The Breakers

I actually really like to do laundry. And, by that, I mean, of household chores that is the one I enjoy the most. I enjoy the process and the completeness of it. I do laundry every Wednesday. Each Wednesday morning the big boys make a “laundry train” of the laundry baskets from each of the bedrooms lined up in the upstairs hallway. I carry them downstairs to our laundry room and begin to sort. I have one bin for dark colors, whites and lights. Once all baskets are sorted, I start the first load. Usually whites first to get the bleach out of the way while I still only have on my pajamas. And, in all honesty, I love the smell of bleach. And the sorting, and the folding and the smell of dried laundry. I love holding the clothes, looking at them and thinking of the day my little one had in it, remembering how they used to wear the smaller clothes that are now in their little brother’s pile. I like the neat piles of clothes each in a line for its owner. After 5-6 loads, laundry is complete. At least until the next “water play” that really turns into “mud play” or until next Wednesday. Whites, lights, darks, towels, extras. All folded, returned to the owner’s bin and carried to their room. The clothes are put away and the bin waits to be filled.

Beach towels are not actually returned in a bin. I keep them downstairs in the laundry room in the summertime near the backdoor to be ready for quick pool runs or messy outdoor play. I folded four beach towels tonight. I fold them differently than bath towels and the special rhythm I give them reminds me of the special rhythm of the beach, one of my favorites places to be. And these beach towel speak to a special memory tonight: one of my dad taking me out passed the breakers when I was a little girl.

He was a great swimmer and taught me to love the water. He honored the vastness and power of the ocean but felt as if his love for the ocean protected him in some mysterious way. He didn’t fear the sharks, the jellyfish, or the riptides. We are in their home, he would remind me. We shouldn’t be surprised or upset if those things happen. Learn to respond. That day, when we went out passed the breakers, we were caught in a rip tide. He had told me what to do in the past and reminded me that I was safe with him. We let the rip tide take us out. We could not fight it. We had to be out of control and just float. I had to trust my dad and trust the process that if we let the current take us out, we could swim parallel to the shore and then ride the waves in. I didn’t have much choice. I looked my dad in the eye, held his arm for a moment, and let go with the current. We went farther than I had ever been in the ocean. I was afraid but also assured that I was safe with him. We did as we planned: floated out past the rip tide, swam parallel to the shore and then rode the waves in.

There was a huge relief when we hit the shore. I felt victorious. I had conquered that rip tide. Really, though, I had given in to the rip tide. There I was in the middle of the ocean knowing that if I fight this rip tide, I will get a cramp and could drown. Or, I could surrender to my position in the vast, powerful ocean, and float knowing that when I’m out of the current, I can swim again and eventually return to the shore.

That is exactly how I feel right now. I could fight how I feel. I am discouraged by my lethargy, frustrated at my emotions, and angry that I’m even dealing with the death of the man who taught me this lesson in the first place. I want my life to be like laundry; clean, neatly folded in the correct pile, wonderful memories soaring about, put away and ready to be used again. Such hope, such expectation of what the day might bring that the clothes would see. But, my life is not like that right now and the quicker I can realize that it just isn’t going to be like that right now, the better I will feel about myself. The stage that I’m in with littles at home is all about survival and finding the joy amidst the chaos. I cannot add unnecessary expectations that make finding joy that much harder.

I need to just float, just be whatever I am, feel whatever I need to feel, and give in to the tide. When I have strength again, I can swim and really, swim as far as I want parallel to the shore. Then, when I’m ready, I may just return to the shore. Life will continue to go whether I’m fighting or floating this tide. My children will play, cut up all the cardboard in my house, and head to school. I’ll make meals, fold laundry and clean up toys. I'll meet with friends. I'll go to church. I’ll even hit the gym and make a green smoothie every now and then. But, right now, I’m reminding myself that nothing is expected except floating as far out as the current will take me until the rip tide has passed. I will wait for strength to return and know that I will swim again and return to shore again. But, that day is not today. Today, I will float way out passed the breakers and remember the kindest man I ever knew.

Her Hand in His

In the photo my parents are leaving their wedding reception. They are wearing their “going away” outfit. My dad is tall and thin, starting to bald, but tan, dressed in his tux with tails. Their wedding was at high noon in July. My mom looked like a modern J.Crew model with tan wedges, a high-waisted Kelly green A-lined skirt with a white blouse tucked in. You’d never know it was late July and that the A/C had broken. Her long, blonde hair was perfectly parted. They held hands as they exited my grandmother’s country club in Williamston, NC. A sweetness covered their smiles and joy filled their eyes. Excitement seemed to leap from the photo. 

They had met on a blind date. My dad’s brother, Randy, filled in my dad on what girls really like on a first date. Dinner and drinks at a fun place and dancing until past midnight. My mom was pleasantly surprised. A night like that was right up her alley. So, a second date it was. Dad made the plans again. This time without his brother’s help. Museum of Natural History. Yes, the Museum of Natural History. Mom went along with it and realized that a nerd with a cute face and dancing shoes might just be the perfect combination. She was right. They were married a year or so later and spent a lot of weekends combining Dad’s true hobbies with mom’s.

I only hear of these early days through stories of course. Although, Dad used to say that he “married up” and was the luckiest guy around. I mean, if you could see this picture. Mom, seriously, you were and are the most beautiful woman I know. My dad always knew that about my mom and made sure she knew it too.

They held hands often – my parents did. Every prayer at church, every movie in the theater, every car ride in the country. Every chance my dad could get, he’d put her hand in his. She thought him to be a bit cheesy but always obliged. She loved holding his hand. She thought she’d have many more late Julys to do just that.  This July was different. A day before their 36^th anniversary, she put her hand in his. But, his hand was cold and lifeless. The smiles, the joy, and the excitement were no more. Wails of tears and sadness filled the funeral home room. It just couldn’t be. It just can’t be. That wide palmed hand with unlikely perfect fingernails and smooth skin didn’t move when she touched it. It didn’t squeeze back. It didn’t follow with an “I love you” and a kiss. She was the only one moving. He’d left her way to soon. He’d held her hand for the last time only a day before.

It’s hard to see that photo now. My mom and I found it after the funeral. We were looking through photo albums and crying. That picture stuck me. The promise, the hope, the joy of all that is to come on your wedding day. But, the reality is, we are not promised any of that. We have no idea when the last time we will hold hands with the ones we love, kiss their face, or hug their body. It is the memories now that will carry us through. The early stories of my parents dating, the vacations they took, and the simple drives through the country where they held hands and smiled wishing they had more time to do just that. 

I've wanted to hold his hand many times in the past 6 weeks so I know my mom has even more. His hand reminded me that all would be OK. I have wanted to call him, talk to him, hug him and hold that hand. I miss his hand. I miss his hugs. I miss him. But, I have many memories of his hand in mine where I was reassured of his loved. My wedding day, his hand walked me down the aisle to my husband. A day of joy and excitement that was filled with so much promise of what was to come. I'm thankful he was holding my mom's hand many Julys ago and I'm thankful that his hand handed me over to my husband 8 years ago. I'm thankful every time my hand was safely in his. And, I pray that the memories of my mom's hand in his will carry her through and remind her of how much she was cherished and loved by that tall tan man in a tux with tails.

Filling the Gap

This weekend, my sweet, kind, amazing, (did I mention he was amazing?) husband loaded up our four children and drove off to his parents’ house at the lake. I had packed their suitcases, handed him a bag of snacks for the car ride and waved goodbye wishing him luck. I walked back inside, still wearing my pajamas at 9am, and made a hot cup of coffee. Then, I sat down. Yes, sat down with my hot coffee. I did not get up until the mug was empty. It was pretty amazing.

This time was meant for me to rest, move slowly, and enjoy the quiet. Grieving the dead when you have so many lives to care for has been taxing. It is in the quiet moments that the sadness hits me and I am able to cry, remember Dad, and actually continue on the grieving path. I needed more of that time. I needed the quiet, the space, the permission to be free to feel what I needed to feel and do what I needed to do.

I’m not the best at moving slowly so I did decide to have a few things to fill the time. I scheduled a facial. I ran errands that took me all over Richmond. I went to church. I had dinner with a friend. In between those things, I finished reading a book, I baked and I binged watched my guilty pleasure, Project Runway.

Moving slower was nice. Finally, no laundry to do, no rooms to clean up, no “time outs” to enforce, no meals to cook, no bedtimes to adhere to. Wouldn’t this be great?! And, it was. My facial was great and she worked around my tears because I remembered my first facial – at the Dead Sea Spa in Israel on my trip with my dad. My friend and I sat for two hours talking about our lives at an outdoor restaurant sipping wine that I know my dad would love. I could cry as I made bran muffins because I was imagining what my dad was feasting on at Heaven’s banquet table. I could listen to the sermon being preached and think about how my dad lived his life as a picture to so many about Christ.

I may have filled my schedule this weekend, but I can never fill the “gap” between my life and my dad’s in Heaven. And, I don’t’ want to.

Nothing can fill the gap when we are away from those we love, and it would be wrong to try to find anything.....It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; he does not fill it, but keeps it empty so that our communion with another may be kept alive, even at the cost of pain. -Dietrich Bonhoeffer

It was in those moments, at the spa, sipping the wine, pouring the muffins into the pan, listening to the sermon that I was once again connected to my dad. Like, Bonhoeffer said, those moments are painful. I cried. I wished he were here. I had to re-live the fact that he is not. It pained my heart. I felt crushed all over again. But, it was worth it to feel connected to him in my everyday life. I will remember him through so many parts of my life. And, so I may fill my time, fill my calendar, fill my day but I will not fill the gap. No matter the pain it brings, I want to always remember, always cherish and always be thankful for God’s peace to comfort me with a reminder of my dad.

Back to School with Grief

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the oe’r frought heart and bids it break.” –William Shakespeare

What words are there to give this grief? What could be said that would make my heart break just a bit less? It will have to be the words of a story. The story of a man I can’t begin to write a memory about.  The reality of his absence is not yet fully realized. To write a memory would confess the truth. The truth that my dad is not with me on earth anymore and that I will have to wait on God’s timing to see him again.

I think of my dad often though and all of the new memories I had hoped and planned to create with him. I recently dropped of my oldest son, Herny, to Kindergarten. I thought, oh dear, I’m so emotional lately, I am going to surely cry. He is my oldest child. It’s his first full day of school. However, I didn’t cry. He was ready and excited. I was ready and excited for him. I was not sad, but extrememly proud. I know his path will be great. I see the curiosity in his eyes, the desire to do what is right, and the innovation to make things better. I pray those things for him. My dad always prayed that for Henry. He could see those things in Henry too.

I left that first day of school only wanting to call one person. My dad would have wanted to know how things went for Henry. I wanted him to know. I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to hug me and tell me how proud he was of Henry. And, that is where my heart breaks. Will I always remember what it felt like to hug my dad, to put my hand in his and have him tell me that I’m beautiful and that he’s proud of my children?

There are no words to give that will not break my heart. The reality of his absence is so crushing that only tears will temporarily relieve the pain. They flow from inside me as if they were locked away tightening my entire body attempting to keep from breaking down while returning library books. I keep hoping that at the end of my tears, the reality will not be as it is. The relief from the tears would not only be temporary but that I will wake up and this will not be so. I will hug my dad again. I will feel his hand in mine. I will hear his kind words. I know that relief is not coming in this life so the relief of my built-up tears will have to do today. And, for today, I will hug my children, hold their hands, and tell them how proud I am of them. For I know, if dad were here, that’s exactly what he would do.