Waiting for Sunrise

I softly awaken in the familiar house—the grandchildren and their parents having arrived home from Wisconsin last night. I use the restroom, and without turning on any lights, go to the kitchen to retrieve my water bottle. I discover hot coffee. My son, one of the parents, kept it on warm when he left for work this morning. I am thankful.

I pour it into a teal-colored mug before filling the carafe with cool water and dispensing it into the coffee maker's reservoir. I swing out the small door than conceals a damp filter filled with grounds, remove it and add a new filter and two scoops of rich, brown coffee. I press large brew button that lights up to confirm that the process has begun. 

I take my mug into the dark living room and snuggle back into the comforter. The sky outside the sliding glass doors is darkest gray; the bare trees that adjoin the river are barely visible in the faint moonlight. I think of the year I lived here, the days and nights spent pondering the river, my sadness so heavy that it held me captive. I think of my friend, a man I met when I first attended grief group. He was active in the Elks Club and I enjoyed the black-light bingo events with him and other friends who gathered there. The celebration of his life was this past weekend. He is reunited, now in heaven, with the woman he loved most—his wife. 

My thoughts move to my husband—an image of he and our grandson decorating the Christmas tree at the Blue House years ago. I leave the nested sofa and walk down the hall to check in on our grandson who is sleeping peacefully. Tears fall. 

In the time it takes me to gather my computer and begin to write, an unimpressive clouded day begins without the fanfare of sunrise. A storm is coming, my daughter-in-law observed last night, when I complained about the lack of whole milk and fresh chicken—empty shelves—at the local store. 

The winter gray sky confirms her words. A storm is coming. The day begins.

Welcome, welcome Christmas day

Early on this Christmas morning the world is dark when I drag the comforter from my bedroom into the living room, pull the wicker rocker close to the fireplace and snuggle in to enjoy the lights of the tree—yellow, blue, purple, red and green.

Slowly, the windowed darkness fades to soft gray and the branches of the sentinel—the oak tree on the lawn—take form in silhouette against the night.

The delicate and alluring beauty of the unfolding dawn echoes an ancient promise, "Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28

My mind wanders among the memories of Christmas past... the green velvet dress our daughter wore as a toddler; the first time we cut our own Christmas tree; meals of potato soup with crusty warm bread; the smell of baking hamballs and the messy sweetness of children decorating sugar cookies; gifts of ice skates, rollerblades, a bicycle, an MP3 player and snow skis; the arrival of the piano and the big red bow that adorned it, the elementary nativities with shepherds and angels; the high school Christmas concerts and madrigal singers; the wing-themed ornaments given to college students in our soon-to-be-empty nest; the sound of toddler delight with the arrival of the grandchildren; the undercurrent of silent sadness after my husband's death; the love that resuscitates our hearts as life unfolds in each new year.

Welcome, welcome Christmas day.

Rw

Barcodes, Coffee and Grief

It took my breath away.  

Walking into Caribou Coffee and seeing the man sitting next to the fireplace at the high-top table for two took my breath away. The shape of his shoulders, the style and texture of his shirt, the color and cut of his hair... this man, with his back to me, could have been my husband. 

It took my breath away because my husband died 5 years, 6 months and 5 days ago. This man, who looks so much like him, is a stranger.

In the early years of my grief journey many encounters stole my ability to breathe... the moments of pain came close together like the lines of a barcode. Honestly its been awhile since something like this has happened. The white spaces between the thin black lines of pain have broadened. 

In the beginning I held that there was no hope of the grief that accompanied my every waking moment ever fading. And, in this moment, I realize that the pain has faded into the background while the desire to be with my husband remains constant, deeply buried and ready to be unearthed.

Grief is odd that way, unexpected. And, if grief is what remains when the person we love moves on, grief is both unique to the love once shared and universal in the human experience.

"There are three things that amaze me—
    no, four things that I don’t understand:   

    how an eagle glides through the sky,
    how a snake slithers on a rock,
    how a ship navigates the ocean,
    how a man loves a woman." 

                —Proverbs 30:18-19 NLT [more]

Rw

 

Grief: Does Time Really Heal All Wounds? [more]

Caribou Coffee original logo [more]

Whitecaps and Penny Whistles

 

Cold. 

 

I can't help but feel the cold as I drive across the familiar bridge and take in the rolling whitecaps on the lake. 

 

I pull off the road and drive down to the shore. 

 

As I open the car door the strong wind greets me with an unexpected musical sound. It is playing the masts of the nearby sailboats as though the sturdy tall masts were mere penny whistles. 

 

I pause to listen then walk closer to the water to capture an image of the whitecaps. The water will soon grow quiet. The ice will form, calming these churning waters with a thick blanket of stillness. 

 

I return to my car and embrace the luxury of the heater, grateful for the warmth.

Rw

Time 4 Everything

 

Despite the brightness of the sun, the morning the weather is crisp. Neighbors walking their dogs are wearing mittens and winter coats. Even the joggers are bundled. Before heading out for my 9am appointment, I pull my winter wool coat from the rear of the closet. 

The frost on the windshield of my car is melted enough that the wipers easily clear it. I am grateful and remind myself to hold firmly to the gratefulness. The arrival of crisp weather with overnight temps nearing freezing does not mean winter will be here very, very soon. Winter will arrive and depart in her own time, far outside the reach of my impulsive demand for control.

 "Stay in the now," I tell my heart, "Enjoy this day."

I reach into the pocket of my coat and discover thick, inviting mittens... mittens I'd forgotten during years spent in the mild winters of Saint Louis. In the opposite pocket is a folded paper facemask. I put on the mittens and revisit gratefulness as I return the facemask to the darkness of the pocket.

Like the majestic summer days, the pandemic is in the rearview mirror, and I am grateful for the fall colors, for fragility and strength, for the creativity and tenacity of humanity, and for the splendor of this day.

Rw

Chaos and Conformity

In the early years after the death of my husband there was at least one person in my bereavement group that raised an eyebrow when I disclosed that God had given me three close friends who were also therapists... 

... and I will disclose to you (at the risk of your raised and questioning eyebrow) that just hours ago I asked all three for insight and reached out to my accountability partner too. I am distraught.

Today I am the woman behind the mirror. I am feeling trapped.

The chaos that is COVID-19 touched my life (touched all our lives) then took me down for a count and retreated into the shadows and even now is lurking there. 

I gave up hugging and playing with my grandchildren, and instead left gifts on the porch, smiling and waving through the windows.

I complied with the distancing and mask protocols at local businesses and friends' homes.  

I gave up cash and used a debit card.

I experienced the symptoms listed on the CDC website, consulted my healthcare POA designee and self-quarantined, then sought out and received written confirmation of a POSITIVE Antibody Test Result.

I worshiped at a nondenominational church that created space for wearing masks or not, and fostered respect for those who chose like me and those who chose differently.

I endured being verbally accosted in a restaurant by someone whose views I shared (no mask) because I was choosing to wear a mask.

I now habitually keep appropriate social distances in check-out lines and give wide berth to those who are wearing masks.

I am self-employed so did not face the choice to vaccinate or be terminated, yet I grieve with and pray with friends who are weighing that choice.

I felt and feel empathy, caution and sorrow, but no fear.

That is, until today, when a text arrived, "The venue has asked our ticket holders to review the COVID-19 policy." 

My desire is to see my adult daughter perform in Elf the Musical this coming November. The venue's COVID-19 policy stands in the way of my plans. I am angry and quite cognizant that my anger is almost always driven by fear.

I am not a good sheep quietly grazing in a lush pasture. I find that I do not trust the earthly shepherds. 

I am wrestling within myself, holding fiercely to my belief that to be vaccinated is a freedom of choice issue. I find myself bristling like a porcupine at the pressure to conform. 

I experienced the same chaos when just six weeks after the September 11 attacks Congress passed the USA/Patriot Act, an overnight revision of the nation's surveillance laws. I felt fear.

I experienced the same chaos when my husband and I refused to press charges against a young woman, and the "evidence" was twisted implicating me in a misdemeanor. The district attorney brought me in multiple times during the year that followed, threatening to charge me with a felony when I refused to plead guilty to the misdemeanor of his choosing. I refused conformity. I felt fear.

This morning, the venue's demand that I be tested or vaccinated collided with my desire to support and appreciate the arts. The chaos of COVID-19 had found the weapon painful enough to push me toward conformity.

I confirmed by reading the venue's policy that proof of the presence of antibodies will not be sufficient to give me access to the building. I confirmed by phone that all 1200 seats are available for each of the performances, rejecting the CDC recommendation for social distancing.

I researched my options. I spoke with people who are intelligent and informed and trusted.

I ordered three tickets for Elf the Musical.

I made peace with the idea of giving these tickets away.

I am moving forward, not by conforming, but by becoming better informed. 

I may submit to the policy. 

I may stand outside the door with a sign that reads, "They won't let me in."

I contemplate the cost of conformity and weep as I am reminded of the writings of Martin Niemoller: "First they came for the socialist, and I did not speak out-- because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionist, and I did not speak-- because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-- because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me-- and there was no one left to speak for me."

I contemplate rebellion and remember the words of the New York Times best-selling author Jordan B. Peterson: "A certain amount of creativity and rebellion must be tolerated--or welcomed, depending on your point of view--to maintain the process of regeneration. Every rule was once a creative act, breaking other rules."

I look at the calendar and count out eight months... the window most researchers speculate is the length of time the natural antibodies will be present.

I think about the risk of adverse reaction to injecting a vaccine in month seven while these antibodies are naturally occurring within me.

I look at the recommendations and policies of another venue with which I am familiar and count out the 14 days prior to the performance recommended for those of us who may choose to vaccinate in order to attend.

I research the risks and benefits of the available vaccines and select a local medical provider that could facilitate.

As the sun moves beyond the horizon and the night sky darkens, I read from the Psalms, taking in the ancient wisdom and giving my fear to God.

Praise the LORD. Praise the LORD, my soul. I will praise the LORD all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live. Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save. When their spirit departs, they return to the ground; on that very day their plans come to nothing. Bless are those whose help is in the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the LORD their God... (more)

Rw

The Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I see your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and stars that you set in place—What are humans that you are mindful of us, human beings that you care for us?

I step out into the night.

I turn in awe 

to the night sky 

the stars uncountable, across the velvet darkness.

The shapes of pine trees

tower over me, dark silhouettes

growing, stretching, reaching

toward the heavens.

The crickets fidget

the familiar sound, a fitting accompaniment

to the movement of the stars.

In the tall grass

at the edge of the lawn

fireflies dance.

The night world worships God.

Rw

Psalm 8:3-4 more