beautiful in person than I could have ever expected. 

That's what I think about when I think about this beach, where I could hardly talk all day, I was just so astonished that it was, in fact, really real. 

What is my father seeing now?  I have no idea.  But I think he sees things clearly, as they truly are, at long last. 

For now we see through a glass darkly, and one day we will see face to face. (1 Corinthians 13:12)

Yes and amen. 

Annie Gets a Party

Annie turned 12 earlier this month, and one thing she asked for this year was a party.  A Real Party. 

Given the fact that for the past three years we've not been able to have friends over on her birthday, either because of covid, or me having covid, or generalized illness, I thought it would be a nice thing to do, to celebrate this last year of pre-teenagerhood.

So today after ballet company rehearsals my husband and I are transporting nine girls home, with four others to be dropped off at our house a bit later, for Annie's Twelfth Birthday Party.  We've got cupcakes, chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, vegetables and dip, fruit, party games, a craft, and a dance playlist (many thanks to our niece, who took time out of her busy first year of law school exam time to send a plethora of good "dance party" suggestions that I used when I was choosing songs). My sister gave Annie a tabletop disco ball for Christmas, along with glow-stick necklaces.  Annie will be wearing her blue silk dress--you know, the one I bought at the secondhand store, tags still on, for $5 about 5 years ago?  The pizza will be delivered around 5pm.  People are excited.  (Is it wrong to say that I'm excited that tonight I will be done hostessing?  Because I'm excited about that!)

Annie is a pleasure to parent and it's a privilege to celebrate her.  She's my right-hand girl: reliable, kind, intuitive, thoughtful, and generous.  We understand each other on what feels like a mitochondrial level.  She has made countless sacrifices over the past year, with my Dad's illness, and she doesn't complain about it. She's so unselfish and unspoiled that it's a delight to spoil her just a little bit now.  She loves friends, and beautiful things, and cupcakes, and I'm thankful to provide those things for her today. 

A dozen years with my little girl.  I know you hear this all the time, but mothers will little ones: don't blink.  It truly flies.  And it's beautiful and bittersweet. 

{I make it a rule not to post pictures of my children, but this one is acceptable: Annie practicing piano recently in a straw hat. So sweet!}

Happy next year of life, Annie, and happy party day!

On Grief

 I had an interesting experience with grief last autumn.  

Since January, I had been deep in anticipatory grieving.  We knew my father's cancer was a terminal one.  We knew that the statistics on small cell lung carcinoma are grim. Last year before he died I cried most days.  Sometimes I'd be washing dishes and burst into tears.  Sometimes I'd be driving somewhere and start crying.  It was a constant companion: the anticipatory grief.  Knowing this was the end of something.  Knowing goodbye was so close.  

After my father's death, my primary emotion for weeks was relief.  The suffering near the end of his life was real.  I had envisioned that as a cancer patient, he would drift off in a morphine-induced haze and die peacefully.  That was absolutely not true. I was so relieved his suffering was done, so relieved that we never had to replay it again, that I did not cry.  I was exhausted, I was sad, but I was relieved.

Somewhere about six weeks after his death something else began.  It was like the time I toured the infamous underground bunker at The Greenbriar Resort when I was a teenager.  We walked into the tunnel that leads down into the bunker, and the 20-something ton door shut behind us.  That sound was so final.

Sometime in November I felt it.  The door was irreversibly closed.  The relief had faded and the reality set in: I will never talk to my father, face-to-face, in this lifetime, again.  Our morning cups of coffee, where we'd talk for hours from before dawn until the rest of the household woke up, are over.  Our long phone calls of laughter and teasing and nonstop talking are over.  Our hugs, when I'd rest my head on his chest, are over.  The door felt like it slammed shut on me every time I thought about this reality.  My lifelong Gibraltar was--is--irrevocably gone.

And so a different, deeper grief began.  It was like an underground river, flowing somewhere deep within my spirit.  It was a quiet grief that felt omnipresent, that felt below that place Wordsworth described as "too deep for tears."  

Yes, I have faith in God. The last solid food my father ate was the communion wafer his Anglican priest brought to the house three days before he died.  Was my father reconciled with God?  I believe so.  Will we meet again? I have no idea how heaven works.  I'd like to think so. I am confident of (and unendingly grateful for) my salvation and I'm confident that God has a much bigger plan than I can envision.  That faith does not negate the reality of the pain that I will never make my Dad's morning coffee again, just the way he likes it: black, with two small cubes of ice. 

Every year my Dad and stepmom threw a large Christmas party between Christmas and New Year's. Our initial thought was not to have the party this year, but sometime in the fall my stepmom said she was considering it. I am fully on board with whatever she wants, so I agreed.  We kept it simple, she had it mostly catered, and it was good.  All the neighbors she invited except one were able to come.  There were great stories told, multiple conversations for hours, loads of food, happy conviviality.  Our neighbors in Charleston are good people--it's a sweet, close-knit community.  My Dad, who loved to have his house full of people enjoying themselves, would have loved it. 

Getting past the party was an emotional triumph for me, one more step in the right direction of healing and recovering.  So the grief has shifted, from that reverberatingly heavy closed door and that deep  underground river, to something different yet again.  I suppose the closest thing I can describe it as is "acceptance," although that's not quite right.  But it's close. 

If you're grieving, just lean into it and know it comes and goes in phases, it ebbs and flows, and it shows up when you least expect it.  The best thing to do is acknowledge that it is real, and be kind and gentle with yourself and others while you heal. 

A New Year

 The calendar has flipped again, and I am not sure I've ever been so glad to see the year turn.  The last time I posted I was sick at Thanksgiving (and the whole family got sick, although to varying degrees: what was a fairly unpleasant experience for me was 48 hours of body aches for my husband!).  Then it was Advent, and Christmas.

I did not have the heart to write much during that time.  Once I recovered from my illness, we were immediately thrown into Nutcracker week, my sister's 40th birthday, and my sweet aunt and stepmom visiting from out-of-state. The month continued to snowball: Finn's piano teacher sold us her car (praise the LORD --I had been looking off and on for months for a replacement to my 19-year-old car, and she just happened to be selling her 4-year old car with 45,000 miles, one of the only two brands I was trying to find!), so we spent an inordinate amount of time the week before Christmas on moving money, dealing with insurance changes, going to the DMV....you know. Then my in-laws lost power during the coldest week of the year, and my brother-in-law moved in with us for a few days while my sister also came to down for Christmas.  On Christmas Eve I was sending a hot Dutch oven of chili and thermos of coffee to my in-laws (who refused to leave their house although it was 39 degrees one morning!). 

But there was something deeper happening also, and I knew it and could feel it.  The dryness, the fatigue, the sadness of wrapping up what--I can see in retrospect--was the hardest year of my life.  I used to think that was 2018, when my husband had cancer. That was hard.  But this one was harder.  By the time the end of this year rolled around and Christmas was upon us, I just didn't have the heart to do much. 

We didn't drive around in pajamas looking at Christmas lights.  We didn't go look at the decorated trees in town.  We didn't bake a single thing--except that I did bake fruitcakes, some sort of primal urge, although my Dad (my annual fruitcake recipient) wasn't here to enjoy them. Although I ordered Christmas cards in October, I have yet to send them out. We didn't pull out our Advent book to read, and I think I watched one Christmas movie.  I didn't put out many decorations. 

 I did give everyone gifts.  We had a beautiful Christmas morning brunch, as always.  I threw a special 40th birthday brunch for my sister, whose birthday is December 10th.  But that's it.

I realized somewhere in there that I was really just wanting to get through the holidays, and get to January, so I could be done with it.  I wanted to check the box and move on. I adore Christmas, so this desire to just get it over with is not my normal state of being. But it's completely understandable.  Grief is a multi-faceted emotion.  I acknowledged this as my reality: my father has died, and I am sad, and I don't feel like doing the normal holiday things.  And I acknowledged this also as reality: God is here, the incarnation was real, and next year Christmas will be easier.  I know it will be. I feel it already. 

I allowed myself to feel all this without feeling "guilty" about it.  My children both said several times that it didn't feel like a normal Christmas to them, and I told them that I understood completely.  But in order for me to have the emotional space I needed to get through the season with grace and joy, I needed to keep everything very light and easy on myself.  I could tell that I had a twinge of depression; I sometimes wandered around the house wondering what to do, and didn't feel "motivated" to do much.  When that happens, I feel like it's important to get rest, to pray, to understand that it's okay to have a hard season.  They come and they go.

It has gone.  We spent four nights in Charleston around the new year, and when we pulled into our driveway on January 2nd I was almost elated: I had gotten through the holidays. I had gotten through Christmas. Most of all, I had gotten through the first Charleston Christmas party (a big annual event at our house there) without my Dad.  I had gotten through 2022.  Hallelujah.  

This new year feels like a gift.  We are only one week in and I feel like a revitalized version of myself. I feel the old optimism and energy, the old purpose and direction--I feel those things pulsing within me again.  

That's where I am, and I'm thankful. 

Giving Thanks

 "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."  --1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Thanksgiving Eve has descended into these hills; it's dusky outside, and I can hear the occasional rifle fire (hunting season is upon us). Normally this day is spent doing cooking and baking prep ahead of our big gathering tomorrow: my husband's parents, siblings, niece and nephew, aunt, and cousins all get together at his parents' house for a huge meal, and we look forward to it all year long.  

Last Wednesday I began getting sick, and by Wednesday night I was Quite Sick.  Today is Day 8 for me of covid--my second covid infection of the year (the first was a very mild one in January).  Although I rarely catch even a cold, and I bounce back from illness fairly quickly, this virus has been protracted and difficult, with a whole host of unpleasant symptoms--although fortunately, none have been scary!  Just exhausting, lingering, and aggravating. And painful--my sinuses hurt!

We are not able to go to my in-laws' house tomorrow.  It's fine--I don't feel well enough to go right now, anyhow--but it's also hard.  You see, I didn't realize how the orphaned child within me longed to gather together with a family and have a normal-feeling holiday. I haven't had a normal holiday since last Thanksgiving. Every holiday since last Christmas has been clouded with the pain of the reality of my father's illness and his impending, inevitable death.  It has been a hard year. I miss the comfort of family gathering around food, without the specter of cancer overshadowing it all. I was looking forward to the happy conviviality of our Thanksgiving meal. 

After my Dad died, Annie asked me--are you an orphan now? I assured her that no, I am not an orphan.  Orphans are children! And I'm an adult. 

But the deeper truth is this: even though I'm an adult, and adults cannot be orphaned, I feel it.  My grandparents are all gone, and now both of my parents have died.  I'm so fortunate to have aunts and uncles, a stepmother, and in-laws who all love me in a similar way, as parents do.  But they're not my parents.  My actual parents are gone, and I did not realize how lonely that would make me feel, especially at holidays. There's something that existed that is now unraveled, a thing that can never be restored: mother, father, two daughters. I am not at all alone! I have my husband and children, my sister, and a lot of other relatives who love me.  But I still miss my parents. I still feel sad that they are no longer here with me.

I am thankful tonight for the 23 years I had with my mother and the nearly-45 years I had with my father.  I am thankful that although I have been sick, I believe I'm healing along an upward trajectory. I am thankful for sweet Allison for bringing potato-bacon soup to us this afternoon, to neighbor Kate for the elderberry syrup and chicken noodle soup, and to the inventor of the Neti Pot! :)

This too shall pass.  And we'll have our own little Thanksgiving here--not as elaborate, but still special.  Rejoice always.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

A True Story of God's Provision (and a Prayer Request)

 "I will sing of the Lord's great love forever;

with my mouth I will make your faithfulness known

through all generations." -Psalm 89:1

Let me tell you a story--which ends with a prayer request. It's one of those stories of how God looks after us and paves the way before we know what we'll need.  

First we must go back to the summer of 2021, back in the days before my father had cancer. For some reason that summer, for no sensible reason at all, I decided that instead of booking us into a hotel during our annual New Year's trip to Charleston, I would splurge on an Airbnb. So I found an adorable house that was just a couple of blocks from my Dad's place--a really tough thing to find in his neighborhood.  I booked it for late December/early January.

Fast-forward to late December: my father had just been re-admitted to the hospital at MUSC, brutally sick with We Didn't Know What Yet, and the doctors were chasing it down while he went in and out of hospitals.  We went to Charleston a day early and stayed in a hotel, and our Airbnb host kindly let my family check in early the next day while I was running back and forth to the hospital.  In the course of our texts she mentioned that she'd just spent 10 days at MUSC as her husband had treatment for cancer. They're in their 40s with two young children.  And I thought, wow, do I ever know *that* situation.

So I told her about my husband and we bonded a bit, acknowledging what it is like to be a parent, to have a very sick spouse, and to feel the fear and loneliness those things can entail. 

My Dad kept getting sicker.

We had to stay longer, and she reached out to offer the place for more days.  I readily accepted.  The screened front porch had become a spot for me to really lay my worries and anxieties on God during early mornings. It was a soft place to land for us; I fell into bed thick with grief and exhaustion every night. It was so much better than a hotel. The house was beautifully-decorated, sparkling clean, and perfect for us. I knew that God had somehow orchestrated this in His wisdom and kindness.

When we decided to settle up she refused payment for the extra nights.  She wanted to help us like so many had helped her. I was humbled and touched by her kindness.

One time after that--in the late winter, I think--we exchanged quick texts saying One Day We Should Meet. We never followed through--life is busy!

Fast-forward to August, when I was in Charleston for a week taking care of my Dad during his second week of brain radiation.  I had to drive him all the way to Mount Pleasant--about a 20-minute commute from his neighborhood--to the radiation facility.  On that first day that I took him, we walked into the waiting room, and I looked at a woman sitting there, whom I'd never seen before in my life, and I just *knew*, and I said her name.  She looked up.

In the Charleston metro area there are over 800,000 people and she and I just *happened* to show up at the same office at the same time on the same day.

Yes. Wow. To say we were floored was an understatement.

At the end of the week she and I went out together to talk and share stories for a couple of hours.  Her husband's cancer, like my Dad's, is considered incurable. Since then, we've spent time praying for her family every night. 

Will you also pray for this sweet lady, and her family?  They are believers, she is solid in her knowledge that God takes care of things, but still: that is an excruciating road to walk, especially with young children.  

Thank you for praying!

On Children, Cancer, and Loss

This autumn has flown by--I realized yesterday that we are already 8 weeks into the season.  "Where the time does go?" to quote Annie's Venezuelan ballet instructor. :)

Here's something that many people in my life have asked about, and that I thought it would be useful to write about: how we handled talking to our children about my father's terminal cancer diagnosis. This year I've seen my children make sacrifices that are not asked of most people their ages.  I've seen them watch their grandfather go from healthy to extremely sick.  And they handled it beautifully.*

Here's what I think helped.

1) Being transparent. Over the course of the year I had several people ask in hushed tones do your children know it's terminal? That question always took me by surprise.  Why in the world would I not tell my children the truth about the fact that my father would die soon?  Why would I set them up for a shock like that? From the beginning, when he was diagnosed in January, I made it clear to Annie and Finn that he would not outlive the cancer.  They understood that all of our traveling this year--and it has been significant--and all the sacrifices they've made--also significant--were occurring because the clock was swiftly ticking down on my Dad's life.  We had hoped he'd survive a year past diagnosis; he survived almost exactly eight months.  In those eight months we packed in so much time together.  

My father died at 6am, and my husband was at work.  I wanted to tell Annie and Finn the news myself, via Facetime, but I wanted my husband to be home.  When they were all gathered on the sofa together that afternoon, I said "I have good news and I have bad news, and it is the same news.  Pa graduated to heaven today.  It's bad news for us because we will miss him so much, but it's good news for him because he's with God." And my children did not actually cry during that Facetime call--or after, from what I've heard.  They *got it.* They were sad, but they expected it (when I went to Charleston that last time, I knew I would not come home while my father was still alive).  They were well-prepared.  We all were.

Being transparent also depends on the age of the child. I would argue that transparency is essential at any age, but of course a 3-year-old will have a totally different comprehension of a situation than a 16-year-old will.  Put it into the terms they can understand. I am not an advocate of scaring children with the harsh realities of the world (yes, I lean to the side of sheltering, and I am convinced that my children are more emotionally secure as a result).  But when a situation is personal to them, such as the illness or death of a loved one, it's important to be frank and open to answering questions.  

2) Focus on what matters most.  I neglected many housekeeping tasks in my own home over the past months, but I made it my business to not neglect my children's hearts.  Talking through their questions or heart issues took total precedence. I also prioritized my own health (sleep, some exercise, nutrition, no overwork) because that makes me more capable of taking care of their needs.  Annie and Finn are what you might call "well-adjusted" as a result of this. Ignore the non-essentials in life (the closets and the gardening will have their day eventually!) but never neglect or ignore a child's heart.  

3) Do little things as you can to bring joy into life.  A croissant from the bakery, a day trip to an interesting spot, cuddles on the sofa, a movie night with blankets....during a really hard time you cannot plan *big stuff* like trips. So just do sweet, tiny things and know that they're enough.  They are!

4) If you're a believer, be sure they understand what death is.  Again, this is one of those topics that must be handled in an age-appropriate manner.  My children understand that death is inevitable for us all, but also that God didn't create us for death (which is why, as the writer of Ecclesiastes says, He "set eternity in the hearts of man").  They understand that this world is not the only thing, and that death is the end of one thing and the beginning of another.  They are sure to have lots of questions.  Don't interpret these as "doubts" and don't be afraid of them.  I always tell my children that I'm so pleased that they're asking good questions, because that's the first step in getting good answers.  You don't have to be a theologian to answer their questions well. Just do your best, ask for the Holy Spirit to guide you, and trust. My children understand that death is a mystery (1 Corinthians 15:51-55) and that we shall all be changed at the moment of death.  Having witnessed death myself more than once, I can assure them that this is absolutely true. 

5) Pray for guidance, pray continually, pray without ceasing!  The Holy Spirit will help guide you and give you words and direction when you don't know what to say or do.  

*Note that the death of a grandparent is quite different than the death of a parent.  Although I think these 5 suggestions are applicable when a parent has a terminal illness, I know for sure that that situation is much harder for children.  Trust that Romans 8:28 is true, and do whatever is necessary to help a child grieve and heal.