they run around like pirates “arg!”, “ahoy!”, “treasure!” paper hats and eye patches askew, winking and squinting, play fighting while together mapping treasure. how come some children are only ever captured by imagination, while others are captured by the realest of terrors? oh that perils were only always minor setbacks, on a crayon crinkled map, playfully overcome - instead of deadly serious, written in crimson… (at the store, at school, at a parade… anywhere, everywhere) go through the motions of playing – smiling, laughing, creating, charting courses throughout the seven seas, joining little pitter patter feet, making joyful exclamations. inwardly navigate dark stormy waters - the heartache, the fear, the questions, the rage… the heaviness. how much longer? how long until all of our children are safe? how long until all can go out, to learn and play and work and imagine… to live? how long until all can come home to loving arms and be tucked in to cozy beds to rest? how long until all can then awaken and do it all again today, and tomorrow? //in response to the uniquely american problem of gun violence and mass shootings (buffalo, uvalde, highland park… 2022)//
Category: Grief
of joy, of sorrow: human
oh, what it is to be human:
beautiful, eternal souls -
resilient, brave, loving.
housed in finite bodies -
breakable, fearful, vulnerable.
forever, and ephemeral -
paradox.
what joy we hold,
what sorrow.
how can our hearts carry
this lovely, terrible tangle -
of love, and loneliness;
closeness, and distance;
fullness, and loss;
laughter, and tears;
courage, and terror;
delight, and disgust;
tenderness, and anger;
healing, and trauma;
hope, and grief -
of life, and death?
we are living.
we are dying.
how can we choose
to be, in this space between?
we laugh, and weep;
worry, and rest;
dance, and slump;
fight, and reconcile;
despair, and rejoice;
help, and hurt;
withdraw, and speak;
destroy, and create;
learn, and forget;
hide, and seek;
work, and play;
sleep, and awaken;
move, and pray.
we are alone,
we are together;
we are devastated,
we are redeemed;
we deny,
we accept;
we hold tight,
we let go.
oh, what it is to be human!
we see shimmers of new life,
alongside dark shadows of death.
how shall we walk, and stumble,
on this side of earth?
love, recklessly -
hearts open
to intense sorrow,
to breathtaking joy.
Yet Another Goodbye
I think I nursed my baby for the final time last night, as tonight I ended up skipping our nightly nursing and instead just sang to him and gave him a cup of milk. While I didn’t plan it in advance, I’ve known this day was likely coming sooner rather than later, as my baby is 16 months now and in recent days has been barely nursing before I tuck him into bed.
For the last month or two, I’ve stopped bringing my phone with me when I rock and nurse him, so that instead of being distracted by scrolling (ever more disheartening) news stories, I can just be mindful of him. I’m thankful for this, for these extra moments of singing to him and noticing the warm weight of him in my arms, the shape of his cheeks, the sound of his breathing and swallowing, the smell of his freshly shampoo-ed hair, what it feels like squeeze his warm, pajammied squishiness close.
But these last couple of days he has hardly nursed at all when I rock him, although he still has wanted to snuggle and sing bedtime lullabies with me. And tonight it just felt right to forego nursing altogether, even though a part of me didn’t want to believe the time to say goodbye had truly come. I suppose this is yet another lesson in the complexity of holding multiple experiences, of how even something that is good and right can also feel sad and hard.
I’ve been putting off ending nursing with him in a way that I didn’t with my first. I’m not sure exactly why. I think a part of it may be because this time I don’t know if I will ever nurse again. Will I have another baby, or will my second also be my last? Right now I don’t have an answer; I really don’t know. And yet from this space of not knowing I still need to live, to love.
I think another part of my reticence also has to do with not wanting to say goodbye to yet another precious thing, after a year of what has felt like loss after loss and sorrow upon sorrow—globally, nationally, and personally (even though I realize I’ve lost far less than many). All of these layers of grief make one more loss—even a loss that is a healthy and even joyful part of my baby growing into toddlerhood—feel sad.
Losing nursing reminds me of other losses, of things that are gone and can never be again. And it goes against my desire to freeze time and hold everything close and familiar, as it is, forever. I realize, intellectually, that a part of life is that it is always changing, growing, shifting—with loss and joy intermingled. But my heart still feels sad for now.
I suppose sadness and loss are fitting reflections and feelings to be experiencing during this first week of lent, a time when we are called to remember and honor and enter into suffering (Jesus’, others’, our own). I want to be brave enough to make space for grief, even while holding on to the hope of life—life offered in the full by Jesus, but also in the little everyday experiences such as how my boys grow and play and laugh and cry, fiercely feeling and present even amidst the sorrows of the world.
Goodbye, Grandpa.
Grandpa,
You died a couple of months ago now, and our first holiday season without you is fast approaching. I know that we lived far apart, and yet you were dear to me and always had a special place in my heart and impact on my life. I always knew that you were there, such a steady presence in the background of life; your presence was so comforting, and seemed like it would be there forever. It has been hard to imagine life any other way. I’ve cried many tears over the last year and a half, since your diagnosis first signaled the fading of your permanency.
The sort of goodbye that we had was long, ambiguous. Brain cancer has a way of doing that, of creating many small goodbyes along a winding, painful path that leads to the final GOODBYE. Your tenacious spirit, your optimism, your fierce desire for activity and productivity and movement—all of these you held on to for as long as you could, even as slowly you slipped away a little more each day. And then, one day this fall, you were gone. I hope you are finally at peace, that you trusted in Jesus the way you assured me you did when we had a phone call shortly after you were first diagnosed.
That call that I had with you and Grandma nearly two springs ago, right after your diagnosis, was such a gift. You were still yourself, the Grandpa that I’d always known and loved. We both cried at the thought of the end that we both knew was eventually coming, but we also celebrated love, life, connection, hope, resiliency. And through the summer months that followed, when you were still more yourself than not, I treasured getting to exchange emails and calls with you, pictures of my growing family, and even a short visit where I got to see you in person for the last time. I know that days are always a gift, but these days felt especially precious as we knew time was slipping away.
I’ve been finding memories of you have been floating across my mind recently, weaving in and out of my days. It seems fitting for me to remember them, and YOU, again here in writing, on the blog that you, in your characteristic manner of helping me feel quietly supported, read faithfully.
Here are some of my favorite memories of and with you, in no particular order:
How you had such a dry sense of humor, although you often followed your jokes up with your quick wink and mischievous smile.
How I laughed often when I was around you.
How you said “And that…” a lot, and spoke infuriatingly quietly on the phone, so that I and just about everyone else had to constantly say, “What???”.
How you and Grandma visiting felt like Christmas regardless of what month it was, like the start of an adventure, like possibility, like playfulness, like fun.
How childhood summers visiting you and Grandma made time feel like it was slowing down, like the days were meant for playing outside, going on bike rides and boat rides, chasing bugs, eating food, talking about everything and nothing.
How you loved learning and being active and enjoying the little things, especially in nature—I really do think you could have been a nature guide and photographer, as you rarely spoke so freely or poetically as when describing flora or fauna from your travels and adventures.
How you saw me, made space for me, were willing to hear what I was thinking and feeling—and even sometimes shared some of your feelings and experiences.
How you helped me get extra support when I needed it, especially during some of my harder early adolescent years.
How you listened to and encouraged my dreams, including about what I wanted to study and where I wanted to go to school. (I may not have even met my husband if you hadn’t helped me go to the college that I did..!)
How you listened to and supported my passions, including in growing a family and in being a therapist and in writing.
How you were hardworking, and generous—you’ve given me and my little family so much.
How you were incredibly resilient—I know you hardly spoke about your early years, but the little that I am aware of makes it clear that you were courageous and perseverant and resourceful.
How much you liked to eat ice cream.
How you and Grandma shared much encouragement with me and my husband as we transitioned to being new parents.
How you were in better shape than me up until your diagnosis—I still remember the hot, waterless hike we went on as a family several years ago, which I struggled glumly through but which you charged joyfully ahead on; this experience was an apt illustration for how you approached life in general.
How you liked to tinker around with things, even though your fixes were often unique.
How you especially liked to bike ride, fly, and cross-country ski.
How you were always involved in my life, from the time I was a tiny little girl all the way up to when I was a mother of my own tiny boys.
How you delighted in your family.
Last summer, when I got to see you in person for the last time, you got to see my toddler, almost two, full of new words, of wonder for the world, of laughter and playfulness. You joked with him, and did a trick with his cup that he thought was so funny, and as he laughed I was reminded of how many times you made me, too, laugh when I was small. I’m glad we got delight together in him—he was just starting the first chapters of his life; you were finishing the closing chapters of yours. I wish that you could have met my baby, though I’m glad that you got to see me as I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, and that you heard of his eventual birth via phone calls. I’m glad that we got to play games in the evening before bed, eat dessert together, and just be together. I’m glad that we got to take pictures all together, and to hug one another one more time, and to enjoy just being together in the world, alive at the same time in the same place.
And now, life continues on here for me, and for my husband, and for my small boys, for as many days as the LORD allows. And life on this earth has ended for you. I miss you, and I love you. Thank you, Grandpa, for being you—I’m so grateful for you, and for your life. Even as I miss you, I will continue to live and to remember you, my own life and the lives of my family indelibly shaped by yours in ways big and small.
I love you, Grandpa.
Earthly Longing
Do I long enough
for a new heaven
and a new earth?
I was pretty in love
with our old world,
I'm realizing,
Before life
as we knew it
was suddenly
Stripped away.
Gratitude and Grief, Uncertainty and Certainty
It still feels surreal, 15 days into our state’s Shelter-in-Place order, to say that we are living in a pandemic. To be honest, I often find myself feeling overwhelmed by both gratitude and grief in this time of painfully great uncertainty.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude and love for my dear husband and precious little boys, for my extended family, for my friends. I am deeply grateful for the true and certain hope we have in Jesus no matter our earthly circumstance. I am thankful for our church and the fact that we are still able to meet virtually. I am grateful we still have a home and food on the table. I’m thankful we have technology to still connect with loved ones even from afar. I’m grateful that God’s mercies are new each morning. I’m thankful for the courageous men and women who are risking their lives during this time to help others, ranging from medical professionals, to grocery store workers, to people who deliver food and supplies and mail, to people who clean, to emergency responders, to every other person whose job means they are currently unable to stay home. My list of things to be grateful for is long, and I have been trying to note big and little things I am thankful for each day (and have been finding the gratitude app Presently helpful towards this end).
But I also feel overwhelmed with grief and fear. I of course most fear the loss of those I love. And I am deeply saddened by loss of life and livelihood that are already occurring in the lives of people I know as well as on a global scale. I mourn for the heartache our world is experiencing, and for the emotional and relational and spiritual and physical strain of this experience that impacts and will continue to impact each of us in different ways. And I am grieving the smaller losses of everyday life as we know it even as we are only just beginning lockdown and physical distancing—even little things like not being able to visit family and friends, or not being able to take the boys to the park or go on a family outing, or not being able to go to church in person. I feel dizzy even trying to categorize these countless layers of loss and uncertainty. I know that this earthly future has always been uncertain, but suddenly the fragile and fleeting beauty of everyday life seems glaringly evident.
What will this earthly future hold? I truly don’t know. And that is scary to say, especially as a momma to such young children. I’ve been finding it hard to focus on in-depth study of the Bible or on lengthy prayers, as my fear and shock often leave me feeling scattered and somewhat disoriented. But I have been trying to pray even small prayers throughout the day, to read even a few verses, to talk and pray with my husband, to listen to the daily messages our pastor has been putting out, to listen to and sing worship songs, and to trust the Holy Spirit to intercede when I feel so weak. I’ve been thankful that as believers—my husband and I, our church community, our friends and family—we have had the opportunity to continue to preach the gospel to one another and to ourselves throughout these days, even if we do so imperfectly. And I know we will continue to need to do so through calls and video meetings and emails and texts through the many uncertain days ahead.
Amidst all this uncertainty I have been trying to hold fast to two certain verses that provide hope for both the present and the future:
“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.” – Psalm 56:3
“So that by two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.” – Hebrews 6:18-20
May we gratefully trust in and hold fast to Jesus, our only certain anchor during the deep sadness and uncertainty of this new age of the COVID19 pandemic.