I write because nothing else makes sense

From you I learned that the pen is mightier than the sword.  Maybe that’s why I’ve poured so much of myself into wielding that particular instrument with precision.  Now I can’t recall, only that somewhere along the way, I fell in love with words and the things they could do. 

When she died, I used my words to cut into my soul, let the pain bleed into words.  The scars eventually healed and faded.  It’s not very recognizable now.  I was stunned when you left.  You were supposed to come back.  Little girls who put their fathers on pedestals are disappointed when the first realize their hero is becoming tarnished with age.  Yet, we love you like when you were young and undefeatable.  You are our hero, our superman, our prince charming, the one who keeps our world spinning on its axis. 

When we grow up we learn that you were just the great wizard behind the curtain and all we ever had to do was will ourselves into our own happily ever after.  First we had to find the courage to walk down the yellow brick road that would lead to your citadel. 

I thought I could do this, talk about you.  It seems when I use my words, the cuts I make are deeper and the pain doesn’t pour, it gushes out.  I do not know how to do this, live in a world where you don’t laugh or where I can’t call your name, the one I called you my whole life.  My tongue has fallen silent.  My memory replays the last time I saw your face, laughing from the other side of the world.  I don’t understand how you could simply fall silent, close your eyes, and draw your last breath. 

I don’t understand the sound that filters through the phone, breaking through the fog of sleep after a week of troubled sleepless nights.  I don’t understand the tears I hear or the familiar voice, or the words that she utters.  The words don’t feel real.  How can you be dead?  Dead as a doornail; deader than Marley’s ghost.  They show me a body.  It’s a live video.  In this day and age of instant information, gigabytes that travel faster than the speed of light, how is that dead body lying there on the slab yours?

Why are you gone?  No one answers me.  I hate this.  I hate how much of my life revolved around you.  Should I have loved you less?  Knowing you’d one day leave me is far different now that you’re actually gone.  I close my eyes and I see you, sitting there the morning after I gave birth to your first grandson, while I tried to sleep.  His father had to take him to NICU.  My mother went home to get some rest.  I managed to get some sleep that morning only because every time I opened my eyes, you were sitting right there beside me in the dark. 

I see you again beside my hospital bed, holding your last grandson, the one who misses you every day, the one who prays for you every day even though you are dead.  He is the most like you I think. When he laughs it is pure joy.  They make the pain ease until the next time your memories start haunting me.  Maybe it’s better to hide behind this wall of silence because at least I can smile from back here and pretend I’m not broken beyond repair.

Life after death

I'm not sure how to talk about my father's death.  Maybe a man who's the father of a daughter will understand what it means to be daddy's little girl.  Do you ever stop being her even if you both age?  I'm not sure.  Sometimes I wonder what went through his mind in that moment when his heart finally called it quits.  Was he elated that his time had finally arrived and he would now be with the woman he loved with his entire heart and soul?  Or did he think of us, his children, or me?  I'm inclined to think he might have been elated and I can't hold that against him.  He was never quite the same after she died.  When he came back from burying her thousands of miles away in his childhood home, near the house he had built for her, something of him had been left behind, buried in the dirt along with her remains.  He was never exactly the father I knew.  He stopped being him the moment she died.  But I wonder if he even knew or understood that?  His faith sustained him but I don't think his heart was ever in it.

Now he's gone.  I move through his house, his office, his life trying to move forward.  My feet moves my body but my mind just wonders, lost among the remnants of his life.  I've had my heart broken before, but never by my father.  I'm pretty sure that this time its permanent.  I have my good days and my bad.  Today was a neutral day, neither good nor bad.  I spent the weekend playing with dirt.  His dirt.  The dirt in his garden.  I had my husband dig up those damn rose bushes I had wanted my father to remove but he never did.  Well they are now gone.  He put the one rosebush that I liked in a barrel planter which we stuck in the middle of what used to be my father's vegetable garden.  His neighbor commented on how he used to take advantage of the good weather to get an early start on his garden.  I hate the fact that his garden is ready and waiting for him but he's never coming back to work on it.  Or the fact that his seeds are waiting in the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, labeled by the year they were harvested, waiting for him to plant them.  I hate how this whole thing paralyzes me.

Death.  How odd that my children and I talk about it like anything else?  I can't melodramatically tell my son that I am dying of thirst because he points out to me that he hasn't had a drink all day and he's not dead.  My four year old plays with his Flash action figure and we finally notice because he declares in a loud voice to the entire room that the Flash is dying from cancer.  He prays for his "Dadu" but he's dead and then he prays for his Grammy Egg and Grand Ian because they are alive.  I had to tell my oldest son off today because he was hungry but refused to eat.  I told him I will not tolerate the eating habit he picked up from his grandmother because I will be damned if he's going to starve himself to death.  Maybe I was exaggerating a bit but he understood me only too well.  This is where we are.  I have no idea where we will go from here or how.

This is the last place I ever imagined being.  

How I'm Really Doing...

Don’t ask me if I’m ok because the answer is obvious, I’m not.  I might be smiling but on the inside I’m numb, shell shocked, barely comprehending that your mouth is moving and you’re speaking to me.  Don’t tell me it’s going to be all right.  It will, eventually but that doesn’t mean its ok now.

Sometimes, I just cry.  I don’t need a reason.  Maybe you could stop staring uncomfortably at everything except me.  I’m human.  I’m in pain.  Just because you pretend not to see it doesn’t mean it has gone away.

I’m not okay.  I will never be okay.  Accepting God’s plan and purpose for your life doesn’t mean you’ll ever be okay.  It just means the walk of faith is uncomfortable.  Don’t pity me.  I’ve been blessed enough for many life times.  Save it for those who truly need it. 

I am weary.  My tears have worn me to the bone.  Who will carry my burdens and let me rest my head?  Will you?  Will he, she, or it?  Will they?  So why do you waste your breath, precious oxygen to ask me if I’m ok when the answer is obvious as the nose on your face.  I will never be okay again.  

The WTF Factor of Grief

My mother died on August 16, 2014.  I remember driving with my cousin back towards her house on Thursday, August 12, 2014.  She told me that even though it makes zero sense right now, one day I will be able to look back on all this and realize that God had a plan in all this.  I’m still waiting for this realization.  My mother herself said that maybe it was better this way.  I’m still protesting this view point as I have protested nearly all the things she’s ever said to me.  This is after all the same woman who told me that if I swallowed a seed a tree would grow out of my head.  Or maybe that was my own overactive imagination.  I just remember being terrified by the image of an apple tree growing out of my head after I accidentally swallowed a seed.  To this day, I’m not a big fan of apples.

Lately I’ve felt the stirring of those old emotions.  I’ve come across an old Patty Loveless song on Amazon Prime music called “How Can IHelp You to Say Goodbye.”  That didn’t help because every time I listen to the song, I remember the last time I held my mother’s hand, the way it felt in mine.  It was tiny and fragile.  My hands felt like meat mallets in comparison.  She was weak and a little senseless from the morphine.  She didn’t want it.  But I never learned how to back down from a fight and even then, I fought with her.  She needed it.  My sister-in-law was waiting to give it to her.  She’s a nurse, so she was better able to administer the medication anyway.

 

I remember my mother’s weak slurred voice.  She was irritated.  She complained that I was being irritating.  I fired back that I was going to continue to be irritating until she let my sister-in-law give her the medicine.  What I never said that I would give anything for her not to have to take that morphine.  I would have loved to have begged her to stay.  I would have bargained with God if I could.  Losing someone suddenly is hard but watching someone die is worse. 

I think I stayed long after she left.  I waited until my dad had to give her the next dose.  I remember watching the clock and her, worrying if she was comfortable as she rested on the hospital bed in the middle of her living room.  I remember counting the minutes until her next dose.  I saw when her sleep got worse.  I remember helping my dad as we changed her clothes.  In that moment, I remember thinking that she would hate this.  When she finally settled down to sleep, I picked up her hand and held it.  It was limp in mine. 

I told her leave.  Just go.  Stop fighting and go.  I remembered to tell her I loved her.  I think maybe she heard me because I felt her squeeze my hand.  I would hate to think it was my over active imagination.  I left her house after midnight but walked back through her front doors again around six in the morning.  I don’t know how my dad stood it when he found her dead body just lying there.  I couldn’t look at it.  It had no connection to my mother. 

I still don’t understand this plan of yours God.  It still doesn’t make sense to me.  I can’t stop crying.  The pain inside my chest is still there, like a tumor in my heart that’s resisting treatment.  I feel like I’m barely alive, just moving, going through the motions.  Everyone seems to be moving forward with their lives.  Why can’t I?  Why am I stuck in this place?  Why can’t I move?  God, why doesn’t your plan make any sense to me?

To the Christian Voter

A few days ago I was eviscerated by an individual whom I once held in high regard. 

Backstory:  My spouse has a very strong sense of moral justice.  He’s someone who believes one should simply do the right thing because it is the right thing to do.  Sometimes, I get tired of being his sound board and thus suggested he go write a blog.  He’s very active in social media and a question I posed to him in private soon found its way to social media.  That’s not the important part, just the back story.

It was a question about POTUS and why he seems to generate unrelenting hatred in many.  I quite admire him as a speaker and I believe he’s a man who (despite all the oppositions and mistakes) did the best job he could.  He’s not perfect.  No one is.  As my seven year informed me only God never makes mistakes.

This simple query of mine generated an unnecessary flurry filled with fire and brimstone where POTUS was attacked for his “blatant disregard for God’s law.”  That is not what I asked of my spouse and that is certainly not the conversation he had intended to start. 

Recently there has been a lot of horrific events that have been reported by the media.  There have been presidential candidates in the midst of this hailstorm of hatred who have done very little to help this situation.  There is a divide in this nation that is supposed to be indivisible.  The last time we were divided it ended in a lot of bloodshed but maybe that’s an over simplification of a momentous point in this country’s history. 

Needless to say, I am concerned because this is my home.  I am concerned because human lives are at stake.  I have heard from supporters and haters of both party and those who refuse to stop feeling the Bern.  Throw into this mixture the conservative Christians and whoever else that wants to join the fray. 

Disclaimer:  This is not a political or religious rhetoric.  I’m not offering you my faith for justification because I only need Christ’s justification. 

I take my right to vote seriously.  I exercise it to the best of my understanding because as a citizen of this nation I have a responsibility to cast my vote for the individual who will best serve the public.  I am not a registered voter for a specific party because I don’t wish to find myself where many Republicans are, standing behind a candidate that is far removed from the Republican agenda. 

The Democratic candidate’s stands on many things are vastly different from mine.  I am pro-life but I will not condemn someone who is pro-choice.  LGBT issue is a can of worm I do not wish to open but as a lifestyle it is not one I choose for religious reasons.  Yet, who am I to stand in the way of an LGBT couple or family from having the same quality of life as their heterosexual counterparts?

The politicians are not here to serve the Christian agenda.  They have a simple job, to serve the republic, the citizens of their country from all walks of life.  It is the churches job to spread the message of the gospel of Christ, to feed the hungry, and love all who require it.  That was what Christ commanded us, to love God and then love our neighbors as we love ourselves.  We want the best for ourselves so why can’t we want the same for our neighbors across this great nation of ours?

As a Christian, we need to humble ourselves and cry out before God to heal this nation and then do our part to select leaders in public office who can best fulfill their civic duty.  The job any public servant is to ensure that the life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is equally preserved for all humankind irrespective of the color, race, gender, faith, or nationality.  I am a public servant.  I fully believe this creed.

We need to stop being prideful and be the salt that God has called us to be and flavor the lives that we encounter.  Martin Luther King Jr. was a man of God.  That is the kind of example we should be following if we want to really change this world and make it a better place for our children.

It is time to humbly and prayerfully cast your vote for the person who will do their best to fulfill the obligations of the highest office in the land and serve the nation instead of their self-interest.  You don't need to agree with them, you just need to care about your country and the people who are your neighbors.  Your vote counts.

Loneliness

I did not want this to be about my mother.  That's why I wrote The Journey Home; I was trying to get some perspective as my mother lay dying.  I'm a writer.  It's how I think, with words that come out of my finger tips.  I did not want this to be about motherhood either.  That's why I wrote Motherhood....My Way; I was trying to understand how to be a working mom.  My first blog, Baby oh Baby! was about the most amazing journey of my life, the beginning of motherhood.  Now, writing this blog, trying to understand myself as the writer I want to be, I'm back where I started, thinking of my mother.

This summer has been difficult.  I keep reliving 2014.  It occurred to me that making new memories just might make things better.  We went peach picking at Demarest Farms in Hillsdale New Jersey.  It was a lovely day, spent with my family.  My favorite part was picking a ripe peach off the tree and eating it right there in the orchard.

There's a story in Luke 10:38 about Martha and her sister Mary.  They are hosting Jesus and Martha, getting stressed, asks Jesus to tell her sister to help her.  Instead, Jesus tells Martha that she's worried about a lot of things.  He goes on to tell her that Mary has chosen the right thing and it will not be denied her.

I choose to spend 2014 at my dying mother's bedside.  It is an experience I will never forget, one I can never escape.  I choose my mother over my children.  Does that make me a bad mother?  I'm not sure if it actually made me good daughter.

But I do know this, since she's been gone, I have been walking around with half a heart.  My sons look at me with such adoration and they shower me with so much unconditional love that my broken half heart is slowly healing.  I find myself applying the balm of their love to my aching heart often and often these days.  I am healing but I think I will always be alone.

A Change of Plans

There are some days when you wish you never got out of bed.  Everything that can go wrong, does.  That was today but this isn't about that.

I had plans.  I changed them twice.  Originally I had planned to take my boys to the Victoria Gardens at Wollman Rink in Central Park.  Then I decided to go see Tarzan with my friend because I had been craving Haitian food.  Let's just say I was really looking forward to seeing Tarzan; only all my plans went to hell in a hand basket.  After a week of bad sleeping pattern my insomnia struck with a vengeance at the stroke of midnight.  Being turned into a pumpkin would have been a blessing in comparison.

After a futile hour of tossing and turning I turned to drugs.

I know, Staten Island, drug problems, you think this is getting interesting.  Not that kind of drugs.  They were over the counter kind that can be found in most drug stores although in some neighborhoods you'd need a manager's key to access them.  It eventually knocked me out; I overslept and ended up being late for work.

I could go on in tedious details about all the things that went wrong with my day.  But that is not what this is about.  It's about plans and how plans can change on a whim.

Needlessly to say, I was fed up with the day.  I left work early, hopped on a bus, slept in traffic for an hour before finally going home.  Grilling in this heat seemed like a good idea.  Only that didn't work out as we had a gas scare.  Not wanting to blow up the house and everyone in it, we decided to head to the diner for dinner.

I was supposed to be in Brooklyn tonight.  But instead I ended up at a diner being waited on by a very tired looking single mom.  My circumstances had caused me to abandon my original plans.

The mundane details doesn't matter.  Neither does the circumstances.  I didn't plan on being where I ended up.  But God had plans that required me to be exactly where I ended up.  My husband makes our oldest repeat the following every morning.  "I am a leader, I am blessed.  I'll be a blessing.  I'll be my best."

Today I got to be in the right place, at the right time, to witness something extraordinary.  I don't know what God's plan is for that single mother.  I only know that I played a small part in a much bigger plan.  The plan wasn't for me but I got to play a part in the fulfillment of God's plan for someone else.

As Christians it is important to remember that we were called to be salt of the earth, a light in the darkness.  We were commanded by Christ himself to show our love for Him by feeding his sheep.  It's more than just attending church service, or church programs.  We need to see the minuteness of us and the grandness of Him.  It is His plan and we should be so blessed as to get a small walk-in part.