Spilt Milk

So someone forgot to remind me that self-pity was not an Olympic sport because I have been in hard core training all week.  I mean there've been some serious woe-is-me-isms going on in my heart as I've competed in the "I'm more pathetic than you are," races.  Oy.  And I can testify that there is no physically induced exhaustion that can compare with the complete weariness of soul brought on by self-pity.

Last night I let Quinn have some chocolate milk for dinner, which is a pretty rare occasion at our house, but it was dinner and a movie night so we were living large.  In less than five minutes, Quinn lost his balance and executed this incredible gyration that catapulted his drink across the living room in some twilight zone moment that I saw in slow motion where he managed to cover everything in a five foot radius with chocolate milk.  It was gross.  I tried to be kind about the accident, since he gets his genetic predisposition to ridiculous feats of clumsiness from me, but I did make him go to his room while I cleaned up the mess because I just couldn't deal with him as well in that moment.  As I cleaned every exposed surface in the room, I heard these choking sobs coming from his room like his heart was going to break, and I was touched that he was full of remorse.  So I went back to talk to him, and he was very pathetically splayed on his bed.  I asked him why he was sad, thinking that he might actually be sorry for making such a mess, but he was barely able to choke out, "My shirt has milk on it, and it's my bestest Batman shirt."  And then I remembered that he was indeed four.

At least being four, you have some excuse for being self-absorbed.  I, being somewhat past four, have nothing like his excuse for the completely self-absorbed pity party that I find myself stuck in like quicksand.  Strangely enough, I never set out to be here, and I've spent the last couple days trying to figure out how I got here and how I can get out.  I've been looking over my notes from reading The Ascent of Mt. Carmel by St. John of the Cross, and it occurred to me how appropriate his words were, almost as if the Lord let me experience this week simply so I could understand what he is writing.  So I'm going to summarize my notes here, as a sort of stream-of-consciouness explanation for how I got here and how I'm going to get out.  Anything in quotes will be a direct quotation, otherwise, the words are my summary:

If our goal is union with God, then we must pass through two nights, the first of which is purging the sensual part of the soul, it's attachment to this world.

 "We are not treating here a lack of things...  It is not the things of this world that either occupy the soul or cause it harm, since they enter it not, but rather the will and desire for them, for it is these that dwell within..."

"The soul that loves anything else becomes incapable of pure union with God."

The misplaced desires of the soul are sources of endless weariness because they allow the soul no rest since they can never be filled.  Like bugs to bright light, we are drawn to these desires, blind to all else, even our own destruction.  "He that is blinded by desires has this property that, when he is set in the midst of truth and of that which is good for him, he can no more see them than if he were in darkness."

The soul that is divided has no energy to pursue God.  Even the slightest whim or attachment to something, no matter how insignificant, has the power to prevent union with God.  Even people who have conquered great sins and vanities may be tempted to cling to some small attachment, yet "one imperfection is sufficient to lead to another....  If a man is to enter this divine union, all that lives in his soul must die, both little and much, small and great."

How do we mortify these desires?  We must have a habitual desire to imitate Christ and long for the greater love in Christ, to the extent that our strength, courage, and constancy to mortify our flesh comes from a desire to please him that is greater than our desire to please our flesh.  (Does that sound like Thomas Chalmers to anyone else?)

 So it would seem in this light, that I have lost my greater affection for Christ, and the lesser affections of my heart have been waging war against my spirit this week.  Thus I am weary and heavy-laden with the burden of trying to satisfy my insatiable desires.

But I am learning to say with the psalmist, "Why are you downcast, O my soul?  Why so disturbed within me?  Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my savior and my God."  I am finding more and more that this verse is the picture of faith, to hope and praise despite all feeling to the contrary, to step out, regardless of my current state, with the expectation that I will be met by grace.

So I will continue praying 2 Thessalonians 3:5 for myself, "May the Lord direct your hearts into God's love and Christ's perseverance."  Because right now, I desperately need more of God's love and Christ's perseverance.

 

Growing Old

I'm not sure how I found myself in a Hallmark store, a place I visit maybe once a year, on the day they decide to premier their Christmas ornaments.  In July, people?  Really?  I thought I'd pop in and out for a card but found myself surrounded by throngs of gray-haired ladies spending hundreds of dollars on Christmas ornaments.  It was bizarre.  But there was this one little old couple in the corner browsing the ornaments and enjoying each other's company, and it made me think of how much Emmett and I looked forward to growing old together.  We used to laugh about how much fun we were going to have as crazy old people, gardening, and traveling, and enjoying our family.

Last week I found a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit that Emmett had sent me while we were engaged and living on separate continents.  Inside he wrote:

My love - I saw this and thought how much like the velveteen rabbit you are to me.  You are incredibly awesome, and I want to love you till all the of the pink rubs off your nose and till your fur and whiskers don't look like such.  The older we shall grow together, all the more beautiful and special you will be to me...

Memories of Emmett seem to grow stronger as his illness fades away.  I've just wrapped up some time in a cabin on the Toccoa River in north Georgia.  It was a sweet time away, playing in the river's edge with Quinn, watching the mountain laurel blooms float down stream like tiny teacups, and enjoying nature.  When we went tubing on the river, I could recall Emmett's laughter almost perfectly and thought about how much he would have enjoyed being with us.  As I hiked up the side of a waterfall, I could point out exactly where he would have stopped to help me, almost feeling the touch of his strong hands.  And as Quinn and I played in the river's edge, I longed for Emmett to be there because he would have found ways to make us laugh that I could never imagine.

So now we're home, and tonight it feels like I've lost him all over again.  I'm snuggled up in one of his favorite jackets, unpacking and crying and writing.  It is one of those nights when I wonder how long life gets harder before it starts getting easier.  And yet, I'm content to dwell in sorrow for as long as necessary because, though it is deep, it cannot separate me from the love of Christ.  If I can grieve this deeply, then how much more has God grieved for us.  If I can weep this much, then how much more has God wept for us.  I am surprised to find that sorrow reaffirms the love of God better than happiness ever could.  So for the mean time, I will explore God's love to the fullest extent and let it wash over me, making me new.

Sandpaper and Waterfalls

My hands feel like sandpaper right now, so much so that I'm afraid to touch my bedspread or nice clothes because my hands are so rough I might snag the fabric.  I suppose that makes sense because I spent the whole morning Friday sanding our bathroom cabinets, finally getting around to a project that Emmett and I had planned long ago. I blasted an old worship mix I made for Emmett's iPod and shut myself in our tiny bathroom for about 3 hours, not stopping until may arms were about to fall off.

I've had to be intentional about reintroducing music into my life.  Emmett was always my music filter, bringing me new music and encouraging me to broaden my tastes.  After he got sick, listening to music gave Emmett so much pain that he gradually gave it up.  I've been listening to many of our old mixes as I can and searching for new music as well.  It was a blessing just to sit and work and let so many of the songs we loved flow over me.

So I sang, prayed, talked to myself, wrote blogs in my head that I've already forgotten.  I talked to Emmett a little bit, tried to channel some of his attention to detail, and got thoroughly grimy from the dust.  It was a nice morning.  It's still strange to have nice mornings.

I felt like the Lord was working on my soul as I worked on those cabinets.  I was reminded of a song that later played in the mix by Emmett's college roommate, Jeff, that I believe they recorded in our first apartment together.  I don't even know if the song was ever recorded again, but it is about the place Emmett and Jeff used to camp in college, Jones Gap, in Traveler's Rest, SC.  Emmett took me camping there for our first anniversary, and from the first time I heard the song, I've loved it.   Now it seems to express where I am perfectly, so here are the words:

Way up off highway 11

You can follow this old road a couple miles

You find yourself at the gates of heaven

Step outside and feel the earth smile

Gentle brook song and poplar grove.

A ringneck snake and a cool breeze.

And the way the hemlocks grow 

Will make you weak in the knees 

And God's a river falls,

From the mountains through my heart,

Polishing jagged rocks into smooth stones,

wearing away, giving me new life.

So follow this water up through the hills.

Sometimes walking is all you need.

Leave the destination to his will.

Let each step bring a little peace.

And God's a river falls,

From the mountains through my heart,

Polishing jagged rocks into smooth stones,

wearing away, giving me new life.

So feel the rhythm beneath your feet.

A simple thrill is creation's call.

If you follow where it leads,

I'll met you there where the river falls. 

And God's a river falls,

From the mountains through my heart,

Polishing jagged rocks into smooth stones,

wearing away, giving me new life.

My soul feels very much like my hands right now.  This process of polishing, of intentionally and patiently and relentlessly wearing away at my soul, has left me feeling so rough and unkempt that I feel unfit even to form words right now, afraid I might snag someone else's spirit unintentionally.  Consequently, I seem to be speaking through other people's songs, instead of saying anything really new.

And yet, I'm encouraged to know that there really is a communion deeper than words in the body of believers, that somehow, despite our quirks and differences, our various trials produce the same depth of grace.  Whatever our struggle, the Lord presents us each with the opportunity to dwell ever more richly in his grace, to have our false selves gradually worn away, and to find the sweet new life that comes when we meet him where the river falls.  May we have eyes to see, not only how God is wearing each of us down, but may we also see how he is creating each one of us anew in his image.  And in his grace may we carry each other to that river.  Amen.

A New Normal

I'm listening to the popping fireworks outside and thinking of last year when some lovely neighbors two doors down set our lawn on fire.  Emmett was so angry.  I went outside this evening for a moment and saw the neighbor in between us was hosing down her yard, trees, and roof in preparation for this year's festivities.  I had to chuckle.

This morning was spent cleaning the house and playing with Quinn.  I forced myself to play music, something Emmett always thought to do, so it wouldn't be so quiet.  It occurred to me that this was the first time I had cleaned my house in...  well, let's just say I can't remember.  Between parents and friends helping out, it may have been over a year since I have done more than the occasional spot clean.  Six months ago, I wouldn't have even thought my house was dirty because I hardly noticed those things.

When Emmett was sick, there was no down time.  I woke up in time to get dressed, give Emmett medicine, get Quinn to school, go to work, come home, snag some time with Emmett before picking Quinn up and finishing the evening with frantically preparing things for the next day before I could snag a few hours sleep.  I think back and wonder how I made it through.  There was no free time, no need to make decisions about how to spend my time.  Everything was portioned out with no margins.  Occasional free moments were spent at the gym or reading in a desperate attempt to preserve my sanity.

The past few weeks, although not packed quite as tightly, were also filled with things to do while I had the help I needed.  With Emmett's services, two birthdays, countless friends and family to see, and numerous details to put in order, my schedule has felt very much the same - moving from one thing to another, putting out the nearest fire and moving on.  But now, this week, starting today, there is a new kind of normal.  Today was filled with wide open spaces of time.  We played, I cleaned, I napped, we visited friends, and yet I still managed to feel anxious, as if I were forgetting something.

So I'm in training to teach myself how to handle free time, to learn to have interests again, and to be still. It's not going well so far, but here's to hoping it gets easier.

Love

When we lost Mallory, all I was capable of praying for about a week was, "Lord, I just need to know that you love me."  Something about grief, whether form loss or brokenness can only really be healed with with love.  I could cover up my brokenness by pretending I'm strong.  I suppose I could find lesser loves to distract me from the pain. But I want healing, deep soul changing satisfaction, and that I cannot have without the love of Christ.  And so right now my soul is echoing a very similar prayer to when we lost Mallory, but there is less panic and more peace this time around.  Though I do not enjoy the waves of emotion that cascade over me without warning, I embrace them, knowing I will not get lost in them.  


I've been somewhat drifting along in those prayers since losing Emmett, but I was reminded of some important truths last night at church where we're studying the impact of the gospel on our everyday lives.  If you're interested, you can listen to the series called "Everyday Gospel" here at http://gccnashville.org/resources/past-events/.  Our pastor reminded us in Romans 5:5 that "God has poured his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."  It was good to be reminded that the primary ministry of the Holy Spirit is to remind us that God has loved us completely, enough to die for us while we were still his enemies (vs. 8).  I am once again encouraged to see the amazing love of God as a beautiful love story, and for now, that is what I need.


So I keep going, encouraged by the reminders of God's love.  Knowing that when I do not walk in grief, I so often forget my need to be reminded of his love.  I continue to find these small blessings and realize that I am being held by the love of God.  I will close the words to a favorite hymn:

1. O Love that will not let me go,
   I rest my weary soul in thee;
   I give thee back the life I owe,
   That in thine ocean depths its flow
   May richer, fuller be.
2. O light that foll’west all my way,
   I yield my flick’ring torch to thee;
   My heart restores its borrowed ray,
   That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
   May brighter, fairer be.
3. O Joy that seekest me through pain,
   I cannot close my heart to thee;
   I trace the rainbow through the rain,
   And feel the promise is not vain,
   That morn shall tearless be.
4. O Cross that liftest up my head,
   I dare not ask to fly from thee;
   I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
   And from the ground there blossoms red
   Life that shall endless be.

(If you're interested, check out this version (one of my favorite arrangements) by a friend of ours at http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/ebenezer-a-collection-hymns/id441293354?ign-mpt=uo%3D4%2522%2520target%253D%2522itunes_store%2522 )

Awkward

When you lose someone you live with inch by inch instead of all at once, the final goodbye is the last of a series of small goodbyes.  Often you don't even know it's the last time you're going to do something, but things fall away one by one, like trips to the zoo, family dinners at the table, or even movies together in bed.  And when the grief spans 16 months, there don't seem to be all that many tears left because whole oceans could have been filled by the tears you cried while begging for God's mercy.  It's not that you don't grieve or that you've moved past grief, but more that for the first time you can actually start to heal.  

I think of David in 2 Samuel 12 who, after a serious of sinful decisions, is punished by God in order to lead him to repentance.  While the child is sick, David fasts, prays, and weeps, so much so that the people are afraid to tell him when the child dies.  Yet when he hears the news, he rises, eats, and comforts Bathsheba.  His subjects question his behavior, and yet David says to them: “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept. I thought, ‘Who knows? The Lord may be gracious to me and let the child live.’ But now that he is dead, why should I go on fasting? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him, but he will not return to me.”

My conjecture is that grief is experienced differently when you do not live with the person, when you don't see him gradually slipping away, and the end comes as more of a surprise.  When the shock of loss leaves a sudden, gaping hole rather than one that grows by gradual degrees.  I would think it leaves you more breathless, reeling from the sudden absence, and you have to deal with the absence before the healing can come.

I think this difference is why I have found other people's grief a bit foreign.  Not that one is better or more valid, but they're just so different.  I still encounter people who have just heard the news or are just seeing me for the first time, and it's a strange interaction.  Again, not good or bad, just strange. There is at least a perceived rush of intensity, and often I'm not at that moment in a place of deep sadness, so the reaction is incredibly awkward, although not always bad.  

Strangely though I find myself thankful for the awkwardness, thankful that broken people would love each other, no matter how awkwardly.

Missing Daddy

Several days ago on the way home from school Quinn asked me when he was going to get a new daddy. I wasn't quite prepared for that question, so I stalled, trying to figure out what he meant. Turns out he wanted a new "sick daddy" because he wanted more Batman toys, and he associated our trips to Houston with the little Batman toys we would give him before leaving. I guess our attempt at being sweet when we traveled backfired on us a little bit. I'm pretty sure I did a lousy job trying to tell him that having a sick daddy wasn't a pre-requisite for getting new toys because he immediately moved on to another topic while I was still floundering.

Tomorrow Quinn turns four.

That makes today a day of many emotions for me. The last trip Emmett and I made alone, we made to Toys R Us so that we could pick out a present for Quinn. Emmett wanted to get him legos because he had been so excited for Quinn to be old enough to love legos as much as he had growing up. So we came back with several lego items. I didn't want Emmett's present to get lost in the birthday craziness, so I let Quinn open the presents from his daddy today. And I spent most of the morning helping Quinn build his legos, as he is still a little too young to figure them out alone. The rest of the day I kept thinking of all the things Quinn would miss out on doing with his dad, and all the things I would have to get excited about doing, like going cross-eyed trying to figure out where every tiny lego piece went.

Then shortly after leaving Quinn alone in bed tonight, I heard him bawling from the other room. I went in to see what was wrong, and he threw himself into my arms sobbing that he missed his daddy. So we cried and talked for a while. I told him about the books on the shelf that his daddy loved, about how his daddy loved hiking and camping, and about all the fun things his daddy had wanted to do with him. I told him about the journals and letters and trinkets that I had set aside for him to have when he was older. He asked me again about daddy's wedding ring and how I was going to keep it safe for him to wear when he was bigger. He suggested that I use one of the empty lego boxes because he wouldn't need it after the police van was built. That particular box was the obvious choice for safety because it was part of the police set, of course. But when I asked him to trust me to keep it safe, even if I put it in a different box, he sweetly said without hesitation, "I trust you, mommy."

We spent that half hour alternately sobbing and laughing, moving between emotions with impressive speed. And when I finally left him again, he was peaceful. Quinn's grief is sweet and tender. His logic makes me laugh and reminds me of what my logic must look like to God. His trust is complete, without reservation, and yet fear causes him to have all sorts of questions. I see my heart reflected in him every day, even when he is pitching a fit. And though my words are more subtle and my actions more reserved, ultimately there is not much difference in our hearts. Quinn helps me put things in perspective, and for that I am deeply thankful tonight.