Monday, February 20, 2023

Alright Mildred....

 

Note: This post has been sitting in my drafts since September 2021. I didn't feel like it was finished, and thought I had more to say. But after re-reading tonight (2/20/23) I see that I said it all then and that time has given me no additional words (save an edit and the last few lines). Nor has any of this made Aunt Mildred's passing seem more real. 



W
e buried my Aunt Mildred, my mother's sister, on Sunday, September 19, 2021. She and my mother were born two years apart and have now departed life by nearly the same span. Losing my mother's sibling is like losing a piece of her all over again. There's one less person who knew her childhood secrets, one less keeper of memories, one less person to tell the story of that time when... 

Mildred battled cancer and was this close to beating it, when she was sucker punched by COVID. I'm writing because maybe this will make it real. Maybe this act of committing thoughts to paper will do what the casket, the flowers, and the grave could not. I know what I'm told and I know what I see yet it remains an illusion. How is it that a normal Sunday in August would be the last time I saw her alive? A see you later left hanging indefinitely between us. 

Aunt Mildred was a true introvert. She could be in a room full of people and only say a few words and you'd have to listen closely to catch those. What I remember best is that when I was a kid I loved going to her house. She had a coffee table full and I mean FULL as in every surface covered with figurines and ornamental glassware and all the things my little hands couldn't wait to touch. And she let me. She never shooed me away or acted like the world was ending because I picked up this incredibly fragile piece. She was a much cooler aunt that I am  :). 

For whatever reason, in our years of adult interactions, I never said goodbye to Mildred. It just felt weird saying bye so I always parted by saying "Alright, Mildred (though we pronounced it more like Meer-E). And she'd say "Ok" or "Alright then," and that was it. We departed in peace until the next time...and there was always a next time surely there was an unlimited number of next times. Until now.

"So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom" (Psalms 90:12). That scripture was read at her service yesterday and for the first time I didn't chafe when I heard it. I used to think "Number our days? Aren't they short enough without doing the math?" I dreaded the very notion--what if I numbered my days and found there weren't enough? 

What I recognize now is that that's precisely why we're told to number our days--because no, there aren't enough... there never were. But once you accept that you can get on with the business of making the most of the precious time given. 

I don't really know how to end this post. I have so much more to say and yet nothing left. So I'll end this like I always did...Alright Mildred...

Sunday, April 12, 2020

This is Not Your Easter


Photo by Amber Lamoreaux, pexels.com
This is not your Easter. Yes, the date is right, but this is not the day you imagined. The new outfit bought a month ago will not be worn. The sunrise service will be online, and there will be no dinner table overflowing with a traditional meal in a house filled with family.

This is not your Easter. And it's ok to say that, to acknowledge the reality of that, and to sit in the disappointment that this beautiful day is not the one you wanted.


I'm struck by the notion that on this day where we celebrate resurrection, so many feel buried under the weight of fear, loss, and grief. This global pandemic has shaken the foundation of our society, and just as Jesus cried out in the depths of his suffering, so too have many of us asked, "My God, My God why have you forsaken me?"


Days have turned into weeks, and here we are on Resurrection Sunday buried under this weight. The cases keep mounting, people keep dying, and we're still in this tomb. Lord, when is our resurrection coming?


I won't pretend to have an answer. 


But I do have a hope.


A hope that there is purpose in this collective pain. Hope that although we are socially distant we are growing emotionally closer. Hope that when we come out of this we'll be stronger and more united than before. 


For too long we've allowed political discourse to divide us into red states and blue states, black and white, haves and have-nots. It's left us grasping for safety in homogeneous groups and disconnected from each other. But I have a hope that through this crisis we will turn towards each other, blinking with eyes that have been closed for too long, and say, "Hey....I remember you."


You're the one who sewed me a mask.

You're the one who put a teddy bear in your window so my kids could go on a neighborhood bear hunt.
You're the one who supported my small business.
You're the one who texted "There's toilet paper here--come now." 

And with these new eyes, I hope we'll see what has been true all along:

People are people.
All pain is the same.
We are better together.

The crucifixion was horrific, but oh the change it made possible.

This pandemic is terrifying in so many ways, but oh what an opportunity we have--
To hit reset
To change the conversation
To choose each other

 No, this is not your Easter-- it's not mine either--but it can be our new beginning. 

Monday, December 30, 2019

RDU to FLL



30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean is a bad time to wish you'd learned to swim. Yet it is the thought that bounces through my mind as my plane follows its direct route from Raleigh-Durham (RDU) to Fort Lauderdale (FLL). It's March 2016 but I'm not heading to the Sunshine state for spring break. I'm on a mission...perhaps an intervention...or maybe a wellness check. What do you call it when you're going to see your best friend who's on a sudden 72-hour psychiatric hold?

"Happening, coming, or done very quickly in a way that is usually not expected," is how Merriam-Webster defines sudden. As I think back over the past six months I have to face the cold truth that nothing about what's happening has been sudden. This has been a slow burn that lit when no one was watching. I smelled the smoke even felt the heat but just couldn't accept that the fire was real.

"I didn't know it was that bad," is a refrain I will repeat many times before my 36 hour trip ends. For the first time I finally understand why its an ethics violation for counselors to work with their family and friends. I'd like to think I would have recognized the signs in strangers...would've acted quickly to get help. But *Kelly...I made one excuse after another, feeding us both false hope. I didn't ask the question that was just beneath the surface.

"You should come for a visit," she casually states.
"I want to it's just bad timing. The kids...work...2nd job. We'll set something up though."
"Yeah...of course. So what's for dinner?"

How many tacos, spagehettis, and I don't knows masked the conversation we really needed to have?

"How are you really?"
"It sounds like you're drinking more than you use to."
"I'm coming this weekend."

But I literally could not handle the truth.

Or so I thought. The tricky thing about truth, though is that it persists. Hidden...tucked away...discarded...it does not go away, does not give up. It grows darker and stronger and demands to be seen.

And seen it shall be as I place my tray in the upright position and prepare for landing.



Monday, November 7, 2016

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow...


The end of the 2016 election cycle is mercifully upon us. It feels like finally seeing the finish line after crawling the last 10 miles on your hands and knees over broken glass and occasional barbed wire. To say this election has been painful is like saying the Titanic didn't quite make its destination.

For a long while there I let this election turn me into someone I am not and have no desire to be. A judgmental, name-calling, us against them, not crazy but not entirely sane person. The kind who mentally rages against someone because they pass by sporting the wrong sticker on his bumper. Or worse, the kind who turns her back on good people because if they're voting for the other side we're through.

My turning point in this vitriolic election was seeing a Facebook post from a girl I went to high school with. Her post was an unabashed "In spite of everything that's happened I'm voting for the other side"deal. And where I had been shifting up, blood pressure elevated, rhetorical arguments locked and loaded, in this particular instance I instead remembered smiling at pictures of her kids and praying for her when she went through a particularly challenging time. Thankfully, a different shift happened as I took a deep breath and thought, "I won't abandon someone I've asked God to help."

I recently celebrated my 14th wedding anniversary. That many years plus three kids ages 6, 4, 2, work, and general life reminds me that love requires a daily choice--just like community and friendship (whether on Facebook or real life). When my husband was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2015 and underwent two surgeries I can tell you good people offered prayers and assistance. They cooked meals for my family and took me to lunch when I wanted to be alone but didn't need to be. They didn't ask me how I voted in the last election or how I felt about Obamacare before jumping in and giving. They recognized that a member of their community was hurting and they did what they could to get me through it. They chose the common bonds that have brought us this far and will lead us home.

Wednesday is going to be a hard day--however this crazy cycle ends a good chunk of the nation, our friends, coworkers, and neighbors will be angry, hurt and disappointed. So let's make a deal--if we've made it this far together let's agree that we're going to choose each other and stay in this for the long haul. I may stay off Facebook for a while but I won't unfriend you because I still want to smile at your kid's picture and watch him grow up. Maybe we won't chat at the copier first thing Wednesday morning but you're still my work buddy and laughing in the kitchen is one of the favorite parts of my day. You're still my tribe, my community...I still love you...I still need you.

My church sings a song written by gospel artist Hezekiah Walker called "I need you to survive." It's a beautiful melody reminding the body of Christ that we're one and hurting another member ultimately inflicts pain on ones self. Part of the verse says,"You are important to me/I need you to survive," and the bridge, which I particularly love, says, "I won't harm you with words from my mouth/I love you/I need you to survive." This sentiment extends beyond the church walls and best sums up what I'm trying to say.

When the hurricane rages, the fires burn, or the cancer scares it's not the president who shows up with a warm blanket and a casserole. The person who shows up is the "idiot" with the wrong bumper sticker on his truck...that's what makes community such a beautiful thing. I'm sorry I forgot that for a moment...and if I said or did anything to offend or make you question our mutual part in this community I'm sorry. I lost my way--forgive me.

However you vote or don't vote, believe me, we're in this together. Will you still love me tomorrow? I hope so. Either way I've decided my answer is yes.