Farewell for Now

to my beloved readers,

i'm done here. tired, exhausted. after trying to write, then stopping, then trying to write again, i know that since someone has used this blog against me in an effort to take her children away from their father and to manipulate everyone in her path that i will no longer be able to write with the freedom and abandon that i have in the past. 

but i'm not done writing. 

from here i will disappear into the blogosphere under an alias and, to quote cheryl strayed, "write like a motherfucker."

hope i find you out there.

well, not all of you.

-mrs.cmp

Keep It Coming

 

Happy 12th (!) birthday Annika. What a creative, funny, strong, independent young woman you have become. I remember when you were two years old and you'd ask me to rub your feet before nap time. And the time you ate ten pieces of corn on the cob. And the day you became an incredible soccer player. And the road trip to Florida when you cried for two hours because of cramp in your foot. So I held your hand. More good, more challenge, more milestones, more times to look back and realize how much we have accomplished as a family. Keep it coming. I want it all. I love you Annika.

Our Good Bye

We flew down to Florida on New Year’s Eve one year ago and made our way to see you in hospice. It was a quiet ride filled with small talk. The worst kind of talk if you ask me. There was no helping it, though. We looked out the window and watched the palm trees fly by one at a time. I wondered what it was like to live in a place that was forever warm and sunny.

When we walk in the room it takes every last bit of your energy to light up. But you are no stranger to pain and you muster the strength. We are pleased to see that you don’t look like you’re dying. Not today. The TV in your room is on and there is talk of a New Year’s Eve special starting soon. There is excitement, not in our air though. It’s really just confined to this tiny TV hanging on the wall. We take turns looking up at the screen and our faces silently say, “Would you mind? This doesn’t seem right. Please. Not now.”

Without your makeup you look wide-eyed and younger. There is no sign of anger on your beautiful face. There’s no messing around now, things have to count. You can’t afford anything less than true and deep eye contact. I see things in your eyes that I have never seen before: love, acceptance, fear, vulnerability, forgiveness. It’s difficult for me to hold this space with you because it’s so honest and real, and yet, I cannot turn away. When I look at you I feel this involuntary sense of wonder, as if I am a child. Then you say to me, “See how fast things change?”

Is this what it’s like when you are watching someone die? Some kind of unknown force enters the room like a short, chubby, busy housecleaner who comes in and just starts sweeping her broom from side to side. She grabs a dust cloth out of her apron pocket and is mumbling something under her breath while wiping down all the surfaces around us. “We’ve got to clean this place up, all this extra stuff has just got to go. None of this is necessary anymore.”

After a lifetime of experiencing so much pain you are still physically hurting. The simplest of things are heavenly to you: soft and crunchy ice chips, bubbly  and cool ginger ale, the gel the nurses apply to your dry lips, the small familiar towel that Erika brought for you to hold in your hand. It will be one of the last things you let go. And your thoughts are comforting you as you share them with us. These thoughts are like your dying requests though you know you’ll never have them again: martinis with olives, a game of mini golf, schtupel, (which the others in the room translate for me-crusty bread.) The things you want are so ridiculously simple that it’s overwhelming to see you speaking so passionately about them. You look at me and tell me you love me. Erika whispers that she wish Amelie and Harper were here. You make me promise to get all of the children together. I still have to do that.

We leave for the night and quietly bring in the New Year at your house with the German tradition of jelly donuts and sparkling wine. I take a picture of the moment. How long will it be before we forget it?

The next day is January 1, 2013. This is the day that you will die. You talk about music. You love Lionel Richie because his music is romantic. You tell us, to all of our dismay, that you think he’s sexy.  Tom says, “I’ve never heard you say that about anyone. Ever.” You’re on a roll, and I try to keep up with all of your requests for songs by pulling up videos on my phone. We listen to them together, weeping openly, unable to hide our emotion. We end up playing Three Little Birds by Bob Marley on repeat. You sing along at a near whisper, eyes closed. “Every little thing/Is gonna be alright.”

When you start to get sick I take the children home to your house. I will learn a few hours later about the last moments of your life and how your sister and children wiped your mouth and face and held you and then generously let you go just when you were ready.

It is all at once painful and beautiful to relive these moments a year later. Happy New Year, Inge. I wish I could look into your wide eyes tonight and listen again while you tell me what is truly beautiful. 

a call to God

“God can handle honesty and prayer begins an honest conversation.”

i was taught two prayers as a child. first, a bedtime prayer:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
 If I should die before I wake,
 I pray the Lord my soul to take.

i find this prayer a little disturbing so i haven’t passed it on to my girls. the other was a standard blessing said before meals:

God is great, God is good,

let us thank him for our food.

By his hands we all are fed;

give us Lord our daily bread.

Amen.

i learned the Lord’s prayer indirectly from sundays at church, the way you learn hymns like amazing grace and how great thou art. and my favorite prayer is the apostle’s creed. i love the cadence, the rhythm of it. and i don’t yawn in the middle of it like i do the Lord’s prayer. (this isn’t becuase the Lord’s prayer bores me but because i have yet to figure out when to breathe when i say it.) and the apostle's creed is a succint description of, well, what i believe.

I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth.

And in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord; who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried; the third day he rose from the dead; he ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit; the holy catholic Church; the communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body; and the life everlasting. AMEN.

sigh.

the only other thing i can recall as informal prayer education was the book, are you there god, it’s me margaret. this book was a mini bible for me. a lesson that demonstrated prayer as conversation plus a revealing first hand view into puberty that i otherwise would not have received so intimately.

another thing i learned was how to make a wish. a loose eyelash on a finger. close your eyes, make a wish, and blow. on your birthday, candles lit, close your eyes, make a wish. penny in a fountain, make a wish. under a bridge with a train crossing. hand on the roof, close your eyes, make a wish.

as long as i can recall i‘ve felt as if making a wish was indulging. i have a clear memory of riding under a bridge in dc. i was probably 9 or 10 years old. a train crossed over the bridge as we drove under it. i reached up to touch the roof the car. i made a wish,

“i wish for daddy to call me and come visit...”

oh no. i just wished for two things. now neither will come true. i had to learn to choose my words wisely. wish, but wish for one thing only. concentrate. next time.

praying and wishing. why do i connect them in my head? without any formal education on how exactly to pray i felt i had to approach it in the same way i made a wish. with care not to ask for too much, with carefully worded thoughts, and with requests that were spaced out so as not to seem greedy.

and to this day i still struggle to ask for things. from anyone and especially from God. i imagine that if i do ask for something God might be thinking something like,

“really my child ? you sure about that? you want help with losing weight? self-control? you wanna give more to your church? don’t you think you should be asking Me something else? maybe you could word that differently. come on, try harder. why don’t you think about it and get back to me.”

i admire the people who speak frequently with God, who weave Him into their conversations. the ones who speak eloquently on behalf of the rest of us in the room without rambling. the ones who, at the moment i mention the smallest sliver of a worry, offer to keep me in their prayers. i imagine my name being mentioned silently or quietly by these people at dinner tables and bedsides and in prayer circles. i believe that my grandmother prays more than anyone i know. i truly think that she’s praying every moment that we don’t hear her talking.

i asked the other night on facebook if people prayed or wished and what they thought the difference was. interestingly, most people responded by sharing the things for which they prayed and wished. i am thankful for all the thoughtful responses. in general it seems that people wish for the material, the unnecessary, and pray for what they believe to be significant. some pray directly for things while others do not ask for a specific outcome. instead they pray to be shaped, taught, moved, or even led by a certain concern or issue. or they pray for this on behalf of someone else. some do not believe they are worthy of prayer.

these days i still pray before eating. i pray the lord’s prayer, and when we say it in church, the apostle’s creed. after communion i kneel at the altar with my daughters and show them how to pray by speaking aloud what i believe they might want to pray for. i close my eyes during silent prayer but sometimes don’t think of anything to say. i write down the names of people on a yellow card in church that i know need prayer but for whom i don’t believe just my words are sufficient. i secretly want to add my own name to the yellow card. and occasionally, when i feel totally helpless, i pray in the shower.

in any case, i wish now that as a child i’d known it wasn’t necessary to wait for a penny and a fountain, my birthday, or a train to cross the bridge overhead before asking for big things. and it is my prayer that all along God was listening.  

I Got This

bible study, it’s not my strength. God and me, we connect though.

God speaks to me through people and experiences. and shit does He speak loudly.

through the blue eyes of a 95 year old man who wants us to enjoy his labors.

through the woman who performed my marriage ceremony. twice. who told me i was my own person. who told me i was whole and worthy even though i had done unforgivable things.

through the question he asked me last sunday about what earth meant to me.

through the photo of her on a mountain holding a gun. and happy.

and God,  He speaks to me through music, again and again. and again.

and when i call her crying, in a pile of tears, selfishly trying to make sense of my childhood she listens and sees my pain and says i’m right to question that.

and in his confession that the job search has become near unbearable.

and in her comittment to personal health and her willingness to guide us there.

and the request to have me cook, to use my hands to show love and support and sustain.

from her and his exchange with me when they sing a capella on  any given sunday. it gets me every time. every single time.

through the request to mentor her, to come full circle.

and in a weeknight non-snowday conversation.

and on and on and on and on.

i am moving forward in some ways but hopelessly behind in others. but i am grounded in this view back into beauty. it is always unanticipated, unforseen, and most clearly viewed just after it has passed. like in a rearview mirror. it's small, it's passing. grab it.