Why I blog

I have been asked before why I blog, but the answer was never as clear as what I heard in a class on Job today; "Sometimes we just need to speak and for just one other person to hear."  That is why I blog, to put my small, lone voice out there, hoping that one other person will hear me.  Maybe we will grow closer, maybe we will understand each other better.  Maybe I won't feel so filled to overfull of whatever I am blogging about?
We all need to reach out to one another- I just choose to do mine through blogging sometimes.  I am sharing who I am, my life, my problems, my joys.  You don't need to fix them, comment on them, or even read them.   But, if you do, and you have wondered why I write so much "Stuff", this is why- I long to pluck the string that ties humanity together to hear the music of bond.  

Waiting... hoping...

Grief.  Death.  Loss.
They do funny things.
Twisted things.

I sit here with my grief in my lap,
rocking it.
I do not want to hold it,
I want to let it go.
But if I let it go, will I have let them go too?

It feels like this,
this bit of nothing,
whole of everything,
is all I have left of them
at this moment.

My soul is calmly watching.
Listening, humming.
Her knitting needles are gently
clicking, tapping, winding,
as she knits a prayer covering
that never seems to end.
She knows this too shall pass,
That all is well, really.

But my spirit- it is wounded.
She looks like a rag left in the street,
dull, tattered, useless and unattractive
in its disrepair and overuse.
Run over and over, it lies there.
Waiting.  Hoping.
But too tired to do anything.

And my mind, well it goes places.
It remembers last breaths.
It remembers smiles and love.
It wonders what it is like
when our soul leaves here.
It twists and turns and wonders,
wonderful, gruesome, morbid things.
Beautiful, sad, poignant things.

Imperfection and M.E.... sharing the TMI at church

I have attended many churches in my life.  The moving has created an opportunity to see and experience more fully how people do and see 'religion' differently.  One aspect never changes though.  Perfection.  Or rather, expectation of perfection.

Whether you attend a service that is dressed to the nines or wear jeans and t-shirts to church, there is still an expectation.  We don't want to see imperfection.  We don't really want to know what is happening in our neighbors home- that might get messy and we would have to give up our precious time to help or support.

We don't want to know the pastor is lonely or struggling with a bully in the congregation (yes, there is always one and pastors won't tell you who it is, but trust me, they are there and they are mean because they can get away with it because pastors won't be mean back).

We sure do not want errors in the bulletin or errant slides or heaven forbid, a bad sound system or musical gift.

We want perfection.

As I read M.E.'s thoughts for today, she speaks of false expectations and at first I was caught up in the friendship side she mentions.  But after some time in silence and meditation I read the passage again and the words "we have false expectations of our holy days, of our churches" jumped off the page at me. Immediately I knew I was guilty of that.  I want my church holidays to deliver some meaningful, emotionally laden and personally life altering experience.  That is not what the church is for.

The church is also not a place for us to put on a face of perfection.  The fact is, you go to church with people who suffer.  They fight inner demons of alcohol, drugs, cruel fists, sexual yearnings and more.  They are not perfect and neither is your pastor.  We are just human.  All of us.

A few places we have been my first complaint to Lance was that I felt like I wasn't being 'let in'.  Really.  I was welcome to help at church and worship there but the personal lives were bricked off like Ft Knox.  I wanted relationship. I wanted personal.  I wanted real.

 How can I pray for you when you won't tell me?  But why on earth would you tell me if I am going to judge or blab about town? I get it. No wonder we build those walls thicker at church than at home.  We are afraid of the judgement.  I know that feeling very well.  I am blessed with a daughter who knows no sense of secrecy when it comes to 'life'.  Her greatest desire upon being hospitalized for depression was for us to tell people where she was and why.  She figured they might be able to find their own inner demons and fight them if she shared hers.

 The hardest part was being so transparent to others at church and her school.  Let me tell you, offering up in verbal prayer to the whole congregation that your daughter is hospitalized for suicidal thoughts is not easy.  It had me quaking in my boots.  I remember thinking, they really will think this is TMI (too much information) but my heart yelled at me, "this is not about them, this is about Sandy and what she wants and needs to heal!"

So I did it.  I prayed for her safety and health and spirit out loud.  I shared with her friends and then, I left service crying several times over the weeks she was not with us. What I found though was not judgement. (*Caveat, there was fear deeply wrapped about the 's' word- and that is another blog for another day- shame and suicide).  Instead I found arms of solace and even more shockingly, as I shared, more and more people came to me crying themselves for the pain they had never shared with another soul or outside their little families.  They worried for grown children, for teens at home.  They mourned their own years of despair spent alone and afraid.  Some of these wounds were dozens of years old!  One woman had watched her little brother go through this when she was a teen, now she is in her late 40's.  Not one word to anyone else in all these years.

As I lowered the mask of perfection, what I saw, felt, heard and experienced was a freedom.  For me, yes.  But for those around me too.  When I took that first step (coerced by mothering instinct alone) I gave them permission to open up too. This allowed my daughter's and my cry for help to be their cry for help in those moments.  Together we grieved and found solace. That would not have happened if I had maintained "perfect" standards.

Don't get me wrong, church is not the place for broad, personal, verbal confession, but it is a place we should find imperfection and we must follow that up with the gifts of grace, mercy and absolute forgiveness. Let's let the message really work.... but first, we have to admit we are imperfect.  

The answer is... suck it up and drive on

Many a time I am asked, "How do you do it?  How do you live with a man, give him your heart and bear him children, all while knowing he may leave for battle and never return?"  They even ask, "How does he do it?  How does he live with the fact that his job may take his life?"
All too often I want to say, "we don't".  But we do.  We just don't think about it too often and when we do, we pull up our big girl panties, suck it up and drive on.
That is what got every soldier through every battle.  That and the knowledge that 'someone' was back home, praying they would return.
Recently we were blessed to see a dear friend home on R&R (rest and relaxation in the middle of deployment for those non military).  When it was time for us to go, I hugged him and whispered in his ear, "Come home safe. Come home whole.  Not in a box.  Please."  As we walked away all I could think was I love his wife dearly, but I did not know if I would have her strength to help HER through that if it were to happen.
The point is, it happens.  So we cannot ignore it.  We don't "not think about it".  But we do avoid it when we can and live this life, this day, this moment.  We savor this kiss, this hug, this great marital intimacy, NOW.  We even find a way to savor the fights and frustrations.  I may complain that my beloved leaves his dirty underwear on the floor (apparently this is not an uncommon male trait), but as I do, I say a silent prayer of thanks, "he is here to do this, capable to do this, may he always be so."
I teach my children to be proud.  I cry when the National Anthem is played, when any patriotic song comes on.  I teach them and myself to let ourselves be caught up in this moment.  Why?  Because someday, that moment may be all we have left to remind of the one we loved and lost.  But we cannot dwell on it.
I make sure our ducks are in a row. Every good Army wife is trained too.
  Do you believe me?  Our training is subtle, but constant, and as necessary as theirs.   I know where all his paperwork is.  I know whose name is on every policy and what it will deliver should that day come.  I know how to put his ribbons back in order for an open casket.  I know what to expect if that black car pulls up and a chaplain and another officer get out. I know how long I have in housing, how long it will take for the first gratuity to fly in loved ones, what protection is granted us- and what isn't (Westboro baptist thugs) I know these things because if- that ever looming 'if' that is asked all the time of me- if it happens to us, I might be able to lean on that training when nothing else will work inside my broken heart and mind.  My training will be what I act upon by instinct.  And should I never need it, I am surrounded by my sisters in arms, who might need me to be there to gently guide them through in case their training just didn't quite kick in.  That applies in reverse too, which is why I am so invested in training Army spouses (God forbid in all this, but I am being real here.)
So there you have it.  We live with it.  We don't ignore it, we cannot.  It won't let us.  But if we let it consume us, we will drown. What we can do is treasure here, now, and today.  We allow ourselves our moments to delve deeply into the subject, like Memorial Day, when we remember all who have given thier life before us.  We let ourselves shed a tear.  We must do that- to honor them, to remember them.  Then we must let the others take on that task the rest of the time so we can do our job- which is not just to protect and serve, but to live.
Last night a friends husband shared that his mom always tells him"Carpe Diem". I wish that I could, I certainly try.  The thing is, we cannot ignore, we cannot dwell, and some days, we just cannot seize the freaking day.  All we can do is pull up those big girl panties.... suck it up.... and drive on.   That my friends is the answer to how we do it.

facebook gave me roots

We hear it all the time, "facebook ruined my marriage, my friendship, got me fired...".

Well apart from the fact that a computer program cannot do those things, I am here to say that facebook has done something really good, really true, of value, of moment, in my life.

I am a Brat.  yup... proud to say it.  Military, Army to be specific, Brat.  It is what I know.  It is what I do now, I am a BratBride.  I traded one ID card for another.  I had a civilian life once, many years ago, before my parents remarried and I was given a prefix to my sponsors ID#.

To be fair, that first life was when I was young, by the time I was 12 I was a Brat.  But the moving started much earlier.  I love my parents, let me just say that.  I am not trying to be unfair or mean, but the fact is, in general, every time my parents split up or got back together we moved.  So we could argue my training for Army life began early. Add to that, my father is a GOOD solid German Norwegian.  In good Scandinavian style, "we" don't speak about family, it might be gossip.  But that rule also stopped me from learning about my heritage. I lost an invaluable treasure trove of stories about who I am and who I come from.  I know what I learned from my mom's side and can only IMAGINE what I would feel if I had been able to connect to my fathers family in the same way.  I didn't even know what I had lost until I lived in Wisconsin.  There the women of my church and quilting group taught me old family recipes.  They shared thier stories of thier families in that odd womanly way that doesn't qualify as gossip somehow.

Let me back up though.  I have always felt like I had no roots, no home.  Once told that there is no way anyone doesn't have a place they truly call home, they said emphasized by asking where I want to be buried.  In all honesty, with a straight face, I answered, " Dig a hole beside my body and role me in."  I was and still am serious.  I have no place I call home.  None.  In face, I have few places I can go where anyone would recognize me if I showed up today.  My life is that ephemeral. Thus, I have no roots.
That is, I didn't.  Until facebook appeared.

Somehow, the roots to my high school- that no longer exists (due to BRAC, Base Realignment and Closure started in the 80's) were found through this neverland of the world wide web.  There have been reunions, there are groups, there are close friends reconnecting and recalling the fun.  Even the icky stuff too- but all of that is required to have roots.  You know, it takes poop to make good plants grow deep roots too.

 I have found many a dear friend on here.  Some, we find, we read up on each other and we then settle into a non-interactive connection again.  Others, who may not have been my closest confidants, are now quickly becoming the ones to whom I go for support, connection, encouragement and truth.  I know the rules.  I don't do that with the guys.  I have a loving hubby and I am not willing to risk that.  But that doesn't mean I won't add a guy to my friends list.  They are a root too.  Maybe one of those tiny ones, but they count.  They are a part of my past, a part of my now and will be a part of my future, even without facebook.

I have connected with cousins.  I have been shown pictures I did not know existed of me as a young girl.  I have found distant relatives through my grandfathers cousins!  I am finally, creating my own "web" of roots- and facebook is to credit, not to blame.  It has been a blessing in my life.  It has connected me with my college pals in Kansas and Minnesota.  It allows me to participate in Bible study groups.  It has let me learn who my husband is and has given me a key to that treasure trove of stories in my father's family, so that now I may share this with my children. I finally feel almost confidant enough to reach out to family in Minnesota to ask if I may come visit, to see family history in person, to see faces that look like mine, hair of flax that looks like my children's.
Yup... for once, facebook has done as good as an inanimate object may.  This Brat has finally found some roots, in spite of my lifestyle.  Thank goodness for this marriage wrecking, job losing, friend turned enemy making site.

breathe.....

For Jeannie, and all who live a day of life missing a loved one who has gone on before us.


You took that breath last night in awe and wonder at amber moon light.
Missing those loved ones now a memory, wondering if connection yet exists.

You breathed them back into you- and sighed them out to the universe.

When we breathe we share infinite atoms that all life has breathed in before us.
That breath during birth shares the last of another and wraps us together eternally.

When you wonder if they will live on, will they be there in Three hundred years,
you can know deep inside, to the very atomic makeup that is Jeannie,
they are still here- and not just with you, but with me.

When I breath in this Christmas, with joy at the smiles of my children,
I will share that love of your loved ones.

It is said when we breathe we are speaking Gods name
and  when we consider breath the most silent and ultimate of gift
it all makes sense in that great cosmic way.

When we say goodbye to this earth, we do leave our love behind,
and it is given and remembered when we sob in grief, when we shout in ecstasy, and when we sigh in exhaustion.
They are in every moment of our lives yet.

Do not wonder my friend... know. And breathe.

night carries on

tis three a.m. and me again, yet wandering to your door
the kettle's on to sing the song that lets me sleep once more.
my mind all wired and tangled up in dreams that cannot be
my pen and cup the tincture sure for whate'er be aillin me.

moonlight the witness, the lonely one, who seeks a living face
to share the quiet, the contemplation, that fills this darkened place
the bed, she calls and seeks my warmth, yet cannot meet my need
an empty mind, a peaceful soul that wanders not, nor bleeds.

thoughts run round like scattered men, hell bent on self destruction
they cannot stand, call hither and flee, promising false seduction
my heart cries out, the loss, the gain, the feelings so full in the night
cannot be changed, nor given away, but hid by the morning's light

that kettle's song, it sings once more, the pen writ sure and true
my soul poured out, like naked at birth, to share who I am with you.
the cup sits empty, the paper full, mine eyes sweet rest implore
I slip away, the moon speaks not, the night carries on once more

~J. Kelly

It will come... sooner or later.

Today is a different day. That doesn't mean that things are different though. Yesterday a friend was laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery.

Try as I might, I cannot cut short the sadness over the loss of his life in this world. I could not travel the 6 hours each way to honor his life there with others. I chose instead to take a break from moving and see Long Island beaches for the first time. I spent the hour of his interment watching my children jump into the ocean. And the waves crashed over and over again like a heart beat, reminding me of his now gone.

Am I a crappy human for wanting to forget? It was as though my heart said, if I cannot be there to truly grieve with others then I will simply not grieve.

Unfortunately, although I was able to defer pain, I could not cut it off. It remains. I woke this morning with a lump in my throat and a deep need to cry before I even knew why.
It's done. He is gone. There are no more ceremonies or memorials, there is not another step to finalize the formal end. Now comes the time when the others slowly but surely get on with thier lives as his family drowns in grief that has been deferred to a point as well. Now there is nothing else to keep them busy arranging or trying to 'get through'.

100 years ago we still wore black for a year. We showed our grief. A close friend or distant relative wore a black band to show the grief. The widow for a full year or more was clothed in all black with little relief of color.

Today we have no outer way to know of grieving kin. They walk by us in the grocery store and for all intensive purposes carry on thier daily grind as we stand in line behind them or scoot our cart around them in the deli department.

As a not so close friend, but more than mere acquaintance, where do I fit in? Some of us feel grief for others in the oddest of ways with no rhyme or reason. Maybe this is deferred pain over other losses in my life?

All I know is that today I grieve and no matter how enjoyable yesterday was, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, I was aware all day of my friends who stood by a grave and shed tears at an armed salute, taps and a folded flag. I was so aware that I let out a deep breath- one I did not know I had been holding- around 1500. Surely it was done. Surely his lovely bride stood surrounded by others muttering condolences to her when she only wished to be alone on a mountain top screaming her lungs out over the ugliness of this.

There are no words I can utter to her that will ease her pain. There is no action I can perform to lessen her grief. I can only allow my tears to join hers as they fall to the earth where he is laid. My only hope is that I will be able to travel soon to honor his life where he rests and that I can live my life in a way that honors the love, laughter, friendship, and heartbeat that was his.

Pedro Mercado, my friend, may you rest in peace. May your lovely wife carry a little less pain each day. May your family remember you with honor and smiles. May your memory live on to remind us all that we should live with a HUGE smile that lights up a room, because in the end, while we may try to defer the pain, or even death, we cannot. It will come. Sooner or later.

gut check

Originally composed 3 Feb 2010

"It comes down to a simple gut check: You either love what you do or you don't. Period."

Hmm.

Let me just say, that many times we are unhappy because we have unrealistic expectations. Are you really unhappy with what you do, or are you unhappy with who you are and what you desire? Is your desire focused on the wrong thing? I honestly believe that we could all be happy in whatever we do if we look in ourselves and find out what really matters. Suddenly everything else becomes peripheral. If you are thinking money will make you happy when you are waiting tables, you are wrong. I look back on those poor table-waiting days and realize how happy I really was. If only I had focused on right here and now and not what-if's and maybe's I would have found peace much earlier in life.

The fact is, nothing in life is perfect. It all looks good until you live it- and then you notice the cracks and patchwork that no one else sees... and you can either accept and embrace those cracks as character or you can be miserable with them, thinking that those are greener pastures over that fence.

What we should do with our life is not about professions or occupations. It is about what is inside. What you do to earn money can bring you more happiness, true. But relying on that to bring happiness is false and will fail in time.

What brings happiness is an inner sense of self- of worth, of desire to live life and a realization that we must enjoy the messy eating of the juicy fruit of life- letting the juices run down our faces and arms and licking it up and savoring every moment. That is what we are supposed to do with our lives. Savor the moment and stop thinking anything other than right now will be better.

When a Tree Falls in Your Driveway....

Originally composed 5 March 2010.

Finally~! For over a month everyone but us seemed to be getting snow. The day they said all lower 48 states got snow on the same day- we had none. Upstate got it all. So when they called for a Nor'easter to hit us I was a little excited. I jumped the gun.

This snow was not the pretty light fluffy stuff that stinks for making forts and snowmen. No, it was heavy, wet and huge. Flakes larger than an oreo cookie! HUGE I say! Ever so lovely to watch them fall.

So they fell, and they fell and the world began to turn the softest of whites. The wires began to hang low ...and the trees began to bend...to the ground.

After only a couple of hours I was barely able to drive to the bus stop for the kids (which I never do but wanted to see if I could even get up the street) let alone the train station for Lance.
When I got into town, they had slush, some snow accumulation, but overall, no bending branches and little evidence of what we were seeing at the top of the mount. For their 2-3 we had 6!

That evening branches began falling... huge branches... some of them the major ones of a tree. They fell in the yard, on the neighbors car, in the road. But no whole trees... yet.

The next day Lance went out to shovel- with all that heavy snow still on the trees. That is when it happened. Nick and Graham were out there helping shovel and when he heard a sound he looked to see the tree moving. He yelled at them: "BOYS!! Come NOW!"
Thank God they listened.

I was in the living room, no window to out front. I heard a crash that made my heart skip a beat and I nearly flew up the stairs. Brenden was sitting by the picture window and I asked as I ran up the stairs what happened. With a shocked look on his face he said, "A tree just fell." I ran to the window and all I could see was a massive 80 ft Cottonwood tree taking up my ENTIRE driveway- right where my husband and children were supposed to be. My first thought was: My LORD... they are under that tree crushed in the snow!!!

I do not know what my voice sounded like, but I am sure it was frantic when I breathlessly demanded of Brenden, "Where is your father?" He then pointed to the corner of the window and said, "right there." I looked down and Lance stood with the twins gripped to him and a look of stunned relief on his face. I am sure an eternity passed as my mind attempted to accept that if I saw them standing there they were not under the tree. Then I started to breathe heavily- or maybe I was not breathing at all and had only just begun again.

I finally found my legs and raced down to them. As soon as my arms were around Lance I began sobbing hysterically- something I have never done like this in my life. Ever. Not even as an emotionally overwrought teenage girl. Apparently my crying was so loud that combined with the sound of the tree crashing, the neighbor ran out the door yelling back to his wife to be ready to call 911. He thought for sure something was wrong. I must have stood there sobbing and clinging to Lance forever. Finally I begged him to please just come inside until the snow is off the trees. "Please!!!!"

Finally he did. Then he told me that Graham had been the one who was basically under the tree when it began to fall. I still cannot feel anything when I write that or ponder it- I simply shut down emotionally at the close call my child just faced. Especially when I consider the death the day before of a man in Central Parks- killed by a falling branch.

I have never ever felt such fear, panic, dread, you name it....I felt it.

The tree remains in the yard. The landlord and friends with chainsaws came on Saturday to cut a swath to get us out but the remnants will be there for some time... and every time I see it I want to grab the 3 of them to me and never let go.

So when a tree falls in your driveway- your wife will make a realllllly loud sound- and you will never forget it.

my grandma

For my Grandma T;

Upon this last breath I give her up and trust her to the Lord's embrace. She will feel no more of these worldly things that cause us hurt.

Her pearly white locks will be full of color and youth, her eyes sparkling with joy and excitement as she wanders her grandfathers shop of second hand goods on the end of eternity street. Her soft wrinkled skin will be firm with the color of springtime blossoms reflected in the perfection.

She will know the names of all those who passed before her- the ones she has poured over for years- and now she will have a face to go with. She can ask the questions of them that sit open in those books of history with no answer we know now. And we will envy this knowledge with a smile.

She will sit at a table with her mother and daddy; engaging in loving banter, laughter and joy. She will prepare a place for her lover, her child, her progeny, and wait patiently for us to join her- enjoining us to wait for our time and not come too soon.

She will no longer roll beside us in her scooter, will not guide us over the phone, will not chide us lovingly for a poor choice. She will not holler "Worth" with that disapproving voice when he tells an all too colorful family story... nor will she call out, "Worth" when she seeks his guidance, his voice, his wisdom to balance with hers.

She will not dance with her granddaughters for now. She will no longer crochet an afghan to wrap around us on cold nights when we cry our tears over her passing and her personalized patches sewn with love on each one will become a legacy to future generations.

She is tiny again, a wraith of beauty that no one needs peach colored glasses to see clearly- they will all see her as her beloved did for over 58 years. She now lives in our memories as all too human and frail- not the woman of strength and character we knew- but one whose strength we only now begin to grasp.

Her loving arms will not hold another generation and her missing birthday cards will be the most painful moment of each of our birthdays for years to come. There will be no more PTA baths- instead her lithe heavenly form, slipping gently into sweetly scented pools of crystal clear water that slide over her skin like silk and she breathes deeply and swims with no effort as far as the eye can see.

We will catch our breath as we feel the tears run down our cheeks, struggling to swallow, grasping for solace in words that right now are so lacking in solace... and yet.... we are filled with joy for her- with love that words cannot express our respect, honor, awe, tribute and adoration.

Instead of locked to a chair, taking each breathe from a tube, she will run, ski on one ski, rebuild an engine, climb to a roof, and never, ever need to worry that she cannot breathe.

Now she will dance with cousins long gone, fish with her daddy, walk with our Jesus and know a peace we could not give her here. She will be free, glancing back with a loving expression as if to say- "you will be okay, I taught you well. It is time for you and me both to fly."

And then she will.