Silver Lining

Truth is, we were all unwillingly caught up in that tempest. You just happened to be the youngest, which meant that you were either the most or the least impacted—depending on the day.

It wasn’t her fault. She’d grown up unmoored, searching for someone to cling to – then tried, too young, to create the family she’d always wanted. Yet it was too much all at once. You simply can’t know what you haven’t known. No one can. And no amount of lecturing, arguing or shared “lessons learned” can turn the tide. So many words I wish I could take back now, their taste so bitter in hindsight. We tried to help fill the gap. Tried to make it right when we were really just making it up as we went along. Still the storm surged and calmed.

You were the silver lining, from that first night when I found you standing up in your crib sobbing. I picked you up and rocked you, and you instantly fell asleep in my arms. So small.  All you wanted was to be held and loved. Every. Single. Day. And that was the easy part for me. Soon you were happy, comfortable in our new routine.

I would rush home from work to see you with those little blue eyes watching for me at the front door. You would entertain us all at dinner with your goofy smiles and baby giggles. Then it was bath time and stories. Wheels on the bus and Itsy Bitsy Spider. You and me in the old rocker. Like a kitten, you’d purr a quiet little hum when we cuddled. Then you’d fall asleep hugging your “Lambie,” secure in this new rhythm.  I’d run my finger over the bridge of your nose, connecting the freckles on your tiny face and feeling grateful for unexpected gifts.  

Time passed and she found her way. Like all of us, she now takes parenting step-by-step, day-by-day, striving to get it right. Not long ago, the topic of those five months came up. “We don’t talk about that time,” she said with finality.  Out of a long overdue show of respect for her, I said nothing. I understood that was a period of pain and insecurity for her. Yet with that broad sweep of the eraser, we were wiping away the laughter, the Wheels on the Bus, the precious way you bowed your little head in prayer every night and OUR connection, etched so very permanently on my heart. I was trying to come to terms with this in my head when she left the room, leaving just you and me.

“Mimi?” you said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy.” I replied. “Have I given you 100 kisses yet today?”

You giggled as I kissed every freckle in that magnificent constellation on your face. And then I heard it. That little purr.

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“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;”

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

 

 

 

First Responders

There are those pivotal moments in life that unearth something you didn’t know before … about yourself … about those you love most in the world.

Eighteen months ago on a hot August night, our little family of three was headed home from the state fair—laughing and joking. We stopped at Waffle House for a cheap meal, continuing our conversation.  Looking out the front window of the restaurant, we noticed a young, 30-something man stumbling through the parking lot. He texted someone on his cell phone, then continued walking aimlessly west along the highway. “That’s odd,” I said. “Where did he come from? Where is he going?” There are no sidewalks or walking paths along that stretch of highway … no residences … and the road narrows to a bridge over a lake.  We passed it off and continued our original conversation, then paid for our meal and started home in my car.

Not a mile from the restaurant, we noticed a stopped vehicle on the bridge with its emergency lights flashing. We peered into darkness trying to determine what was happening. Then, in my car’s headlights, we saw a pair of flip flops in the middle of the road … then a crumpled body … and a van just beyond it.

Pull over!” my husband and son yelled at the same time. Both trained firefighter/EMTs, they yelled to me, “Stay by the car. Call 911.”  Then they ran into the darkness, passing the driver of the car who stood--stricken in horror--next to his vehicle, and to the young man who lay severely broken on the pavement.

What happened in that next 10 minutes is something that I think about often.  I called 911 then stayed at the car, crying and shaking—afraid to go look. I did the only thing I could think of to do … the only thing I was capable of doing at that moment … I prayed.

Tom (my husband) and Kyle ran by the driver, giving him an assignment to keep him occupied. (“Did you call 911? Watch for traffic and the squad.”) Then Kyle began CPR on the man and kept it up, despite the man’s critical injuries. With no flares or lights on that dark stretch of highway, Tom held up a lighter and stood out in the road protecting Kyle and the injured man as best he could. The police arrived, followed by the medics—although it was too late.  

Uriel died that night. We learned later that he was an immigrant from Mexico who had too much to drink that evening and, after a series of terrible events, ended up wandering down a highway. He left behind a wife and young children – some 1,400 miles away.

We all asked ourselves if we could’ve done more. After 18 months of reflection, here is my take on it:  I don’t know what God’s plan is, but I have to trust that this was part of it.  As many cars drove by that horrific scene at 60 MPH that dark night, my guys stopped to help. No one else did. Tom still tears up when he talks about how proud he was of Kyle that night – how our 19-year-old took charge of that scene fearlessly and professionally, fighting for that man’s life with everything inside of him. (And Kyle still gets angry when we even hint that we are proud of his actions. “I’m not a hero.”) 

I take a little comfort in knowing that my guys were probably the last people Uriel saw on this earth—and that he left this life knowing that someone cared; that he wasn’t alone. And maybe it’s naïve, but I hope that my prayers helped to summon all of Uriel’s deceased loved ones to meet him as he crossed over. (I know: naïve.)

I pass that spot on the freeway twice a day—and I still pray for Uriel.

There is so much in life that is beyond our control. But those pivotal moments may teach us something about ourselves … like accepting that the power of prayer may reach beyond this life and our understanding. Or they may teach us something we didn’t know about our loved ones …  like the depths of their compassion and selflessness. For that, I’m truly grateful.

One Thousand Words

I was 6 years old that Christmas eve. My little sister and I had been willingly tucked in to bed early that night, in anticipation of Santa’s arrival. I remember being awakened out of a deep sleep. My parents were dressed in their winter coats, headed to the hospital. A neighbor was there to watch us. The adults talked in hushed tones, anxiety in their voices.

The next morning as I sat playing with my new Easy Bake Oven, my mom sat crumpled in a chair uncharacteristically teary and quiet. I didn’t really grasp it at the time—but she had just lost her older sister, Evie, to an aneurysm.  Evie left a devoted husband and two teenage girls that adored her. I loved my cousins, Shelly and Patti, and looked up to them like big sisters. It wasn’t until I was much older that I began to deeply consider their loss.

The years passed. Shelly and Patti raised children of their own. Shelly moved to the West Coast, Patti stayed in the Midwest. They’ve become even more like sisters to me over time. My Mom loves them as her daughters, and their children as her grandchildren. Our family get-togethers are rare, but so precious. “The girls” all talk into the wee hours of the night, laughing and crying and sharing stories. 

Not long ago, after raising two girls of her own, Patti recounted that painful Christmas Eve. I could hear regret in her voice—for those things she wished she would’ve said to her mom.  My heart broke again for her as I considered how her loss had affected her life … her choices … her relationship with her girls, Jenny and Laura.  But here is what I’ve learned from her beautiful example: live passionately. Pay

attention to the details of your children’s lives because you might not get a second chance. Every day is a gift.

Last weekend, we all traveled to North Carolina for Jenny’s wedding. It was a beautiful event that, I know, Patti had envisioned for years. I snapped maybe 150 photos throughout the evening, but there is one that stands out. One photo that is, hands down, my favorite. In fact, I can’t look at it without crying. It is a photo of Patti, taken during the Daddy-Daughter dance. It is a moment frozen in time: all eyes in the room are on Jenny and her dad, I glance at Patti. She looks back at me and smiles. Laura stands beside her. It is a snapshot worth more than a thousand words. Her smile says … there is no place else in the world I’d rather be right now. It says, I’m so happy. I made it to see this day. It says, God is good. It says, LIVE like there is no tomorrow.

 

Then There Were Four

It’s not supposed to happen this way. The baby of the family is never supposed to go first, but we are part of a plan we just can’t understand. At least not now.

Last Sunday evening. Awesome youth mass at church. The combination of K serving as Eucharistic minister, Kelli and the kids attending for the first time, the music and the message left everyone emotional with joy. When we returned home, there was a message from our niece Erica on the phone that Denise (T’s youngest sibling) had been rushed to the ER. Difficulty breathing. She’d been under observation for an hour at the hospital. They’d call back soon with an update soon. They did. She’d crashed. The doctors were doing CPR. We jumped in the car and rushed to the hospital, saying the Divine Mercy Chaplet on the way.

We pulled into the ER. Ann (T’s oldest sibling) and her family were sitting on the curb outside, crying. Ann stood up, walked to T, shaking her head. “We lost her,” she said. My heart was breaking as they hugged and sobbed. I knew what they were thinking. I knew their Dad had always told them to watch out for their younger brothers and sister. I knew that Ann had a dream a few years ago after their Mom had passed, in which she and her Mom were sitting together on a bench in the cemetery. “Watch out for Denise,” her Mom had told her. But even when something is beyond our control, even when there is no way we could have done anything differently or affected a different outcome—we still blame ourselves. It is a heavy burden to carry.

There was a blood clot in Denise’s lung. Erica said she’d had some dizziness and even blacked out the day before, but didn’t think much of it. With no insurance, she was hesitant to go get it checked out.

She was just 38. And alone. She’d been so happy being the youngest in a big family. Then, as lives go, her brothers and sisters grew up and moved out. Then their father died. Just a few short years later, they lost their Mom. Denise was married for a short time. She and I had both been pregnant at the same time, 12 years ago. I lost that baby at 13 weeks. Denise carried her little girl to full term, when the baby’s umbilical cord became wrapped around her neck as she moved into position for delivery. Denise delivered her beautiful little Ashley, but would never hear her cry or laugh. Denise lived in a small, furnished studio apartment. Twice, in recent years, she’d jumped on a bus headed for California without even enough money to stay there or get home, never leaving a note to say where she was headed. Later when we asked why, she just said “I just wanted to see California.” Sometimes now I wonder if she knew how little time was left.

So, last week was a long week. But if you have faith, you can see the little miracles amidst the pain. For me, there was the reuniting of T and his siblings—and even laughter and funny stories. There is the reality check that comes with something like this—that forces you to consider what is most important in life. There are the hugs and “I love you’s” expressed freely, that ordinarily go unsaid. There is the support of people who like you—and, surprisingly, sometimes even from those who don’t. There is the ability to (once again) label those irritating petty things as ridiculous. There are the little angels-on-earth that reach out to you, desperate to comfort you in your pain. And there, crouching in the corner, just waiting for you … whenever you are ready for Him … is God. He knows your suffering like no one else ever could. He wants to remind you that although the journey isn’t always smooth, the landing is.

Fall Farm Time

Last weekend, Papa Soups hosted us in a (much needed) family fall fest at their Farm. We packed up the kids in their come-as-you-are-apparel that only kids can get away with (i.e. snow boots, soccer cleats/uniforms, cheek tattoos, shorts and hoodies) and headed west with our potluck goodies.

Upon arrival, the little ones walked single file around the pond's edge, identifying deer tracks and then setting off to uncover clues left behind by other wildlife. ("Let's look for BEAR tracks!")

Papa Soups had set up a picnic table, chairs and a campfire and pulled out the tractor(s) for a hayride around the pond. Papa "assigned" all the boys their favorite jobs. T drove the big tractor; A Boston played navigator; K and Brade started the fire. The little girls talked little girl stuff (Hannah Montanna; Halloween princess costumes, etc.) The big girls traded recipes and fussed over the beautiful fall themed buffet Soups set out.

We roasted hot dogs on-a-stick over the open fire then went inside for more goodies ... a fall salad with cranberries and apples; artichoke dip; slaw; butter pecan cupcakes; donuts; cider and more. By then it was dark. We took one last hayride, around the pond and along the road. An Amish buggy passed us--its passengers waving. We bundled in hoodies and blankets and roasted marshmallows over the open fire. Then, it was time to pack up and head home.

Every now and then the stars align with all the soccer, football, band, cheerleading, travel schedules and we manage to come together for a simple,"unplugged" evening of family fun that leaves everyone saying ..."We really need to do this more often."

Medicine

Sunday brought comfort food, California cousins, and catch-up with some nearest-and-dearest family at Mom's. We sat around the wobbly coffee table and told stories--bonding over that weird sense of humor we all share (that nobody else really gets). I laughed so hard, I doubled-over, unable to catch my breath. (What is it about those stupid whoopie cushion-type things that makes us laugh MORE each time they are used?) I don't remember the last time I laughed that hard. It felt so good. Laughter really is the best medicine.

Of course, the highlight of the evening (performance-wise) was sponsored by the Divine Miss M.

She spent most of the night on her head, perfecting (and I do mean perfecting) her headstand---and the many possible combinations of leg poses that can accompany this amazing acrobatic accomplishment.

I should've known that once I started snapping photos--and this was going to go down in the history blogs--the need for this endeavor to be truly perfect only increased.

In the end, she was--of course--victorious. (Which was still only secondary to her talent for the dramatic arts.)

Strawberry Hill Farm

It was Juju's birthday party, but it could've
been mine. Surrounded by my favorite peeps in one of my most idyllic spots on earth--Strawberry Hill.

Papa Soups hosted this perfect summer supper. Lelu and A. Boston joined us, fitting in like a pair of little gloves--with hugs and love from all. The boys climbed on the big ole tractors (and Lelu, too).

We all wandered the farm. The kids were in awe of Dad's beautiful hand-made windmill, and he so patiently explained how it worked. They stood for long, still periods beside the pond watching and waiting to see a fish.

Everyone brought something yummy, and Soups outdid herself, as always--dressing their cozy cabin up in its party-finest.


Megs brought these yummy little pastry shells (filled with a blend of cream cheese, confectioners sugar and I don't know what else)--that were as pretty as they were delicious. (See Leemy eyeing the dessert spread!)

On the drive out there, we were talking to A. Boston about having
a little 4th birthday celebration for him in a few weeks.

Near the end of the gathering tonight, he whispered to me--"Mimi, can everybody here come to my birthday?"
It's so very good to be loved, huh?