We Remember

Today, two years ago, my family buried my mother.

In many ways, it was the hardest day of my life.

In other ways, it was most blessed.  If only you could have seen how full the church was that day at her funeral, to hear my family and our Church singing of God's promise and Hope in the life she lived, the life we have left to live before we see her again.  To be there with family and friends (and in-laws!) who traveled so far to join us in celebrating Momma's life--what a joy to have such a community.  This is what Christians do for each other.

2 Years?

Has it been two years already?  Twenty-four months is not a very long time--ask any parent of a toddler--and yet, it seems ages ago that I first learned my mother had died.

Last year, I shared the story of my mother's death, and how we celebrated her life in remembrance.  This year, unexpectedly, I am a strange mix of emotions: happy and sad; peaceful and unsettled.

I miss Momma more than I thought I could, and in ways I never expected.  I miss talking to her about adoption, even though I never did speak with her about it, about becoming a parent in this way--it is so different from being pregnant.  When I have dreams that I don't understand, I miss hearing her interpretation of them and what she thinks it means for my life.  I miss listening to her tell stories; stories she made up or stories from her past, or from her family's past.  She had a flare for story-telling.

Still, even now on the second anniversary of her death, I am giddy with excitement.  Today, Taylor and I get to go visit our Little Girl--the court date is getting so close!  All I can think about is whether or not we will have her home in two weeks.. in just 13 days.

Ash Wednesday

I was scrolling through my google reader this morning, and one of my college friends has posted this wonderfully apt poem on Death.

You should go read it!  And if you like it, do let Margaret know :)

Isn't it great how we can experience so much more in life through the experience and urgings of our friends?

Christians Never Say Goodbye

This afternoon I attended a memorial mass for a friend's father, who died 5 years ago.  For me, now, any memorial mass for a parent touches very close to home, and I found myself reflecting on Momma's death, too.

I saw my friend and her mother in the front pew, and I could tell my friend was crying. I thought of Momma's funeral and my family in the front rows.  Daddy, me, Taylor, Vivian. My sister Summer's family. Ray and his family; Bethany and her family.  I remembered how good it was to have so much of my family there beside me, feeling our loss all together.  It was easier to bear the pain when I could hold Vivian's hand or cling to Daddy's arm.  It was more comforting to bury my face in Taylor's shoulder than into my handkerchief alone.

When I first faced the fact that my mother was dying, I thought of my friend, whose father also died from cancer.  She is an only child and I remember thinking to myself, "She only has her mother left to remember her father from her childhood."  I wasn't judging her or her parents for having a "small" family; I wasn't trying to congratulate myself for having "so many" siblings.  It was merely an observation I had at the time, wrapped all about with the coming loss of my mother.  I was especially thankful for my siblings, then, and for my nieces and nephews who had known Grandmama while she was with us.

Just Dishes

I picked them up in the car and drove them home.

I carried them up the stairs all by myself and set them in the kitchen where I opened the boxes and begin to gingerly unpack each bundle.  One plate, two, three.  Three nested serving bowls. One cereal bowl and another, and another. A dinner plate, and two more.  Another small plate. Another bundle of bowls.

Until I had them all stacked on my counter, layered one on the other, presenting themselves to me almost with a smile, ready for a new home:

"Here we are! What do you think?" 

When I was engaged and setting up my wedding registry, I knew I didn't want to spend hours finding "just the right pattern" of china for Taylor and me.  [That's also the reason I didn't buy a new wedding dress--I wore Momma's. It was better that way for me.]  So, I decided to register for the same pattern Momma used for her everyday china--Blue Danube.  I've always been one for "matchy" things, and this set is the creme de la creme of coordinating pieces!  If you can imagine it, Blue Danube probably has one in their pattern :)

So I've been eating off of "Momma's" china for years.   I have done dinner parties, dessert parties, brunches, pizza nights, formal dinners, buffets--all on the same pattern Momma always used at her events: our birthday dinners, tea parties, holiday meals, Saturday morning breakfasts.

She and I even used to talk about our various pieces, "Oh, I used the square salad bowl for the potatoes and the fish platter for the chicken.  Do you ever use your chop plate for a salad? It looks really pretty."  And, truth be told, I think she was always a little jealous of my pentagon platter ;)

And I never really noticed anything unusual about having the same china.  Even after Momma died, using my Blue Danube was the same as it had been before.

And so I was a bit surprised when, after I had put my lovely new pottery away in my own cupboard, arranging it "just so" so that the odd-sized, handmade pieces had enough room without scraping against each other, it hit me--these were Momma's dishes.  Her own. That she used daily.  She loved these dishes.  She handled them and served her food on them and welcomed us all into her kitchen with them.

She spent several years building up her set, requesting pieces from Lois in batches and occasionally asking for custom serving dishes.  She would go to the shop with my sister and ask her advice on which piece she should get.  Not only was she supporting a local artisan, but I think these dishes were her way of paying tribute to the desert she found herself in 20-some years ago.  She loved the desert too.

And now I have both in my cupboard.  The dishes she loved, inspired by the desert she grew to love.

When Taylor and I sat down to dinner on Monday--the first day we had the pottery--we served up hearty helpings of the fig and olive roast chicken, the rice, and the broiled kale, arranging it all on our pretty plates.  We said our prayers, and then I said to the dishes (but not in a crazy-talk way):

"What do you think of my food? Is it as tasty as Momma's?"  

Of course, I was being silly :) I don't really think the dishes heard me.. But it got me thinking.  In a way, these dishes do have a "personality" of their own.  Not only are they used (and well-loved) but I have been a part of their use in another household.  I have known how well they were loved, and by whom.  I know where they come from.

I have inherited many things of my mother's since she died: jewelry, tea cups, teapots, other dishes, small nick-knacks.  But the pottery is the first thing that I've received that I also used, regularly, with Momma.

And using it now, in my own house, makes me want to cry just a little bit.  Not in a bad way, really, but in the same way that those gentle but firm reminders do, as they pop up here and there, telling me things aren't the same, that she's gone.

"But they're just dishes, Annie," a little voice inside tries to tell me.  

And they are. But not just. They have carried so much more than food over the years--memories, smiles, laughter, and even tears. I am very thankful to have these dishes, to welcome my family and friends to my table with them, in memory of Momma, and with her very much by my side.

And here's to that!

Journey Home

Another excerpt from Lilith.  I think I need to read this book every few years, it's so full of Hope and Life.

But hark the herald of the sun, the auroral wind, softly trumpeting his approach! The master-minister of the human tabernacle is at hand! Heaping before his prow a huge ripple-fretted wave of crimson and gold, he rushes aloft, as if new launched from the urging hand of his maker into the upper sea--pauses, and looks down on the world. White-raving storm of molten metals, he is but a coal from the altar of the Father's never-ending sacrifice to his children. See every little flower straighten its stalk, lift up its neck, and with outstretched head stand expectant: something more than the sun, greater than the light, is coming, is coming--none the less surely coming that it is long upon the road! What matters to-day, or to-morrow, or ten thousand years to Life himself, to Love himself! He is coming, is coming, and the necks of all humanity are stretched out to see him come! Every morning will they thus outstretch themselves, every evening will they droop and wait--until he comes. --Is this but an air-drawn vision? When he comes, will he indeed find them watching thus?

It was a glorious resurrection-morning. The night had been spent in preparing it!

It helps me remember that we are on the way, to a Home beyond compare.  We are journeying ever onward, "further in, come further in," toward a Love that does not contain Himself but overflows into all His creation.  Indeed, we are all pregnant with expectation for that final Glorious Resurrection-Morning. Dawn is ever the hope of man.

And it is coming.

Rich Memories

Memories are rich. The last week has been especially rich with memory for my family.  One week ago, Taylor and Viv and I celebrated the anniversary of Momma's death.  We had a nice Tea Party "Brinner" (that's Breakfast for Dinner) of scrambled eggs, bacon wrapped sausages (baked in brown sugar and maple syrup), potatoes O'Brien, and guacamole.  For "dessert" we had the Bass Cottage Inn's oat scones, which were delicious, and bacon shortbread cookies, which were also delicious, and tea.

It really was a fitting celebration.  I knew Momma was there with us--her first tea party at my house in Boston :)

Each of us went in turns telling one memory we had of Momma, which, of course, led to other memories and stories and jokes.  At the end of the evening, we said a prayer of Thanks for Momma's life, and that we were able to know her and Love her.

Then yesterday, the anniversary of her funeral--St. Patrick's Day--we had a traditional Irish boiled dinner.  My first ever.  We has corned beef brisket, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and cabbage.  I even grated a little Dubliner Irish cheddar cheese to top things off, but the flavors were all so beautifully simple that not much garnish was needed.  I'm happy to report that it went well.  We had four people over, bringing the total eaters to seven--the number in my family.  We had a jolly evening.

St. Patty's Feast

-----

And so, we go on and on.  A year has past. Before we know it, it will be two years, then five.  But we won't forget.  And we look forward, with great hope, to the day when we can all enjoy a Sunday High Tea as a whole family once again.  And it will be Beatific.

The Feast of St. Patrick

When I was a little girl, attending Catholic school, St. Patty's day was sort of a big deal.  See, we had to figure out how to wear green with our red, white, and black plaid, polyester uniforms (:P).  I had green eyes, of course, but that didn't matter. All my friends would say, "That doesn't count!" and pinch me anyway :(

So I took to wearing a pair of Momma's green earrings--little round jade balls (we couldn't wear dangley earrings with our uniform).  I would wear my hair down and when people would say "You're not wearing green!" I would (trimphantly) pull back my hair and say, "HA!"  Sometimes they still pinched me... hm.

[This year I wore her teapot earrings, since they go so well with my bright green sweater!]

Nonetheless, we had all sorts of fun at school on St. Patrick's day (and yes, we were always on the lookout for Leprechauns and their pot of gold (though mostly we were interested in candy)).  We would have green snacks and build traps for them, placing gold beads inside, or gold candies, or spray-painted gold rocks, and concocting all manner of tricky devices to trip them up.  And it was all so shiny :) and so much fun.

I remember watching the movie "Darby O'Gill and the Little People" at home with my sibs.  Often we would go to the Knights of Columbus St. Patty's dinner and eat corned beef and potatoes and cabbage and have vanilla cake for dessert with delicious shamrock-shaped candies on top! So many tasty memories of those.  I remember bargaining for the candies with my parents and oldest siblings (Beth and Viv were too smart to part with theirs).

By high school, and later college, St. Patrick's day lost some of its luster from childhood. It wasn't that I disliked it, but I didn't make traps anymore :) and I didn't bargain for candy shamrocks either.  But, I also didn't go out drinking (even when I was old enough) and generally let the day (which was invariably during Lent) pass by without much pomp or circumstance.

And again, St. Patrick's day is changed for my family.  Momma's funeral was on March 17 last year, and we spent the day very differently than other years together.  Although the viewing the day before was hard on me (seeing my mother's body laid out, wearing make-up, stiff, and cold--it wasn't her anymore and I knew it), the funeral in many ways was harder, but (as there is always grace in sorrow) it was also very good.  [Here is the homily from the funeral.]

The saddest part for me was when she was lowered into her grave.  It seemed so final. So ultimate.  I will never see her body again in this world.  That is hard.

But life is never without humor or joy :)  While Momma was descending, Michael went over to look down and almost lost his gum (that wouldn't have made Momma happy, who spent much of her time as a teacher telling her students to spit their gum out in the trash can).  Also, look at Daddy's face. Know what he's thinking?  "Gosh, that's a deep hole!" :)

And so, here we are at the anniversary. There is still sadness, but even reading through the homily again, and remembering all the events of these recent years, I am not sorrowful.  There is joy behind the tears and I am able to smile, despite the mist in my eyes.  Not all tears are an evil.  And when I think of Momma, especially, I am often reminded of a line from the Return of the King, as Frodo sails to Valinor:

And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West until at last on a night of rain, Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water.  And it seemed to him that...the gray rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise. 

A Homily for Momma

Fr. Paul, the priest at my home parish, only knew Momma for a few months before she died.  But in his homily for her funeral, I feel that he knew her through and through.  Perhaps it was his grace as a priest. Perhaps it was her "transparency" among friends and those she trusted.  Either way, his words were from his heart, and they spoke to ours.  Here is the text, if you want to read it.

[First Reading: Judith 15:8-10
Second Reading: 2 Cor 5:1-10
Gospel: Matt 5:13-14]

As I was meditating on these readings, I said to myself, "How beautiful these words speak of Jeanette, herself." I said to myself, "The life of Jeanette was so faith filled that she lived her life in the presence of all of us."

But as I reflect on the words today, the words of scripture -- that had been chosen by Jeanette and her family for this Mass -- speak about her. And if Jeanette was here she would promptly tell us, "Yes! But, God comes first!" She would like to hear the words of God, for it was the heart of her life.

And as we listen to the first reading, we hear of a very beautiful lady, one that was still with the spirit of God. And she wanted not the praise of the people, but that her life should be dedicated to the service of God. And in giving service to God she obtained great joy, peace, and happiness. So much so, like King David, she danced for the Lord. And as I thought about this, I said to myself, "Yes, Jeanette, go ahead and dance for our God. You did everything for God and rightly so. Just like Judith, you go ahead and dance. Dance for Him that we here can only imagine the great Love, the Joy, and Happiness you have the pleasure of doing before our God.

Then in the second reading of today, from St. Paul's letter to the Corinthians, it speaks of our human body as a dwelling tent, something that has been given to us to use so that we may glorify God through the Son. And it's not meant for us to live an endless life here on this Earth. St. Paul is telling us that, so that we may use it to serve God, so that we too may achieve eternal happiness. None of us would love to stay on forever in this life because we were all promised the Goodness and the Greatness of our Heavenly Kingdom. So much so, that if we only realize how beautiful this existence with God is, I'm sure we would ask the Lord to take us home Today.

As I was sitting with Jeanette one morning, she was by herself, and as we sat and she shared with me, she said, "Father, I am tired. I want to go Home." And I said to her, "Jeanette, God is waiting. He has given you the time, the time to prepare yourself, so that when the hour comes, you can surrender your life to the Lord, just like Christ did on the cross. You carry this cross in your body for your salvation and the salvation of your Loved Ones. When the time comes it will be like the transfiguration, when Jesus was transformed into the beauty of His eternal existence." And as we watched the transfiguration through the story, then we understand how beautiful that Life will be. And we know that when the hour comes we will be like stepping out of this body and into the glorified body prepared for us by God, Himself.

And in today's Gospel reading, Jesus speaks about the Salt. He says, "You are the salt of the Earth." Continue to be salt of the Earth. Use your salt to enhance the taste of salt and your light, not to hide it, but to display it in the quality of life and the relationship that you shared with God. The greater our relationship with God, the better the quality of salt and light we demonstrate through our lives. Yes, Jeanette was the salt of the earth. She salted the lives of all those people she touched through her work at St. Ann’s, through the RCIA, the CCD, and all the other programs. Jeanette allowed the light to shine forth in her life. And this light came through her prayer life. Jeanette was a woman of great prayer.

As we were sharing that morning, she said to me, "Father, I love my family." And I said, "Love is a gift from God. If you love your family it shows your deep love for God." She said, "But Father, I am tired. But, since Richard wants to go to the Congress, I will go with him." And she built up that courage and strength to make sure it became a reality in their lives. And not only that, she spoke very lovingly of her children. She was so proud of all of them and she was looking forward to the day of her two grand children's Baptism, which would have taken place in May. She said, "Father, I am looking forward to that. That will be my last Joy." But God said, "No. Come home to Me. I need you."

And as I went to anoint her on the evening that she passed away, she said to me, "Father, I'm finding it so hard to pray," and I said to her, "Jeanette, let your soul pray. God hears the prayer of your soul. You don't have to use words. He knows what you are trying to say to Him. Surrender yourself to Him and allow Him to take you where He wants."

Jeanette, we thank God for the gift of you. We take from you the many good lessons that you teach us about God and we pray that you will pray for us that we may become the Salt of the Earth and the Light of the world, just like you showed us.

May you rest in peace.

My Story

About a week and a half before Momma died, I went to the CCD congress in Anaheim, CA with her and Daddy, and we met up with Viv for dinner and a few classes.  It was a great weekend. Momma was so weak by then, and jaundiced from liver failure, that she was in a wheelchair.  My job, in coming to congress, was to push her around for the weekend.

She was a trooper. She was cheerful and loving and really seemed to be enjoying herself, despite her exhaustion.  I wheeled her around to each of her classes, and she listened attentively and we discussed them together. I pushed her through the "den of booths" where she bought several gifts for people, including a congress t-shirt for Daddy (he gets one every year) and a long-sleeve shirt for me (it's one of my favorites now, actually).

I brought along The Fellowship of the Ring so that I could start reading it aloud to her and Daddy.  I thought they would enjoy it and it was such an important story to me that I really wanted to share it with them.  I intended to record the rest of the story for them and email them the files so at least Momma could listen to them while she was resting at home (she had stopped teaching in January due to a bad case of pneumonia).  Together that weekend, we made it through the Old Forest and right up to the threshold of Tom Bombadil's house "and a golden light was all about them."  Fitting.

I remember massaging her feet and calves, because they would go to sleep in the wheelchair. They were always cold, too, so she wore down-filled "tent booties" all the time.  I wanted to touch her as much as possible--y'know how great it feels when someone rubs your shoulders or your hands? all those endorphins? I wanted to send those little feel-good healers all through her body.  But I knew it wouldn't work.  She had told me a few months before that she didn't get those "shivers" of endorphins anymore. Maybe her nervous system had been affected too greatly by the cancer, but she said she just didn't get those feel-good ripples anymore.  That was perhaps the saddest thing for me that weekend.  We are such physical beings that it hurt me, physically (made me want to cry) to know that my touch didn't "work" on her body anymore.  I knew that she was thankful and appreciative that I was rubbing her and hugging her, that emotionally it was supportive, but it was hard to accept that the lack of connection between the physical and spiritual was the beginning of the end...

I remember so much from that weekend, the food we ate, the restaurants we visited, people we met. I remember how the wheelchair would vibrate if I pushed it too quickly along the sidewalks.  I remember sitting in the sunshine with my sister and parents, eating a brought-from-home lunch together.  My skin was hot in the sunlight. I took a picture of a little girl pushing her dolly in a play-stroller.  I asked Momma and Daddy to pose for a picture. The last one I have of them together. You have seen it before--I use it often. I am always struck by how Momma's jaundice was lessened in the sunlight, and how Daddy looks a little more pink than "normal" next to Momma.

Sunday that weekend we packed up our things at the hotel and loaded it all up in the car.  We were in my grandmother's Blue Van. She had been in a wheelchair for the last several years of her life and she picked that  van because it had a big space in the back for the chair, without having to collapse it.  Strange that Momma, who inherited the van, now found its original functionality so useful.

We stayed at Vivian's apartment that night.  She was on the second floor of a building with no elevator, so Momma had to climb the stairs.  Daddy asked her "how are you going to get up to Viv's apartment?" and she said, frankly, "I'm going to go up once and come down once and that's all."  It was hard for her--it took all three of us supporting her as she labored up each step, clutching the railing of the stairs. I think I slept on the couch that night and Viv slept in her roommate's bed.

In the morning, Momma and Daddy had to pick up Uncle Greg (Momma's brother) at the airport.  Momma climbed down the stairs again, two of us in front of her to lean on and one behind her for support, and walked the 15 or so feet to the van.  She was so weak, so tired. I hugged her goodbye, without bursting into tears, and Viv and I helped her up into the front seat of the van.  She blessed us and told us she loved us.  That was the last time I saw her alive.

I spent the rest of the day hanging out with Viv, visiting some of her "haunts" in the area :)  I flew back to Boston on the red-eye and had a busy busy week and weekend, with family visiting and house guests and work schedules and crochet class and an under-the-weather husband.

----

After Christmas, I had told Momma and Daddy I could take time off work to be in CA and help out (thank Heaven for employee benefits).  On Wednesday the week after I returned from Congress (after our last house guest had left), I got a call from Daddy in the afternoon.  In a very calm, but very sober voice, he asked me to come and stay for an indefinite period of time because Momma had taken a turn for the worse.  I could hear the emotion and tears catch in his throat as he continued, "She doesn't have much time."  I told him I'd come soon and Taylor and I booked tickets for Saturday, intending to finish the week at work and settle things with them about my leave. I went to my crochet class that evening, still thinking I had time...

Later in the evening, my sister Bethany called me, also choked up. She told me, "I don't know if Mom's gonna make it till Saturday. You've got to get here sooner."  Panic set in. But at that point in the evening, the next available flight to CA was early the next morning.  We had to wait.

So we packed our bags and I wrote a letter to my employers letting them know I was taking a month of family-related medical leave--I didn't care what they said. I'd sort it out later. I was going to CA.  We went to bed at 11, thinking we should at least be rested for the next day, since there was nothing else to do but pray.

Sometime around 1am my phone rang. It was my brother; he was crying.  It's always hard to bear when men cry, I don't know why that is. He said, "Mom died a little while ago." and he told me that he got to see her, just in time. She was conscious and lucid and recognized him when he came in the room.  Then Summer got on the phone and told me Daddy was still in the room with her, stroking her arm. She was crying, and she said she had to go take Giulia in to say goodbye to Grandmama.  They told me they loved me. I told them I loved them too and said something like "I'll see you tomorrow."

I hung up the phone and woke Taylor up. We cried together, hard and loud. Even then, in that moment, as we held each other in bed, I could feel Momma there with us.  I knew she was there. Right before my brother called, I was dreaming.  I dreamed about Momma's last moments. She was lying in bed with all her children around her and giving last bits of advice (or prophecy).

We sent emails to our closest friends and family, letting them know Momma had died, and we went back to bed.  A few hours later we woke to our alarms and piled our bags into the taxi, went to the airport, spent 6 dry (both in humidity and in tears) hours on the plane, picked up our rental car, got In-n-Out (well, Momma would have wanted us to, and we were hungry!), and drove the three hours up to Inyokern.

Hospice had removed Momma's body by the time we got there, in the afternoon.  We were the last to arrive. Daddy took Taylor and me and sat down between us on Momma's inherited (from her mother) antique couch and told us about the Valentine's day poems they had written each other, about her last moments.  We cried some more.

Madeleine Peyroux, one of my favorite vocalists, sings a song called Prayer.
This is what I imagine Momma's last thoughts were like...
Lord, I must be strong now
I don't belong now
In this world anymore

I'll say a final prayer for
Those I care for
Who've kept my company

My destiny is clear
I'm dying to have you near
To me

Lord
I don't belong now 
If you are waiting
I am not afraid to die

I'm prepared to go
Divide my body and soul
Won't you

Lord
I won't be long now
If you are waiting
I am not afraid to die

Have mercy, Lord
I'm told it's paradise
To have and to hold

Lord
I must be strong now
I don't belong now
In this world anymore

Lord
I won't be long now
If you are waiting
I am not afraid to die

We had arrived. We were there in the house without Momma, but she was still there.  We were face to face with her death, which we had been anticipating for months, but never expecting.  A year ago today, as I sat on that couch with Daddy between Taylor and me, quiet grief set in. The rush to make it home was gone. The busy-ness in Boston had been left behind. Hurry vanished. There was only "after" left. And all there is to do with after is let it linger a while, keeping company amidst the tears.  

Today, it seems to me, the after has departed, as gently as it came: like a mist in the trees that settles in the night and is burned away by the bright morning Sun.  There are still tears of course, dripping from the dew-laden boughs of memory.  Mist still lingers in damp depressions under trees. But the Sun is definitely shining. It's a brand new day.

Two Songs, and One More

Before she died, Momma and Daddy met with one of their friends, whom Momma had asked to do the music at her funeral.  She had most of the songs picked out already.

The processional was Safety Harbor (by Rory Cooney).  My brother, in the navy, always really liked this song, since he knew what it was like to sail home to safety.  Accompanied by Momma, my oldest sister sang it in high school.  It's always been in our family, and I've even played it at funerals before, occasionally. I have often thought about the meaning in the words over the years.  It's a song of peace and relief, which (I think) is how Momma felt before she died.

Sweet Vision! Bless my eyes! 

Land upon the western skies! 

Constant stars, I bid you rise 

over Safety Harbor.

Home, home! At last, becalmed! 

Far behind us screams the storm. 

Tattered canvas waves like arms 

greeting Safety Harbor. 

--

From the windows of the tower, 

where the beacon burns, 

Faithful friends at ev'ry hour 

watch for my return. 

--

Yours the calm and peace I claim 

When I face the waves and rain, 

When the searoad calls my name 

Out from Safety Harbor. 

Through the fearsome, foaming gale, 

When no spirit fills my sail, 

I shall see, though sight may fail, 

Lights of Safety  Harbor.

--

Where from windows of the tower, 

bright the beacon burns. 

Faithful friends at ev'ry hour 

watch for my return. 

--

Heart's haven, mem'ry's shore, 

Call me through the tempest's roar, 

Where the pilgrim sails no more, 

home to Safety Harbor, 

Where the pilgrim sails no more, 

Home to Safety Harbor.

The second song I wanted to share is the recessional: It's a Brand New Day.  Simple lyrics, yes, but this, too, is how Momma felt--her sending-away message to all those who love her. "There will be a new heart for every man like the flowers that bloom in early spring."  How fitting, since Momma's apricot trees were just blooming when she died.  Joy really is everywhere.

It's a brand new day, 

everything is fine
Though it may be gray, 

I want you to know

that the sun's gonna shine
And out of that sky, 

piercing every cloud, 

is our God on high!
There will be a new heart for every man

like the flowers that bloom in early spring
For every life there is a plan,

no matter what autumn breezes bring
So put away care, 

let freedom be yours
Joy is everywhere, 

joy is everywhere!
Let freedom ring, alleluia now
Everybody sing 

let your voices shout 

to the mighty King.

Finally, Taylor took Viv and me to a concert featuring Hey Marseilles, a fun band from Seattle that's touring in the New England area.  They really have a great sound--uplifting and energetic and all-around enjoyable! The last song they played was a great farewell song for a touring music group. I was particularly caught by the chorus: "On the way I will go where the days left to breathe are not gone, are still long, I am traveling on."  Here on the year anniversary of Momma's death, I feel like this is (in some ways) the attitude we should have--we must continue our own journey and not get "stuck" around loss or grief.  I'm not saying we shouldn't grieve, or that the grief won't last a long time, but we can't just stay there, wallowing in it.  We carry the memory with us always, but we will always have Hope, and so we continue on the way.

(don't take the lyrics too seriously in regard to this situation--it's the general feeling of the song that struck me as so fitting) :)

Rio

Hey Marseilles

Silhouette seasons and far-away reasons are all I have now
Borders can keep me if Rio will have me to dance and to drown
Take to the harbor like sails to set
Sleep for the evening in failed regret
Hold on to skylines of pale and coal
Clouds on horizons and love to grow old

On the way I will go 
Where the days left to breathe
Are not gone, are still long
I am traveling on

Love is a hazard in lower Manhattan
You cannot escape, and musn't be saddened
By men who abandon your eyes for another's
There are always Brazilian boys to discover

Set your sights straight now
Don't forget pain
Drink 'til tomorrow becomes yesterday
Think of the shorelines you have yet to see
Men who will hold you with eyes you believe

On the way I will go 
Where the days left to breathe
Are not gone, are still long
I am traveling on

On the way I will go 
Where the days left to breathe
Are not gone, are still long
I am traveling on

March: On

It's here.

The month my mother died last year has arrived.  In many ways, time seems to have passed with no change whatsoever.  Summer and Fall and Winter are a blur and all I can remember is this time last year. It's been a drippy dreary last month or so, with weather-too-warm for fun fluffy snow; too cold for a refreshing spring rain.  It's just slushy and gray and damp and cold and windy.  Last year, I think it was a little colder, but not quite so wet.

It could have been just yesterday, or Friday when there was a full moon, that I got a call from my brother telling me Momma had died. There was a full moon that night, too.  I noticed it when Taylor and I piled our bags into a taxi at 4 in the morning on our way to the airport. The earliest flight we could get. Six hours after Momma died. It was cold that night and very clear.  It could have been last week that I was sitting on the plane, feeling like I should be weepy and teary, but noticing how dry the air on the plane was, and how my eyes just hurt.

In other ways, though, as we arrive at 12 months of living without Momma here, time seems to have stretched on into eternity.  It seems like ages ago that I packed my weekend bag and headed out to the CCD congress in Los Angeles.  In two weeks, I will be attending another congress, but just with Daddy this year.  I am looking forward to it.

It could have been years and years since I last hugged Momma good-bye, as she, with great effort, hoisted herself up into the Blue Van to leave Long Beach.

Our last Christmas with Momma wasn't just a year and a few months ago, but forever-ago.  The end of an era. I can't even remember the last phone conversation I had with her.

Time passes in strange ways.

But really, I am alright.  A few weeks ago, when we were all remembering that it was then last year that the doctors told Momma there was nothing more they could do for her, I got an email from Daddy.  He told me:


I thought a lot about what happened a year ago,
but am not depressed about it. 
Every time I think I could get depressed,
I think about where Mom is. 
How can I possibly be sorry about that?
I long to be there too, when my time comes.

And he's right. Even though the pain of the loss of our mother is still very fresh and strong, we Rejoice that we will see her again.

Rejoice, oh favored one! 

Moment By Moment

This time last year, I remember doing the dishes while T was doing his homework.  I was crabby. And irritable.  I snapped some remark to him as I went to finish the dishes, "letting" him do his homework.  As I scrubbed our dinner plates off, I realized  why I was particularly irritable.  I was worried about Momma.

This time last year, the doctors told her they could do nothing else for her.  About this time last year, she went with Daddy to make funeral preparations and pick out a coffin.  She wanted "a plain pine box."  So that's what they ordered.  I was worried I wouldn't see her again.  I felt helpless--that I wasn't doing any good "way out here in Boston" and I wished I could be at home, closer to Momma. And I was taking it all out on Taylor.

When I realized why I was being snappy, I started to cry. That's not a good reason to be mean (is there a good reason to be mean?). If you're worried about something, the best thing to do is get it out in the open, to talk about it, to share the burden that's in your heart.  I dried off my hands and went over to where T was studying to apologize and explain why I was upset.  He listened and held me as I cried to him about Momma and Daddy.

About this time last year, I booked a plane ticket to CA to attend the CCD congress with my parents and younger sister.  Flights are really cheap this time of year--after the holidays but before most students' spring breaks begin.  My ticket was only $200, on a weekend.  It was worth so much more than that to me.

This time last year, I began to think about doing a 365 photo project.  I didn't know if I would make it a year taking a photo every day, but, I figured, it was worth a shot.  I decided to start my project at the beginning of Lent.  If I couldn't make it through Lent, I knew I wouldn't make it a year, so it was a good starting point.

This time last year, I was forced to come to grips with my mother dying.  We knew at this point that there was little time left.  The doctors kept shortening their "estimate."  Maybe a year. Six to nine months. One to three months. Every time I talked to her on the phone, I told her I loved her and that I was praying for her.  We didn't talk very long when I'd call because the pneumonia made her cough a lot.  I miss talking to her, even for those short periods of time.

A year is a funny thing.  Some years, we don't notice the days ticking away at all. Other years, the moments seem to drag by, one by one, never moving quickly enough.  Most of the time, it's a little bit of both.  I just keep reminding myself to be thankful for the moments.  I remember moments, not years.  I remember faces, and hugs, and tears. I remember insights, and feelings, and smiles.  Live in the moment. Love in the moment. We die in the moment.  Rejoice in the moment.

Lonesome

I've recently falling rather in love with Madeleine Peyroux's voice and lilting musical style.  When I first heard this song, listening via Pandora at work, I wasn't really paying attention the words.  Until I heard this verse:

I'll look for you in old Honolulu,

San Francisco, Ashtabula,

You're gonna have to leave me now, I know.

But I'll see you in the sky above,

In the tall grass, in the ones I love,

You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

...and it made me think of Momma.

Here's the whole song, with the full lyrics below.

You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome (by Bob Dylan)

I've seen love go by my door
It's never been this close before
Never been so easy or so slow.
Been shooting in the dark too long,
When something's not right it's wrong.
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Dragon clouds so high above
I've only known careless love,
It's always hit me from below.
This time around it's more correct
Right on target, so direct,
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Purple clover, Queen Anne lace,
Crimson hair across your face,
You could make me cry if you don't know.
Can't remember what I was thinkin' of
You might be spoilin' me too much, love,
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Flowers on the hillside, bloomin' crazy,
Crickets talkin' back and forth in rhyme,
Blue river runnin' slow and lazy,
I could stay with you forever
And never realize the time.

Situations have ended sad,
Relationships have all been bad.
Mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud.
But there's no way I'd compare
All those scenes to this affair,
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

You're gonna make me wonder what I'm doing,
Staying far behind without you.
You're gonna make me wonder what I'm saying,
You're gonna make me give myself a good talking to.

I'll look for you in old Honolulu,
San Francisco and Ashtabula,
You're gonna have to leave me now, I know.
But I'll see you in the sky above,
In the tall grass, in the ones I love,
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go.

I love you, Momma.

Christmas Time is Here

...families drawing near...

Fun for all that children call

their favorite time of year."

I must confess, it doesn't feel like Christmas is on its way.. at least for me.  Maybe it's just the stress of the season (and T being in law school this year--this will be the latest we've left for home for Christmas yet).  Maybe it's that I've been preoccupied with so many things-not-Christmas lately. Maybe it's because many of our good friends (not all!) are far away and busy.

Maybe because this is the first Christmas without Momma.

Momma always made Christmas so special for all of us.  In the weeks before Christmas, she'd bake all sorts of wonderful goodies (sugar cookies, molasses cookies, biscotti, baklava, cream cheese cookies, Springerles, caramels, and more!). Sometimes she'd stay up late into the night baking for us, for her students, and for our friends. Last year, I helped her stuff 200 bags of goodies with three different kinds of homemade cookies, which she gave to her students. I wonder if she knew it was the last time she'd get to do that for them.

And there was something magical about the house at Christmas time. I remember the first Christmas I was in college, coming home to the house-already-decorated.  I got home late at night, so all the lights were out, except the Tree, softly glowing and sparkling in the front window.  Gifts were heaped underneath the boughs; all the decorations from my childhood memory were present and accounted for--the drawling "Jingle Bell" bell, the "Better Watch Out" music box in a Santa Face, Momma's wooden nativity set, her wax village, Western village, and Dickens' village all arranged with great care. She was up still, waiting for me to get home. She took me around the house showing me new decorations or nativity sets she bought that year. She always said Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday, because she only had to worry about food (not presents and decorations), but I know she really loved Christmas just as much. Sure it was a little more stressful than Thanksgiving, but she loved it. We all knew it.

But this year, I'm not "into it" for some reason.  I made some cookies. I've decorated our house (just a little, though, since we won't be here for Christmas). We've been doing our Advent prayers and snapping the ornaments on our tree calendar.  When we get to California next Monday, I'll have some shopping to do with Daddy. We will celebrate Vivian's birthday. Doubtless, there will be "house" projects we can work on (though not so many as Momma would have for us) :)  We'll have a Christmas Eve dinner--just Daddy, Vivian, Taylor and me.  I will make the Christmas morning Kringle, and we will open our presents and go through our stockings.

But it will be different without Momma. And I miss her...

Thoughts On My Birth Day

Two years ago, after I found out that Momma's cancer had returned, the birthday card she sent me made me cry.  She told me about Halloween the year I was born: "I remember walking through the neighborhood trick-or-treating, holding a flashlight in one hand, Bethany's small hand in the other.  My arms would go to sleep I was so large with you.  The neighbors were out on their porches handing out candy. It was the end of an era."

The idea that this time of year--fall, Halloween, Thanksgiving--reminded her of my birth had never struck me before.  I suppose that's just what mother's do is think about their children.  Not that father's don't of course :) but mothers have all those special memories of their babies all the way through their lives.

I was born at 7 in the evening, at home in Florida (having been raised in CA, I always adjusted the time for Pacific time--4 pm, thankyouverymuch).  Daddy was in California at the time (I can't recall why--business trip? looking for a new job?) and so Momma was "on her own" for the end of her pregnancy with me. Of course she had a wonderful community of close friends in the area, so she had lots of help.  That day, Momma took the older three kids to Church's Fried Chicken drive-through for dinner.

She had been having mild contractions all day (and didn't feel like cooking), but hey--with her fourth kid, she was a pro at labor by now, right? :)  At the drive-through, she pulled into the lane, ordered her chicken and pulled forward to wait in line.  Another car pulled up behind her and--as if on que--her contractions intensified and she began to feel claustrophobic.  I mean, who wants to get stuck in a drive-through lane when your water breaks?  She she started her breathing exercises and told the kids to sing!! Musical distraction, she told me--to let her body know that right now is not a good time to deliver Baby.

They got their chicken without incident and drove home.  I can't remember what she did with the older kids--sent them to a friend's house or just let them watch TV?  She started walking around, breathing through the contractions, rubbing her lower back, as she called her friends to let them know "The time has come." My God mother delivered me at home, in my parents' bed.

[Have I told you I have pictures of my birth?  Don't worry--I won't post them here! (They're in my baby box--and I only looked at them once, until I realized what they were) :) haha... I guess my God mother wanted Daddy to experience the birth too?  I dunno...]

Momma always told me, "You just slid out, you were so small."  I was 7 pounds 8 ounces.  A perfect baby :)  ...a perfect baby with such fatty thighs that they had to peel them apart to see if I was a boy or a girl!  Daddy picked my name, Anne Michelle.  At first, he thought "Michelle Anne" would be nice, but then he decided that sounded too much like Michelin (as in the tires).

I was just two and a half weeks old for Thanksgiving. I wonder what Momma did that year--with Daddy out of town.  Did he come home for Thanksgiving to meet me?  For my first Christmas, I was nearly two months--and probably quite fascinated with the lights of our Christmas tree...

Momma and three of her girls

This is the first birthday I haven't gotten a birthday card from Momma... so I'll send her one, in prayer, this year.

Happy my-birth-day, Momma :)

Thank you for the gift of my life,

and for the gift of yours!