Oddities...

What is the complete opposite of; familiar, of the comfortable, of the known? I’m thinking the answer might be “oddities”.

It seems I have been experiencing oddities the last few days. I’m not completely comfortable with these occurrences, but I’m trying to embrace them for what they actually are.

Where to begin? The other night I went out to dinner with, what I now refer to as, “the merry widows.” Let me digress by stating, that I abhor the word widow. Hearing the term, I immediately envision an old witchy looking woman, clad in black, hump backed, carrying a silvered handled cane, with a handkerchief covering most of sorrowfully, pruneish (an Urban dictionary word, I looked it up) face.

In reality, the “merry widows” are three, way too young, sixtyish friends whose husbands died entirely too early. We have all chosen joy, in place of the pruneish state that defines some widows. We travel together, have dinner together, and we help each other do dreadful jobs that our husbands used to do for us. We love, support and encourage one another. In short, we are so thankful that we are not in this exclusive, hand picked, club, alone. Instead, we are bound together for life.

Friday night, we took UBER to a classy, trendy downtown San Antonio restaurant. UBERing, an oddity, as our husbands would have certainly thought this absurd. They would have grabbed the keys, piled us in the car, and off we would have gone. However, three single, seasoned women, knowing there would be alcohol involved, chose to be savvy. 

Sitting in this quite lovely atmosphere, enjoying our pre-dinner cocktails, conversation turned to every day life. One of our merry trio remarked that just the day before, a spark of a memory, had surprisingly gripped her emotions and she found herself in a heap of tears, grieving and missing her husband. This caught her so off guard, thinking she might be past these gut wrenching moments, but, bam, she hit her wall hard and so unexpectedly. Wow, how odd, the second merry widow had experienced something similar that same day. Okay, the oddity magnifies, I told of my experience on that same day, actually that night, when I had completely, decomposed. 

It was a cold night, I climbed into bed, shivering from the chill in the air and I heard the memory of Steve’s voice, “Get over here and and warm me up, I’m freeeeeezing.” I lost it. The tears came in torrents, out of the blue I was a heap of pitiful. I cried for the loss of Steve, for so wanting to feel his arms around me, and for the absence of never again feeling wrapped in his complete comfort. What an oddity that each of us had experienced similar emotions within a 12 hour period. I’m thankful to have my “selective” club of widows that understands and appreciates pitiful moments.

For some reason, Saturday was busy for me, but it still had a vacant feel to it. My hours were full, eventful, productive, but by late afternoon, I was cloaked in loneliness. Not allowing myself to seep too deep in being pitiful, I called my daughter and hinted, heavily, that I had nothing much going on. Clueing in on my widowedness, Brooke invited me to dinner with their family. I’m thankful to have a daughter and son-in-law who love me in spite of my oddities.

Nothing like having a 2 and 4 year old greet you with delight, smother you with hugs, kisses and compete in telling you the news of their day. My spirits lifted and all was right with the world. 

Driving home, after dinner, I had an odd desire to drive through our old neighborhood. It had been months since I had made this detour, but oddly that night, I felt compelled to turn left instead of taking my straight route home.

Keep in mind, that it was about this time last year, give or take a few weeks, that I had made the move from “our home” to my current home. 

Driving through this old familiar territory, I was overwhelmed with a sense that this was where Steve and I had built our home 14 long years ago. We had placed all our thoughts, desires, dreams and love into building our wonderful home. We had made precious memories in the walls of this place. We had watched grand children grow here, we had shared holidays and special occasions with friends and family here. Steve and I had said our last good-byes to one another within the walls of this home. 

I had made many morning walks through the streets of this neighborhood. I knew well most of the people living behind the doors of each home. This was everything familiar, comfortable and right for me, for us.

Now here I was, driving through the gates of our once familiar subdivision, and it was suddenly…different. No longer did I feel the warm familiarity of home. The streets no longer held the comfort, the “I’m home” feel that had been the case only a year ago. Weird that I was no longer a part of what only 11 months ago had felt so right. I now drove through streets that now seemed unfamiliar,  distant. I no longer belonged here. This oddly, was no longer home for me. 

I look back over the last 18 months since life without Steve began. My life, my new life, was once so foreign, so strange, so odd. This is now is my normal. I now have a new home, new neighbors, new routines, and oddly, I have found my pace, and it no longer seems unusual, but standard, okay, comfortable.

Do I wish my new life felt odd? Do I wish that my old life still felt so right, so comfortable? Do I wish, no, do I long for my past life to remain as it was when Steve was still alive, still healthy, still himself?  Absolutely, but, wishes aren’t reality. Life interferes, and what was once ordinary has become an oddity. What was once commonplace, becomes foreign and one is left with this feeling of being disconnected to what was once so identifiable. 

Oddity, what once was second nature, is now a stranger.

What does one do with these misplaced feelings? I don’t know what most people do, but I know the best thing for me, is to sit down and put it all in writing. I suppose my hope, my desire, my prayer is, that the sharing of these oddities, will enable someone reading my words feel a little less isolated, a little less set apart, a little less alone.

For what it’s worth,
Janet 

Galatians 6:2 “Bear each other’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

Shared Experiences

How fun, how thrilling, what joy there is in watching the total delight of a child on Christmas morning. The sounds of giggling, laughter, shouts of “Come on! Hurry!” as siblings almost jump out of their skin and clamor all over each other with excitement. Witnessing their little arms spread as wide as they can possibly stretch, then watching as their tiny hands fly upward to cover their mouths, not believing their eyes when discovering what Santa has laid out for them.

It doesn’t matter if it is the memory of your own children at a young age, or watching your grandchildren just last week, the experience of the magic of Christmas is forever embedded in our hearts and minds. It is this shared experience, that takes you back to your own childhood and enables you to recall the wonder of it all.

Oh, there are so many fun, exciting experiences that we all have shared...with a spouse, with a friend, with a parent or a family member. It’s these moments where we are able to replay the beauty of a night sky, the gift of an amazing trip, or the wonder of the birth of a child. It is in reliving these priceless moments, and in sharing them with those we love, that takes us back and brings the joy of the past into the present.

I received a call a few days ago. The news on the other end of the phone caused the blood in my veins to stop flowing. The words that hung with such heaviness in the air concerned some of my dearest friends. Debbie and Sam have been good friends for almost forty years. We raised our children together in Midland. We have laughed and cried together during those years. We have traveled together. We have been separated by miles, but our friendship has remained steadfast. The news concerned Sam. He had suffered a massive heart attack and was in the hospital in Austin. His recovery was uncertain. He was in grave condition. 

Oh no, please Lord, no. My immediate prayers were for Sam’s well being, but quickly gravitated to Debbie and their children. Shared experiences are not always full of joy and delight. There are some paths in life we would like to bulldoze, to road block, to post “Do Not Enter” warning signs, ensuring that those we love and care about might steer clear of this hazardous path. Oh how I wanted to take this pain away from sweet Debbie and their children.  Oh how I wanted to fast forward time and know that I might save them from the upcoming days, weeks, months, even years of the ache that grief causes. I knew full well that if Sam didn’t survive this precipice, the overwhelming sorrow and heartache would be sure to follow. 

I didn’t want to share the experience of saying good-bye to a husband with Debbie. I don’t want to share this experience of mine with anyone I love ever again, but there I found myself walking into that sterile Austin ICU waiting room the following day. There sat Debbie and her children in that horrible zombie-like state, pain and anguish were etched into each face. I knew this feeling much too well, and my heart broke. As I hugged each of them, there were no words, simply deep soft moans, sighs of sadness and groans of disbelief. They were to take part in a waiting game. Time was now needed to completely understand the severity of Sam’s condition and all anyone could do was watch the hands of that ICU clock inch forward at a snail’s pace.

Debbie had told me several years ago, when Steve was so sick, that in moments when there are no words to offer, when there is really nothing that anyone can do, that this is when a true friend steps up, and simply shines your shoes for you. Debbie shined many a shoe for me and now it was time for me to share this experience with my sweet, precious friend and sit by her side and quietly shine her shoes.

We all have experiences that are life changing, some indescribably wonderful, some indefinably weighted with deep sadness. I am realizing more and more that a true friendship means being there for one another. It means sharing all of life’s experiences, the good and the devastating. This is what makes a life worthy of living. 

What would I have done if I hadn’t had my friends who had already experienced the death of a spouse?  What if they had they not come and stood by my side, held me while I cried, cared for me when I was too numb to care for myself and shared the devastation of their experience with me? What if they had not hurt right along side of me? Oh, my journey would have been insurmountable. I am forever grateful that these friends chose to share their experiences with me, and, because of this, we are and always willl be bound together by a tie that is too strong to ever be broken.

 I am thankful we just celebrated the shared experience of Christmas, a reminder of Emmanuel's birth, Emmanuel, "God with us." God sent Christ so that he could have shared experiences with us, so that he could dwell among us and then die for us. What better example, of sharing the experience of human life. What a sacrifice.

So, I will share my experience with Debbie, I will shine her shoes and I will walk by her side and I will pray unceasingly for her because this is what makes life meaningful. If I didn’t pay this forward, with all I had to give, I could never find the good that lies beneath the depth of my sadness.

Sam left this world, New Years Day, January 1, 2015. He will be greatly missed, but never forgotten and always loved.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Please keep this family in your prayers.

Psalm 56:8 “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”

  

The flashing railroad warning lights came on...

The black and white stripped wooden arms came down, and I found myself caught by a train. Great, I had so much to do. It was a full day, if only I had been a minute ahead in timing my day, this delay could have been prevented. I was midpoint, in route from leaving one appointment and on my way to another. The train had to be a long one, and a slow one, ugh. I had left my cell phone at home, terrific! I wasn’t even able to use this dead time to check my messages, make calls, I was so stuck. I had no radio on, no CD playing Christmas music, just me, the first of an increasingly long line of cars, waiting on this annoyance to pass.

The clickity-clack sound of the wheels filled my car, and the rumbling grew into a melody that sent me back through an unexpected trip of my own. I don’t think I was even aware of where my mind traveled, until my own journey was over. What an adventure I took in those 5-10 minutes of stillness.

The ka-klunk, ka-klunk of the train’s wheels against the rails wove their way through the crevices of my brain. I loved that train sound as a small child. Minnie Mamma lived right by a railroad track. I spent much of my childhood nestled upstairs in her small, lovely home, windows open, summer breezes blowing, and that ka-klunk ka-klunk lulling me into the softest comfort a small child could experience. I can remember hearing that lonely train whistle in the distance as I played on the floor of my grandmother’s living room. She would allow me to incorporate her “pretties” (breakable, cherished items) with my dolls, I could spend hours every day playing there on her living room floor.Hearing that distant whistle, would bring me to my feet. I would run to her windows, peak out over the ledge, and wait for the clickity-clack of the train to slowly pass by.

My mind traveled on, remembering an obscure time when I was in second grade. I was in a carpool, going to a private elementary school I attended. The school was about a 15 minute drive from my house. Intersecting my home from the school was a long stretch of railroad. I’m not sure why, but this day is one of those vivid memories that has lasted my lifetime. On the way to school, a very, very long train had broken down. The train covered the length of quite a few intersections and there was no detour to be found that would take us over the tracks. I can remember waiting forever in that car. The mother driving us, became exasperated, turned around and took us all home. I remember thinking, how deviant, to be able to skip a day of school because of a wonderful broken train.

My own train traveled through the valleys of my memory to a trip our young family had taken by train. We had thought it would be so exciting to take a train trip from Alpine, Texas to Los Angeles. Brent was 6, Brooke 5 and for countless reasons it was a train trip from Hell. That clickity-clack sound, or lack of it, due to many breakdowns and delays became a nightmare to me by the time that “great idea” of ours was over. Strangely, this trip is among some of Brent and Brooke’s favorite memories of our family vacations.

The last stop of my journey was of memories of last Christmas. Brooke and Jared included me in joining their sweet family for a ride on the Santa Express, a refurbished old train. We sat in our private car eating cookies, peppermint candy canes and drinking hot chocolate. Visits from Christmas Carolers and Mr. and Mrs. Claus brought smiles and laughter to all six of us. I wonder, if Harper and Harris will think of that time and have fond memories of that lovely rumbling chugging sound that enabled them a chance sit on Santa’s knee. Oh, I hope so.

Santa Express 2013

The barrier arms of the railroad intersection rose and I was brought back to the present. I looked to my left and saw the mustard colored caboose chugging away. I think it was then that I realized that I had taken this journey back through years of my life. I smiled to myself, I blinked away tears that had edged their way to the surface, and in that brief moment I gave thanks for the chance to be still and reflect on my very good life. 

Our lives, especially during this Christmas season are on such a fast track. We speed through days checking things off our to-to list, flying from one place to the next, cramming all that we possibly can into a day. What a waste.

I am thankful for my brief ka-klunk, ka-klunk rumbling melody that enabled me to pause and reflect, if only for a moment or two. I am thankful for this Christmas season, and I pray that I will remember to stop during intersections of my day and give thanks to a merciful and loving God. A God that made his trip to earth in human form, because he loves each of us so very much.

I encourage each of you stop and listen...to “Be still and know that I AM GOD.” (Psalms 46:10) and take time to hear the message he has for you.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

I am one…again.

Brent was the last of the family to drive away this morning. As I was following him to his car, I began to feel that familiar pressure slowly wrapping its ugly grip around my heart. I knew this feeling well, as it never fails to tighten each time I have to say good-bye to one of our children. That grasp of sadness tightens, and my heart seems to shrink just a bit. I feel that sadness push its way up and grow into a lump that fills my throat. The closer we get to the car the larger that lump becomes.  As I hug Brent tightly and we tell one another how much we love each other, how fun the visit was, we discuss when we will see each other next, the lump seems to bubble upward and find its way to my eyes, filling them with tears. I blink, trying to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, and the lump is now keeping me from speaking. Brent, all to familiar with this routine of mine, gently smiles, envelops me in a big bear hug one last time, and closes his car door. 

As I walk alone into the house I am reminded of Steve’s presence by my side during these departures in the past. It was these moments, when any of our children were heading back home to resume their lives, that, as they drove away, Steve would knowingly place his hand on the back of my neck. He would pull me to him, his thumb would gently trail its way from the base of my neck up to my hairline and travel slowly back down until his hand would rest on my shoulder. His words were always the same, “This is what we raised them to do. We want nothing more than for them to go back to their lives, to be healthy, happy, productive and independent.” He would then draw me close to him, smile down at me and allow me time to find myself again.

I almost felt his presence as I walked back into the house alone today...but, Steve wasn’t there and I was one, again, and very alone.

I will be honest and say that this Thanksgiving was a million times easier than last year. I hope there will come I time when I quit marking the holidays by Steve’s absence. The first Christmas, the second anniversary, the third whatever the occasion, since Steve’s death. I can’t do this yet, so this second Thanksgiving without Steve still had its moments.

As we sat at dinner on Wednesday with Lynn and her two children, Brooke and Jared and their children, I sat back as an observer for just a few minutes and thought of Steve. He would have loved being a part of this gathering. To listen to Dylan, almost 16, speaking in his new deep voice, talking with such insight, such decency. To observe Elena, now a sixth grader, so sensitive, so bubbly, so bright, so lovely. To see the joy and delight in Harper and Harris as they reunited with their oldest cousins. To watch their awe as they studied the cell phone photos of the Elsa cake that Elena had made them. To laugh, as only Steve could laugh, when he discovered that while we were all busy talking and eating, Harris was posting the Elsa cake picture, complete with his very own caption, to my Facebook page. That tightening grasp encased my heart for a brief moment and that lump became hard to choke down, as I so longed for Steve to be by my side, his arm draped over my shoulder.

Thanksgiving Day came and my new home was full. Lynn and her children had spent Wednesday night with me. Burton and Brent drove in, Brooke and crew arrived early and the bustle of the day began. 

My kitchen was full, Burton making mouthwatering rolls, Brooke and Lynn helping me with the dressing, veggies, and all the makings of an eight course meal, Jared, carving an enormous turkey. Everyone circulating through the kitchen, grabbing crackers and cheese, grapes and cured sausage. Nibbling as the day drew on. 

There was laughter, joy, and festive family banter in the air. Again, I felt that grasp take hold of my heart, and again I wished I could look up from my slicing and mixing and see Steve looking at me across the room, nodding and smiling, the unspoken message that only I felt. Hearing his unspoken words, “Together we made a great family.  A family that loves each other, a family that is bound together by bonds that will last a lifetime. A family that will continue long after we are gone.” That lump would find its way to my throat and the tears would well up and I would shake it off and work my way back to the present.

As nighttime came, we all sat outside around the fire pit. The warmth of the chiminea behind us and a patio heater blowing warm air our way, we were cozy, warm and full, enjoying simply being together. Again I was pulled away from the laughter, the chatter, I almost felt Steve nudging me, whispering, “Janet, all this fire is making me crazy...I mean it’s treacherous to have so many flames surrounding us.  A spark may well fly up and hit the roof, the entire family would be up in flames!”  I had to push down that lump, as I wished for Steve’s over-the-top caution that so counterbalanced my “oh it feels so warm and fuzzy” nature.

Oh, Steve would have enjoyed watching all of us jump all over each other at Thin Air on Friday morning. He would have been in the middle of us jumping on trampolines, playing dodge ball, wallowing all over one another. Witnessing his adult children, as well as his grandchildren, doing flips in mid air, might have brought quite a few winces and teeth sucking (you would have to have known Steve to understand teeth sucking) afraid someone would surely ending up in the E.R. with a major body part broken.

Steve would have been the first to gather us all up and shuffle us off to Chris Madrid’s for our annual post T-giving “the most delicious hamburger ever” lunch.  He would have made sure we were the first people in line when the doors opened, fearful we might have to stand in line for ten minutes before ordering our mouth watering burger.

Steve and I loved nothing more than having our family together.  Our children were always our main focus. Their health, happiness and well-being far out weighed any priority we might ever have had. Steve was proud of his children...every single one of them, spouses included. He was amazed by his grandchildren...all six of them, and loved them with all his might.

I can never fill the empty space that is left in this family’s lives because Steve is no longer with us. I can never fill his shoes and give them the sage advise that flowed so easily from him. I can never remove the ache that lies beneath the surface of the present because he is no longer a part of our daily lives.  All I can do, is remind each of our children, each of our grandchildren, of Steve’s incredible legacy.  Of the imprint he placed on each of their lives, on my life, and be thankful that we loved him and he loved us for the time we had him.

As I write these words the grasp again tightens around my heart, the lump is rising deep within my throat. Tears blur the words on this page, but my heart is full of thanksgiving for being able to share a life with a man that will in one way or another always keep me from feeling that I am only...one.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Psalms 107:1 “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good’ his love endures forever.”