Letter to Mom, 05 January 2014

Dear Mom,

It sure would be nice to be able to talk to you on the phone today!  I really identify with you when I'm involved in leading a worship service.  I think I learned a whole lot about working in a church from observing your many years as a church pianist and organist.

For example, I rarely recall seeing you flustered.  Focused, yes, and sometimes a little tense while getting ready in the morning, but you maintained an inner calm and composure.  Watching you taught me about preparing my outer appearance, too.  You always took the time to style your hair (thankfully I don't need curlers), carefully apply your eye makeup, and dress in attractive but unassuming clothing.  Sometimes I watched you get ready, and my favorite part was waiting to see which earrings you'd choose.  This morning, I thought carefully about my earrings, makeup, hair, and outfit too!  :-)

Watching you showed me what being friendly to the other church attenders can look like.  You'd smile widely whenever anyone approached you--and you had delightful ways of responding to people's various comments.  I got to use your "make a joke when someone pays you a compliment you're not sure how to absorb" method this morning.  After the service, an older gentlemen came up to me and said it felt like I'd been part of the church for years.  I smiled widely and said, "Are you saying I aged during the service?"  We got a good chuckle out of that.

You had gracious smiles during each Sunday service, even if you didn't always agree with what someone said or did.  I remember this sort of close-lipped smile you'd get; it wasn't unpleasant-looking or dismissive--it said, "I don't agree with that but I'm not going to say so right now."  I have my own version of that smile, often accompanied by me saying, "Oh, okay," or, "I'm glad you told me that."

You wanted things to be done excellently on Sundays (and always, really), on the part of the leaders and the congregation, both.  Any time there's a "clapping" song in which there's some discrepancy with people clapping on or off the beat, I remember a time you were seated off the stage with us, and apparently, the majority of the people were clapping on the wrong beats.  You boldly clapped loudly throughout the whole song on the "right" beats...with a smile!

When this morning's service finished, the first thing I thought about when I got into my car was, "What am I going to make for lunch?  I'm tired."  How you and Dad put wholesome, large meals on the table every Sunday afternoon is beyond me.  (Thankfully, Jay took the boys to get soups from a deli today, so I was off the hook!)  Sometimes, especially after you got polymiositis, you were too tired to even eat when you got home, so you'd go straight up to bed for a nap.  While I am thankfully in good health, I did still need a nap today--but I took it after lunch.

Thank you for all this--and so much more--that you taught me by example.  I'm sure you'd be proud of the way I'm using my musical and interpersonal skills during this season of my life.  I sure wish you were here to see it; but then again, if you were here, you'd be busy in your church on Sunday mornings and wouldn't ever get to see me in action!  And maybe you can see me now...from the Heavenly organ bench you sit on.  I love you.

Love,
Rachel

Waiting, 26 July 2013

Sometimes a sunset glows brightly over the clouds

and I remember the beauty You've created around me

But sometimes all my eyes see is Darkness

and my spirit wonders why this waiting

Why do You wait to restore all that is Good and Beautiful

Why do You wait to crush suffering and injustice

children with cancer

mass graves under piles of rubble

a baby born too soon to live

hollow-eyed shells carting around their lives from fix to fix

daughters and sons with children but no mother

a father never aware of the child he created by violence

a grandmother in a coma she can never wake from

bullet holes in pillars where the revolutionary took his last stand

women chained and sold for their flesh

children with smiles but no words or reasoning

a wife or husband beaten by betrayal

decisions made for money and power not mercy and peace

Why do You wait?

You wait out of patience for sinners to turn

but the victims keep suffering

and I keep suffering

and I weep outside the tomb

where You are

crying

and weeping with me

But Lord if You had been here he wouldn't have died

Sometimes you wait until we are ready to see the miracle You planned

but it is hard for me to see miracles in the dark

and it is hard for me to wait for miracles

and I don't want to wait for miracles anymore

Please

just

come

The Eighth, Year Three, 08 April 2013

Today marks year three of Mom's Heavenly homegoing.  I miss her.  Like crazy.  Within just the past few months, I've started dreaming about her on occasion, and we sit together and she hugs me.  It feels so good.

The past two years, as many of us as were available got together to spend the day with each other.  This year, The Eighth came on a Monday, which makes it awkward for out-of-towners to travel around.  So I marked the day in a number of ways.

Yesterday afternoon, G, Z, and I drove to pick up my one-year-old nephew, Baby K, from Claire and Bernie (my sister and bro-in-law), who were badly in need of some adult time.  It was our first time having a slumber party with Baby K, and we had a blast!  It was fun to watch him play with the many Duplos we have, all of which were gifts from my parents.  I enjoyed thinking about how even though my mom isn't here to watch Baby K play, he is still getting to participate in gifts she gave her grandsons.

Early this morning--5:30--I woke up with The Eighth heavy on my heart.  Instead of fitfully trying to sleep longer, I got up and looked at photos of my mom.

This is one of my very favorite pictures of Mom and me.  (You can tell I'm a girl by the ruffles on my shirt.  Hair doesn't run in our family.)  She taught us that the best part of baking was licking the beaters.  Salmonella shmalmonella!

Z got up a little later and cuddled with me under the quilt Mom made for me after Jay and I were married.  She made the same pattern for every single one of us, but we each got to shop with her and pick our own fabrics.  I love the memory of being with Mom at my local fabric store.

Kind of ironic in retrospect that Mom's not in the picture!  From left to right: Claire and Bernie, me and Jay, Carl, Dad, Kay, Essie, and Em.  (Dad's quilt was made from scraps of ours.)

After I fed little boys breakfast and sent G off to school, Claire arrived at our house and she and I jetted out for a pedicure while Z and B.K. played with Grammy G (it's an alphabet soup of names, really).  When we got back, the four of us had lunch together and spent some time outside; Claire and Z played baseball and I sat with B.K. on the grass while he spun wheels on some trucks.

After rests all-round, Claire and B.K. went home and I made dinner.  Mundane, perhaps, but even the simple act of feeding my family is a connection I have with Mom.  She was my first cooking teacher.  (And aside from experience, my only teacher, actually!)

Jay took the kids to play at a park after we ate, and I "puttered," as Mom would say, around the house, doing little chores.  Then, I sat down at the piano.  Mom's piano.  And I played for an hour.  Brahms, Schubert, Bach, Clementi, Chopin--all music Mom taught me to love.  Growing up, I listened to her play the piano; I listened to the records and CDs she put on; my fingers learned to feel keys and follow music under her instruction.  Mom was not my only piano teacher (in truth, I whined too much under her tutelage), but she was my first.  My first piano duets were with her.  The first songs I sang were accompanied by her.

I had hoped to sing/play with her for years to come, but I am so grateful for the memories I have and the lessons she taught me--

Love God, love your husband, love your children, love your family, love your neighbor, love music.

Thank you, Mom, and I love you.  Save me a spot by the piano bench in your Heavenly mansion!

The Taking Boy, 13 January 2013

It's taken some time, but I now have an idea of how to describe my perspective of what happened in Jay's family.

Have you ever read a book called The Giving Tree?  It's a little picture book about the relationship between an apple tree and a little boy as he grows up.

When I first read the book as a little girl, I loved it.  The simple ink drawings were charming, and the loving way the tree continually gave itself to the boy over the years seemed so sweet.  Then one day, my dad said, "I don't like that book.  The boy never says thank you."

Huh, I thought.  Dad's right.  The boy keeps asking for stuff and the tree keeps giving, but the boy never says thank you.  With that realization, the story lost its simple appeal for me and I didn't look at it again for years.

Then last week the kids received the book from a long-distance friend and I re-read the story.  I was appalled.  It is the story of Jay's brother and mother.

********

The Taking Boy

Once there was a mother...

and she loved a little boy.

And every day the boy would come, and he would listen to her stories and hug her neck and babble sweet things into her ears.

And when he was tired, he would snuggle on her breast and sleep in the shelter of her arms.

And the boy loved his mother...very much.  And the mother was happy.

But time went by.

And the boy grew older.

And the mother was often alone.

Then one day the boy came to his mother and the mother said, "Come, Son, come listen to my stories and hug my neck and be happy."
"I am too big to cuddle," the boy said.  "I want to do my own thing and have fun.  Can you give me fun?"
"I am sorry, Son," said the mother, "I guess I do not have fun.  But I can give you some independence.  Take some independence and go out with your friends.  Then you will have fun and you will be happy."

So the boy took independence and left the room to be with his friends.

And the mother was happy.

But the boy ignored his mother for a long time...and the mother was sad.
And then one day the boy came back and his mother shook with joy and she said, "Come, Son, listen to my stories and hug my neck and be happy."

"I am too cool to listen to your stories," said the boy.  "I want an income to support my lifestyle," he said.  "I want to play and only work part-time and so I need an income.  Can you give me an income?"
"I have no income for you," said the mother.  "But you may take a room of my house and I will cook your meals for you.  Then you will be happy."

And so the boy moved into a room of her house and quit his job and only came out to take meals from her refrigerator.

And the mother was happy.

But the boy isolated himself in his room for a long time.
And when he came out, his mother was so happy she could hardly speak.
"Come, Son," she whispered, "come and sit with me."
"I am too depressed and sick to sit with you," said the boy.  "And you are annoying to be around, anyway.  I want drugs that will take my mind far away from here.  Can you give me drugs?"

"Take my time and goodwill and health insurance and buy drugs," said the mother.  "Then you can take your mind far away from here...and be happy."

So the boy took her time and goodwill and health insurance and sailed away into dreams.

And the mother was happy...

But not really.

The mother realized that for years she had given everything to the boy, but his demands and hurtful words continued to increase with no regard for her.
And she was tired.
When she told the boy things needed to change, he became furious, and cursed at her.

The mother began to be frightened of the boy, and she hid from him.

One day, the boy came to the mother with anger on his face and said, "I need more time and goodwill and health insurance!  No one else will give it to me!  Give it to me now!"
The mother said sadly, "I am sorry, Son.  I can no longer give you what you want.  I am sorry.  But I still have goodwill.  Come, Son, sit with me and be happy."

But the boy shouted, "If you do not give me what I want, then I will take from you the only person you seem to care about!"

And the boy cut down his mother.

When the boy stood up and looked around, he was not in his room in his mother's house.
He was surrounded by prison walls.
"If only she had given me what I wanted, I could have been happy," he complained to himself.
Then he heard a voice from Heaven saying, "Son, if only you had let me give you what you really needed, you could have been as happy as I am."

All alone, the boy sat down on the only thing he had left, the stump of his memories.

But the mother's happily-ever-after story was only just beginning.

********

This story ends much like The Giving Tree, but for different reasons.  The original ends with the boy sitting on the tree's stump, and the tree being happy.  (In the book, the tree told the boy he could cut her down--which is not the way our family's real-life story went.  In court, we wept as the coroner described my mother-in-law's defensive wounds.)  Our family story ends with the mother being blissfully happy, surrounded by angels and God's glory in Heaven, while the boy sits alone, in prison.

Is the boy happy?  The Giving Tree doesn't tell us, and in reality, we will never know.  Was it the life goal of Jay's brother to drain everything he could from his mom, and when she could/would no longer supply his demands, to take her life?

Probably not.  But the pattern of self-centered taking without genuine thankfulness started for Jay's brother at a very young age.  How would things have been different if he had learned to give, as well as to receive, and to have respect for others?  How would things have been different if his mother had run out of "gifts" earlier...or later?

Once again, we will never know.  But we do know a few things.

1) Being "cut down" was not my mother-in-law's fault.

2) My mother-in-law is now experiencing freedom from all worry and hurt...and she is happy.

3) My brother-in-law has decades of sitting to do.  We pray that during all that sitting time he will learn that only taking is a dead-end; we pray that he foremost learns to give repentance, and so be able receive the most important gift of all...forgiveness.

Murder Trial Begins Tomorrow, 05 November 2012

Tomorrow is known as Voting Day for 99.99999999% of our country's population, but to my family, tomorrow has been named Trial Day.

It has been one year and a week since Jay's mom was killed in her home.  The only suspect there has ever been is Jay's youngest brother, who has been incarcerated for this whole time.  I have only seen the defendant once since the incident: he was shackled and dressed in orange, and I saw him across the courtroom during a preliminary hearing.  Tomorrow, he will be dressed in a suit, but he will still be sitting across the courtroom from me, next to his lawyer, whose job is to convince twelve total strangers that he is 1) innocent of the crime and 2) if he's not innocent of the crime, he was insane and shouldn't be held responsible.

I've never seen a trial before.  I've never sat on a jury; and to be honest, most of what I know about these things comes from Hollywood (a real reliable source right there).  But tomorrow, I will watch as Jay's other brother and sister are questioned and cross-examined on the stand about the last words they had with their mom and what they did and saw, and the next day I will hear Jay asked about the same.  There will be police officers, EMTs, and DNA specialists interviewed.  Through testimonies, the district attorney will be piecing together a picture for the jury of what happened, and the public defender will be doing her best to rip it apart.

My mother-in-law's last hours, minutes, and seconds will be discussed in agonizing detail.  And twelve people who are stuck on this case (witting or unwitting though they may be) for the next 6-8 weeks have to listen to it all.

Fortunately for me, I can listen to as much or as little of it as I want.  I've decided to make plans to attend every day this week, accompanied by a relay of dear friends, while other friends and family stay at home with my boys.  But if I want to, I can leave after the first 10 minutes of the first day and never go back.

So how do I feel about all of this?  Nervous.  The kind of sad that's a physical, dull ache behind the frontal lobe.  Braced.  A little queasy.  Preoccupied.  And so very, very, very sad.

I find myself still asking the question, “Why did this happen????  What good can possibly come out of this??  How does this tragedy fulfill God's greater purpose for the world?”  Honestly, I hope I find out someday.  But I guess for now I just have to keep taking it one day at a time, leaning on the things I do know, that:

• God dearly loves every person, but He lets us make our own choices—which sometimes hurt each other in awful ways.
• God is with me every second, and He weeps when I weep.
• There is a bigger picture, and although I feel like I'm in a little boat in the middle of the ocean, not even able to see over the waves, God can see the whole globe and cares for every person in it.
• My mother-in-law and my mom and countless others who love Him are with the person of Jesus this very second, safe and sound and in total peace and joy...and someday I'll be there with them.

But not today, and most-likely not tomorrow.  Tomorrow I'm going to be on a wooden seat in a small room, clutching a tissue and feeling sick to my stomach.  But I will not be alone.  No, I will not be alone.  And while the district attorney paints a picture of Jay's mom dying alone at the hands of her attacker, I know she wasn't really alone either.  Jesus was there, holding her soul in His loving, scarred hands, and He was weeping.

Holding On, 06 June 2012

In an unexpected life, by definition unexpected things happen. Like one of your children getting what appears to be salmonella. But that can be dealt with by fluids, rest, and doctors appointments (we have one scheduled for the morning, poor G).

What is more unexpected and more difficult for me to grasp is having a friend cry on my shoulder today and ask for advice in dealing with the news of her friend's son and mother who were just murdered by another family member. I never thought I'd be someone to come to for that.

But I guess I am, seeing as that is what happened in my husband's family six months ago. Heh. I doubt any of my college friends who viewed me as an innocent, angelic creature ever imagined that a decade later I'd be talking about murder and victim-witness organizations and prison health care.

The difficult thing is that the more grief I experience and the more suffering and evil I see, the less I know what to say. I tried to pray for my friend and her grieving friends today, and I didn't even know how to do that. Oh how I want to have magic words that give comfort, or profound wisdom to ease the confusion of "How could this happen???" but I don't.

What I have are hugs for her, tears in my heart, and a scream against the evil in the world, "MAKE IT STOP!"

Playing in my ears right now is Soundgarden's "Live to Rise" (from the Avenger's soundtrack--yes, I broke down and bought the song for $1.29) and there's a line that really resonates with me:

We're insane but not alone

We hold on and let go

That just about sums it up for me. Things don't make sense and the world spins out of control around us, but we are not alone. We hold on to the One that is anchored in place as we let go of everything else, releasing our attempts at control to His loving care.

Of course, then I hear the question, "Where was His loving care when that young man was shot to death?" and there is nothing to say to ease the pain of that gut-cry of anguish. But I'm back to Soundgarden's song again:

Like the sun we will live to rise

Like the sun we will live and die and then

ignite again

God has eternal plans for us and these poor bodies are going to rise again to no more pain, no more tears, no more loss. Eventually.

But for now, I'm just holding on tight and letting the tears flow.

A Heavenly Birthday, 08 May 2012

Today would have been my mom's birthday, and this morning I got a text from my dad asking, "I wonder which birthday she celebrates now.  Her original body birth or her spiritual birth or her arrival in Heaven with her new, healthy, forever body birth?"

My happy answer to this question was, "Why not all three?  I bet they give great parties up there."  Then later in the morning, I posed a similar question to G, saying I wondered if Grandma was having a party for her birthday today.  I loved his answer:

"I think that probably in Heaven, every day is your birthday!"

What that means in G's mind is, no more counting down the days (364 days takes a long time to count), receiving gifts and special food every day, and continuously feeling like the guest of honor.  Actually, that's not sounding too far off from descriptions we read in the Bible!

Heaven is our true home, so there's no more counting down the days until something better turns up, banquets and delicasies are served at God's table, we receive rewards from Him, and each person is welcomed with rejoicing.

Yup, it sounds to me like G's got the idea: In Heaven, every day is our birthday.  So happy birthday Mom--today and tomorrow and the day after and the day after!

Realities, 13 April 2012

Here's a rundown of reality from today.

Was awake from 3-5 a.m. for no good reason, but the kids slept all the way until 8:00, so that was wonderful!

Got up slowly and made zucchini muffins (for a cute story about that, look at today's date on the Kid Stories page).

Did some dishes and a little worksheet-homeschooling and watched two other little boys during a friend's doctor appointment.

Took a walk with said boys and said friend, fed everyone lunch (leftovers are tasty and easy), then gave my friend the rest of the afternoon off.  She has a newborn and needed it, and the four boys were having a blast.

Folded some laundry, read a book to the kids, and took a little nap (the two littlest boys did too).

Fed everyone a snack and built a Duplo city together on the living room floor.  Had to put out a couple fires (figuratively) when the 2.5 year old and the 3.5 year old were squabbling over who got to be fireman and knock the plastic fire piece down with the plastic axe, but all was resolved amicably.

Handed the four boys over to their respective daddies, did a couple quick errands, and went to dinner with some gal friends.

Came home, put on pjs, cuddled up with my computer, had a phone conversation or two, and got read for bed.

And,  off-and-on all day, felt sadness remembering that today is my mother-in-law's birthday, and it's the first one she hasn't been on earth for.  "Firsts" are no fun.  I also saw an advertisement for some Mother's Day something and immediately felt sick in the pit of my stomach.  But Mother's Day isn't today, so I'm not going to fret over it now.

Today was a day of missing a mom who's not here with us, and a day of helping a mom who is here, and a day of enjoying being a mom myself.  And that's all part of my reality!

Resurrection Sunday, 08 April 2012

Today, my kitchen smells like Easter.  The heady fragrance of a single pink jasmine stem in a vase, plus the watery smell of shelled, hard-boiled eggs are scents of Easter to me.  Growing up, Mom and Dad usually referred to Easter Sunday as "Resurrection Sunday."  The sun was virtually always shining that day, and the yard was perfumed with lilac, sweet pea, and pink jasmine.  After church and a family meal during the first half of the day, in the afternoon we'd hunt hand-decorated eggs and sit on the lawn to eat them, accompanying our simple picnic with a selection of homemade once-a-year cookies.

As a mom myself now, I've carried on some of those traditions.  We decorated eggs last night; we dressed up for church this morning; we had a big family lunch around my table; and we hunted eggs this afternoon.  (G and Z only wanted to do two rounds of hiding because they were so excited to shell the eggs and dig in!)

There were some new elements today, too.  Today was my ADORABLE nephew's first Easter, and he's just learning to zero-in on people's faces, so Auntie Rachel spent a good deal of time staring and making goo-goo noises at him.  This is the first year the boys have hunted eggs in the backyard of our new house, so Jay and I had fun discovering good hiding places.

Today has been a very special day.  But it's a sad day for me, too.  Two years ago on this date, my Mom had her own resurrection--the resurrection of her spirit to be with Jesus.  But that day was not a celebration for us, as we wept in the hospital corridors and clung to each other in grief.  And you know what?  I miss Mom.  Today I wondered what she would think of the solo I sang in church, and if she would have liked the way I roasted the chicken.  I wanted to hear her beckon one of my kids with an excited voice, helping them find a hiding egg.  She would have rolled her eyes at Jay's puns and cleared her throat with mock nervousness listening to my brother's harrowing work stories.  And oh, wouldn't she have loved cooing at her newest grandson, tickling him and making clicking noises with her tongue.

Today we are missing Jay's mom, too.  This is our first Easter since she walked into Jesus' arms.  Last year, she delightedly ate the meal I prepared and giggled with glee watching the little boys wander through the yard finding their eggs.  It's inconceivable to me, really, that she wasn't here this year.  She would have been here.  She should have been here.

So here is a whole Easter basket-full of feelings--joy, sadness, thankfulness, hope, grief, confusion, delight, satisfaction, and I'm sure many others that haven't been named.  But tonight, as I enjoy the perfume of my pink jasmine stem, I think I'm going to end this day looking at Hope:  Jesus has conquered death, He is alive, He has given me a life worth living, and I am going to see Him when it's my turn for a resurrection.

He is risen!  He is risen indeed.

Unexpected Conversations, 03 April 2012

First off, this charming conversation during today's breakfast:

R: G, you just poured too much syrup.
G: Okay, okay, I won't do it again.
Z: Yes you will.
G: No I won't.
Z: Yes you will.
G: No I won't.
R: Guys, let's not argue.
G: I'm not arguing.
R: Well, Z is.
Z: No I'm not.

And Rachel bursts into muffled laughter.

That kind of conversation is typical of the "expected" part of my life (although I admit to not realizing flat-out arguments started in the oh-so young).   The conversation that ended our day today comes out of the "unexpected" part of my life.  And this isn't a joke: Brace yourselves.

Tonight's bedtime conversation was about how my children's uncle killed their Nana.  They knew Nana had died, and they knew Uncle D was a bad guy now and was in jail, but the connection between the two was something I hoped they wouldn't need to make until about a decade from now.

But they had a lot of questions that, left unanswered, would cause fear and anxiousness on their parts, so I thought it best to be honest.  Besides, three-year old Z made the connection--complete with guessing the murder weapon--before I said anything.  Children feel out so much while we grownups blissfully assume they're not paying attention.

I think I won't recount the details of the conversation here (that was done in a private email to family and teachers), but I will say that we ended up with a beautiful conversation that included death, Heaven, cremation, Jesus, treasure in Heaven, anger, and prison.  Not that all of those subjects are beautiful, but cuddling on the bed with my two sons pressed up against me, listening to their honest questions, and giving honest answers--that is a beautiful part of being a mother to these children.

They have so much more to process in their little minds and hearts than so many other children their age, but they also have hearts that are just full of love.  And I love them so dearly.