There sits a tree just outside my front window that is a powerfully-bright orange color. I've been watching it for weeks, as the changing color started at the top of the tree, and has now cascaded all the way to the bottom. It sits among some other trees that too have changed colors, but they seem dull and boring compared to this staggering bright orange.
Two years; some days it feels like decades and some days it feels like seconds. My heart has been unusually in tune with the changes of the season. The fall season so poignantly reflects what's going on internally; everything begins to slow down, and inch by inch the chlorophyll of life is drained. I watch the trees release the leaves and they dance their way to a soft landing, "Hey leaf! That journey you are on as you linger between the breezes, I FEEL THAT!" It's actually, incredibly peaceful to watch the world around me fall into a season of stillness and rest. The cicadas give up their dominant and piercing song, while the gentle crunch of leaves begins to fill in.
Year two was so different for me. It wasn't so smart of me to move just months after you died. I think it intensified my grief, loneliness, and isolation significantly. But hindsight is 20/20. I think year two was automatically more bearable because my life here in French Camp began to settle and become more familiar. Year one felt merely like a survival in the fog. This year felt like survival without the fog, and a little more like living in the raw. More real feelings surfaced during year two that I had to combat without the protection of the fog.
Memories of you are like that bright orange tree. Since you died, parts of me have been hibernating. Hibernating out of survival. Just this month, for the first time in years, a familiar twinge of excitement pulsed through my body when I thought about Christmas. Excitement about Christmas? For two years, it has felt like betrayal to be excited about anything let alone a holiday your fingerprints are all over. But I felt it and I embraced it as a gift.
The kids are so big and so full of life. You would not believe the amazing creatures they are becoming. You would praise them often for being so deeply-wise and staggeringly-kind. Like you always told me, they are raising me. They would be the honor in your crown! So many times this year I wanted to call and talk to you about them as I sipped my amaretto and coffee and wept. We've entered a completely different season and I need your advice; I need you. Sometimes I need to hear you tell me it's all going to be ok and I am not the worst mother ever, because so often I feel like I'm screwing it all up entirely. Sometimes I need the affirmation only a mother can give. Sometimes I need to hear your laughter and your calm. Sometimes I need a safe place to go where I am fully known, a place without judgement, rules, and expectations. Sometimes I need you to speak to my heart in a way only you could and whisper, "let it go, Sara!" Sometimes I do not want to do this without you any more, and my anger comes up and out. Sometimes I become so deeply jealous of all the people whose mothers are alive, and I want to shut them out. Selfish, I know.
Sometimes....
Sometimes....
Sometimes....
I miss you most when I least expect it. Like when Daddy calls to sing "happy birthday" and my ears naturally listen for your voice. I miss you when people say things like, "you were so blessed to have a great mom and a great relationship with her" and I want to hit them, as if having a great mom some how nullifies the pain of losing you. Maybe it would be easier if you wouldn't have been so great :)
The other day Anderson said from the back seat of the van, "Mom, I miss Grammy. I miss her voice. I miss when she would sing to me. She is our family, I want her back!"
Over these two years, (and so many years before then) I've been so grateful for those who were willing to just sit in the uncomfortable with me. I'm more aware than ever how people run from the uncomfortable. You were really good at sitting in the uncomfortable with people; over the phone, in a hospital waiting room, in a Sunday school class, at a funeral home, a nursing home, a women's meeting, and more often than not, in the sweet solace of your warm home.
How you and daddy chose to deal with your sickness and your death, taught me just as much, if not more, than your healthy lives did. Any time I encounter someone whose suffering any type of loss I feel like my heart is automatically softened and likened towards them, and then I pull a Val and tell them how shitty it can be. 100% of the time I get tears and/or smiles of complete agreement. People are always drawn to someone who uses real words about real pain. Sometimes "shitty" is the only word appropriate for the pain and suffering on this side of Jesus. Thank you for giving me permission, freedom, and grace to use it. There is power in a well placed expletive.
There are moments of stillness when I am sipping my coffee..... or merlot, and I envision you with Jesus. Sitting at His banqueting table and being fully satisfied in His glorious presence. You do not limp, you do not wince, you do not question, you do not wonder aimlessly, you do not function under the weight of flesh and guilt any longer. You do not struggle, long or desire. You do not feel insecure, unworthy, or without. You exude abundant light. You possess abundant LIFE! I know on my darkest, hardest days of sojourning with Sorrow, that you are more alive than you have EVER been. It's one of the few ways I have chosen to combat the despair. The hope of knowing that even though you are absent from us you are FULLY with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. You know them in a way that is still mysterious to me. You revel in their unique and delicious personalities. You reside in the Holy of Holies! You, in all I knew of you and all that you are, comfortably abide with the Almighty AND.....AND..... the saints. Those who have gone before you. A great multitude of precious friends and family who dine with you, do eternal life with you, worship with you, and wait for the next weary warrior to arrive in glory.
Oh I miss you beyond words, but I would not have you back. I would not steal you away from the wholeness that indwells you. And with every ounce of hope and joy that fills the cracks of the worn road of pilgrims, I KNOW you wait for me.
So to Him and HIM ALONE, who is able to keep me from falling apart, and who will present me before His GLORIOUS presence without fault.... AND He'll do it with GREAT JOY!! To the ONLY God our Savior be glory, dominion, and authority before all time and now and forever.
Jude 1:24 &25
~Sara
A dear friend posted this prayer to my time-line yesterday. It's just PERFECT!
Dear heavenly Father, though Isaiah used the image somewhat metaphorically, mothers and fathers do forget the children they have brought into the world. I know this quite well, having lived through the journey of watching my dad forgetting my name, then my face, then everything about me. The process was very painful, yet you met us time and again, with your mercy and grace.
I am so thankful that the gospel is a living hope, not sentimental hype. I am so thankful that long after dad forgot you, you never forgot him. I am so thankful that dad’s memory has been healed, and that he now knows and remembers perfectly. Above all, I am envious that he now knows you perfectly, while I am bound to the world of knowing-in-part.
As someone who found you to be the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, in a story of dementia and Alzheimer’s, it’s an honor to pray for others in that same painful journey. Father, grant spouses and children, family members and friends, a profound sense of your presence, and courage to love well.
Grant them freedom to grieve their mounting sense of loss; the grace to accept the changes in their loved one; and power to stay as present as possible, when doing so becomes increasingly difficult. Grant them wisdom for each stage of the journey, trustworthy and compassionate medical care, and the necessary financial and emotional resources.
Lastly, Father, I pray you will help all of us, impacted by memory loss, to treasure being known and remembered by you. If we should forget you, in our journey to life in the new heaven and new earth, we will never outlive your love and grace for us. The only things you’re not going to remember, is our sins against us. Hallelujah, many times over. So very Amen we pray, in Jesus’ strong and loving name. ~Scotty Smith
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