Damn grief.  A gold mine for writers, some say. Some folks don’t like to talk about death or grief, but here I’m finding is exactly where living is.

Thank you, Grief.  Thank you for providing the space to really examine what matters. You’ve dumped out all the contents of my life onto this wide open space. Holding each experience, each deeply held belief, each longing, each talisman, I’m giving them room to breathe.  Does it continue to bring me life? Yes? Let’s hang onto it. No? Let it go. In reassessing life- and death- I am experiencing a freedom that I am not sure I knew was possible before I knew you.

Sometimes you’re a funny, quirky, old friend.  A companion to laugh with, recalling familiar stories of days gone by. The warmth of your presence is helpful as to not lose the memories of loved ones. Sometimes you’re a real pain in my ass. Like when you slip up behind me and knock my feet out from under me. But even then I am learning to be thankful for the opportunity to rest while I’m down. And, actually, I appreciate the change of scenery, having been offered a new perspective from down here.

Grief, you’ve made me slow down enough to notice, to pause to remember. Only then can I see the good present all along.

I used to think of dolphins in a Myrtle Beach airbrushed sort of way. I’m not certain why that is. Don’t get me wrong. They are beautiful creatures, but I’ve never wanted one airbrushed on a t-shirt with beaded fringes or tattooed coming up the small of my back. But y’all… I have a new appreciation for the sweet, tender nature of dolphins!

As a family we went to Caswell to celebrate Thanksgiving and celebrate the life of my Mom. We would be carrying out my parents’ desire for Mom’s ashes to be scattered at the point where the Cape Fear River and the Atlantic Ocean meet. There are beautiful stories from that entire week, but this one is on my heart today. None of us looked forward to this Thanksgiving trek quite like we had in years past. While we would be going to our beloved Caswell, Nana would not be with us. And there was the holy and difficult work of scattering her ashes.

We gathered by the water that windy and chilly November morning. We gave thanks for Mom, speaking aloud to the Lord and to one another how knowing Love through her as wife, Mom, Nana, friend had changed us all for the better. We surrounded my Dad as he returned Mom’s earthly remains to the waters of the deep.

The images of this day and a host of the ones with Mom here with us are forever in my heart. From dust you have come and to dust you will return. Mom will live forever in heavenly glory as well as in our earthy memories. Glorious and guttural.

One by one, we slowly left that area. We all made our way around the shoreline, or on the path back to our house, or towards the pier, each dealing with our own grief and feelings differently. I remember Elizabeth being very visibly and understandably shaken. She asked for some time to walk around by herself. I squeezed her tight, telling her how loved she is and how proud Nana is of her. I urged her not to be gone long.

Knowing all of my children’s hearts are grieving, and knowing specifically Elizabeth’s heart was broken, I wept even harder. Elizabeth and her Nana shared a special, spunky bond. That dynamic duo were a force with which to be reckoned. I knew Elizabeth needed a love bigger than my own to help her heart begin to mend, a presence marked with the sweet aroma from the Lover of her soul.

I began to pray. Lord, you have given us Elizabeth, her life reminding us that nothing is impossible with you. I know you love her and gave your life for her. I thank you God for Elizabeth, for her love for you and for all of us, the heart she has surrendered to your great love. I pray boldly, Lord show up for her. Right now. In some sweet way personal to Elizabeth, remind her of your great, pursuing and redeeming love. Right now.

And you know what? I believed big that the God who made her just might do it. I wasn’t sure how, but I trusted that I would see Love show up for all of us, but specifically for Elizabeth in a real way.

We walked a few yards back over to the pier, our hearts heavy, our eyes full of tears. As I stepped onto the pier, I could see fins dancing around a few yards off the end of the pier. I quieted myself in a little bit of disbelief. Dolphins. Right there. We could almost touch them.

All the cousins had starting playing on the sandy beach area just beside the pier. They spotted the fins about that same time. We were all jumping up and down! Dolphins! I was afraid all of our excitement would scare them off. Turns out, they were there to give us a little show, perhaps just for us. Dancing together tenderly, seamlessly, there in that rough, dangerous water. Swimming up and back down. Over and over, they disappeared under the surface of the water, each time I was afraid that was the last we would see of them. A pair of them stayed in the area for about 20 minutes before moving along down the river. So beautiful. So majestic. So effortless. They were breathtaking.

About the time that my heart was about to explode, Elizabeth came up behind me, her tear soaked and blotchy face matching my own.

I reached around her shoulders and pointed, Babe, look: dolphins!

We stood there in silence for a while before she quietly said, It’s like Nana is with us.

I stared at the water, afraid to look away, not wanting to miss a moment, and said, Yes. I prayed for this. Well, not dolphins specifically. But I asked God, who made you and loves you way more than I ever can, to show up in a way that you and I would see was for us. I was just crazy enough to believe He just might do it! And look, dolphins! For us!

After a sacred pause, Elizabeth responded with wonder in her eyes and in her voice, You know what, Mom? Nana was like that. She prayed big prayers and was just crazy enough to believe God would do it.

Yes, sweet girl. That is our legacy.

We pray big and believe big. God showed up that day in so many sweet ways. Perhaps most sweetly and specifically for us in those dolphins.

May we remember to pray boldly, and be just crazy enough to believe Love might actually show up.

 

 

 

The prompt was simply “write about a chair.”

Written 11.07.17

It’s a simple rocking chair.  The weathered, wooden slats softened with age. It is painted a slate-gray-blue color, the signature color of Fort Caswell. This chair is not unique. It is one of the many that line the wrap-around porches of these familiar houses at this holy camp by the sea. The paint is worn and peeling a bit in places. Some of the slats are even coming loose from hours of rocking hopeful and weary travelers. Yet, it is still really comfortable, rocking back and forth the most peaceful of any chair I’ve ever known… unless it gets hung on a loose porch board. In the event this happens, as it often does, you just wiggle a little to the left then right and keep rocking.

I have sat in these worn and wonderful chairs each summer as I grew from toddler years through young adulthood and now, into my adult years.  I sit in the familiar chair, slide it up a little further towards the porch railing so that my short legs reach, lean my head back and inhale the sea salt air. These rockers have seen lots of silent moments, writing, reading or praying, while also having been privy to many rich conversations. From who our teenage crushes were to what may be next in our parenting journey to the heartache of loss, these Caswell gray chairs could tell some tales.

I’ve rocked alone on these porches and also been accompanied by friends and family in these ordinary, extraordinary rocking chairs. Notably my sweet Mom.  This might have been her very favorite place on the whole earth: sitting in a weathered gray rocking chair on the porch of a Caswell cottage.  She could sit and rock on a Caswell porch in these simple wooden chairs for hours if uninterrupted. I learned the art of stillness and quiet listening there with her while rocking that holy, rythmic motion. When I think of Mom, I think of rocking chairs as she was such a big fan. When I think of Caswell and these particular weathered, simple and comfortable rocking chairs, I always think of Mom.

We will go to Caswell shortly, a couple weeks from now, to scatter her ashes.  Where the Cape Fear River meets the Atlantic Ocean, this point holds so many precious memories for all of our family.  This is the place where we came for years with our church groups for Music Week, Mom having grown up coming to camp at Caswell. She recalled swimming in the girls’ pool, most certainly separated from the boys’ swimming area. Walking around the old forts, we all shared sacred stories of special times spent there. We loved walking the shoreline looking for shells.  The pier was where so many hours were spent fishing for flounder and flirting with boys. This is the place Mom and Dad, and we still retreat to when a quiet getaway is necessary.  This became the special place where we celebrated Thanksgiving together as a family. As hopeful and weary travelers, for us Caswell holds so many memories filled with abundant joy and gratitude.

You can see Southport to the left and Bald Head Island to the right from the pier.  This point is surprisingly serene and calm. Well, most of the time it is relaxing: except for that one time we rode out a hurricane in Riverside E.  That weather was anything but serene and calm out on that point, and yet there was a palpable sense of peace in our cottage as we together with our church family waited out the strong storm.  Riverside E, and we, came through that rough day, having seen wave after wave crash over the sea wall, each one more threatening than the last. The rocking chairs were turned over that day before the storm came so that they wouldn’t blow away.  Once the storm passes, the chairs are turned right side up, a little more weathered, but the same, simple instruments of refuge they had been before the storm.

The cottage and certainly these simple, glorious rocking chairs have withstood many storms.  And yet, they still provide a refuge, a resting place of solace for the hopeful and weary traveler. Mom was that way. Even while she had weathered a storm or two, she allowed the Lord to use her as an instrument of refuge.

The simple Caswell gray rocking chairs.  My joyful and comforting Mom. I pray I can be the same. Weathered, simple, and comfortable: an instrument of refuge.

While these were some of the most painful days of my life, they also were some of the most peaceful. There was a sweetness to the Presence in room 14 of the Kate B. Reynolds Hospice Home. The nursing staff that gave Mom remarkable care were loving and kind, calm and quiet. Their presence was almost unseen and yet very palpable. We all knew we had been accompanied by these earthly angels in this journey with Mom toward Home.

Those days were interestingly fun at times too. I think that’s life: beautiful and brutal, painful and hilarious, dark and luminous. There, it became abundantly clear that joy and sorrow dance together in the same room. There was and continues to be a cloud of sorrow over everything, but certainly Joy was present in that place!

Each of you moved us in different ways when you appeared in the doorway of our extended living room, immediately recalling a story or another time in our lives. Some of my responses surprised me. There is one story in particular that comes to my mind often and still brings a chuckle every time. For some reason, seeing my parents’ long time hairdresser and friend come into Mom’s Hospice room brought me to tears. Seeing Pam, there in that sacred space, coming to tell us how much she loved Mom and how special my Mom had been to her, gave me pause to reflect on just how special Mom made us all feel. My eyes well up now with tears recalling how Mom always made it a point to make you feel special and loved. Pam has cut Mom and Dad’s hair for at least 30 years, so a sweet relationship had developed there that both parties treasured. Pam shared in the grounded, perhaps messy, earthly business of grooming, also in the sacred business of the spiritual life and now in the holy space of dying.

Pam and I shared a sweet hug and tears when she came in. She hugged Dad, having just cut his hair that morning. We all had a moment where she told Mom how much she loved her and would miss caring for her beautiful white halo hair. Tears. So many tears. Then, she came over to me again, we hugged and she leaned in close. I steadied myself to hear some sweet and perhaps hard words. Instead, she whispers, “I just cut your Dad’s hair, and he might be upset with me. I trimmed those eyebrows without him knowing or even asking him. I knew your Mom would want me to!” We both broke into a fit of laughter! More tears, these sweetened with the scent of joy. My sweet Daddy’s eyebrows certainly have a mind of their own! If you’ve seen what my eyebrows are capable of, you have an idea of the bountiful nature my Dad’s. Oh, Pam, how we love you! Oh, sweet Jesus, how we give thanks for the laughter in the midst of the pain, giving us nothing less than your wild peace.

Wild peace. That’s the only way I know to describe the staggering ways Love is showing up in our lives.

I have so much on my mind today.  I want to continue telling our story of my Mom’s final days with us here. I want to share stories of that beautiful and brutal week. But there are also stories that are happening currently that warrant sharing. What to share first?

I’ll start with what feels most urgent. I am so thankful for our community and how you have surrounded us in these difficult days. You all have come around us in such amazing ways.  In the uncertain days of Mom’s illness you were present with us in bringing meals, in bringing companionship, in bringing real life needs like a wheelchair and ramp, and certainly in bringing our names before the throne of grace in prayer.  In the sacred days of Mom’s dying, you brought us comfort in many forms: life-giving fellowship, soul-nourishing food, heart-warming music, to name a few.  And we are grateful.

Some of my favorite days in that time at the Hospice Home were the ones where friends and family gathered and someone would begin singing.  We’d all join in with a familiar refrain. Some of you brought your instruments knowing that music lifts all of our souls and particularly comforted Mom’s.  That room became our living room. You came and sat with us. Sang with us.  Shared meals with us. Sighed big sighs with us.

We gathered there together with you remembering and telling stories of a life well lived. Just like Mom had always modeled, we welcomed one more and then another into the mix, creating a full, “standing room only” party sometimes.  Come on in!  We loved seeing your faces, hearing your voices, feeling your warm embraces and sharing in sweet remembrances.

And ultimately, together, we ushered Mom home to her heavenly glory! Gathered around her bedside, holding her hands and encircling her earthly body, we gave thanks for her. Together we spoke words of gratitude for the specific ways Mom had taught each of us well, for how she had shown us what grace and mercy look like, for the ways in which we knew Love because of her love for us.

“Where two or three are gathered, there I am with you.” The sweet and holy presence of the Lord was ushered into that place in worship in those last days.

I am sitting at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks Cafe with the sole purpose of writing. And guess what? I can’t get signed into my wordpress account. My laptop, which was my Mom’s, won’t open my Microsoft Word application. But alas, I will find a way and write on!

I have had quite a tumultuous year. Whew. My head is still spinning. I began this blog as a space for me to process my bariatric surgery and weight loss journey. I wrote in this sacred space several times before it all felt too raw to share with the interwebz. I’ve had some time to process some of the emotions, some of the changes and feel more ready to share what I’m learning.

I have shared with many people when face to face about this journey. I can count 5 people just in my own life who have chosen to have bariatric surgery after consulting with me. My encouragement and my positive experience seemed to give the courage they needed to proceed. I am thankful that my journey has been helpful to even one person!

I have lost 90 pounds since I began my journey towards health more than a year ago. My one year surgery-anniversary was October 17. While I was excited to celebrate this milestone, and all the baggage I no longer carry with me, my heart is still heavy. The weight loss has been just a piece of the transformation the Lord has been doing within me.

My Mom died on September 4 after a very short brain cancer illness. She had what was thought to be a stroke on April 30, making a 95% recovery within just a miraculous few days.

Her condition progressed rather quickly beginning in July. She was having trouble making sense of things and finding words became more difficult. One day, she said she was not able to read something on her phone. Dad immediately took her back to the hospital.

In that small little ER room, Mom told each of us that she thought this was the beginning of the end for her life. She just had a sense of knowing. I told her that I heard her and believed her when she says that’s what the Lord was telling her, but we were going to cheer her on in her stroke recovery and rehabilitation until we had reason not to.

That reason would come later in that same evening. That week brought results of brain tumors on her MRI, brain biopsies and orange hair. The ER doctors found the large tumors, granting her a hospital admission to the Cancer Center and kicking off a series of tests confirming a terrible diagnosis of Glioblastomas. The orange hair came as a result of the sterilizing solution used on her head for the brain biopsy. Mom’s glorious white halo of hair became the brightest orange and stayed that way for weeks!

Once the diagnosis was confirmed, Mom was ready to confront these tumors with whatever treatment was necessary. We met with neurology oncologists and oncology radiologists and came up with an aggressive treatment plan.

But Mom’s condition was worsening quickly. Dad was beautifully caring for her every need at home. Basic care, eating, toileting, bathing all became so very difficult. She was more and more fatigued with each day, sleeping most of the day. She lost her appetite. As difficult as it all became, she faced each of her treatments with the readiness with which she faced the rest of life, saying “Let’s do this!”

It became apparent after several of her cancer treatments that her sweet, strong body would no longer handle the aggressive approach. She was admitted to the hospital for evaluation of a change in her mental status and to get some fluids the latter part of August. While they were trying to treat her worsening symptoms, she kept telling us that she wanted to be loosed! “Let me loose!” Working alongside the oncologists and radiologists, it was determined that Mom was not going to get better this side of heaven.

Her cancer was not shrinking. Her condition was not improving. And in fact, the treatments were decreasing her quality of life. She had made it very plain to us in those days, but really in the years preceding, what she wanted when this time in her life came.  She did not want her life prolonged when the quality of her life was diminishing.  Now, I am so thankful we had those hard conversations in years prior, before it became a necessity.  As uncomfortable as these end of life conversations are, I am thankful we knew what she wanted when the time came.

Doctors discussed what palliative care meant and what it meant when a DNR bracelet would be placed on her wrist. She had made it really clear to us that she was ready to go. We knew exactly what she wanted. And yet it was so hard to let her go. Dad, David and I prayed with her, for her and over her, all the while, she was begging to go be with Jesus.

Sobbing and dripping with tears and snot, a blanket of wild peace came and rested upon us.  We agreed with her and with her Lord to let her go. We let the doctors know that we wanted to begin palliative care and determined that the Kate B. Reynolds Hospice Home is where she would spend her final days.

This horribly hard decision was made on Mom and Dad’s 49th wedding anniversary, August 31. In a wild mixture of grief and peace, we moved Mom to Hospice later that day. That blanket of wild peace came to rest upon each of us in the sweet and sorrowful days that followed.