A Gift of Tears

I wanted a sign.  I know it was a lot to ask and that it is "an evil and unfaithful generation who ask for a sign."  (Matthew 12:39).  

And I'm okay with that.  

I'm not above saying that I have days when I struggle.  These last few days have been hard.
  
Cindy-Lou Who fractured her wrist.  

The kids were all in drive-mommy-to-the-funny-farm mode; I don't know how they coordinate schedules like that!  (When I told Dynamite that he was going to drive mommy straight to Crazyland, he said he didn't want to go to Crazyland; he wanted to go to SKATELAND)!!

I was placed on prednisone for allergies and literally did. not. sleep. for two days.  (My kitchen counters have never been whiter)!

My grandma was placed in hospice care.
 
I was tired.  God, have I been tired.

As I walked in to the hospital last night, I prayed in my head, "Lord, please, let me know you're here.  That you're a part of all of this.  That you are real..."  

Because I struggle.  Like, a lot.  I question everything.  A friend of mine once told me, "That's how you answer questions--with another question."  

I am doubting Thomas who asks Jesus to show him the nail wounds in His hands.  

I am Israel who keeps forgetting how much God loves them and continues to fall in to their old sinful ways. 

I've stopped feeling entirely bad about it.  We were made to wonder.  

I figure that if it's God who made me this way, then it's really not even my fault. ;-)  (You see what He has to work with here).

So, I asked.  

When I walked in to my grandma's room, my dad's wife showed me a picture of the rainbow that arched over the hospital as she was parking the car.  A sign.

But it wasn't a sign for me.  That was her sign.

I wanted to get my grandma a rosary to hold since that seemed to offer so much comfort to her.  As I wandered in to the bathroom, I thought, "What if there's a rosary hanging in the bathroom?"  (Yes, I'm a weirdo at times...most the time, actually).

But there wasn't one.  Only toilet paper.

I walked to my car to get a rosary and walked back up to my grandma's room.  I opened up her swollen fingers and placed the beads in her hand.  "Here, grandma," I said.  "Here's a rosary."  I prayed that the familiar feeling of the beads in her hand would help her rest.

As I got ready to leave, I laid my head on her chest.  And I cried.  

I have a hard time crying.  It's probably due to growing up in a fairly dysfunctional family (what family isn't?).  Being an only child, I often felt that I had to hold things together.  That if I cried or felt sad, everything would fall apart.  That feeling has followed me in to my adulthood.  

There have been so many times I have willed myself to cry, desired the flood of emotions to take over, known that the situation called for tears, but they wouldn't come.  Apparently, my brain had trained my tear ducts not to render tears. 

But last night, I sobbed on my grandma's chest.  I cried like a 5-year old girl.  My tears fogged up  my glasses and my nose ran.  This carefully-constructed shield that had been placed over my heart for so long was seemingly lifted off of me.  My heart was exposed.

And I savored my humanness for a moment.  Clung to feeling sad, because it was exactly what I felt.  "Good and honest sorrow." (Isaias Powers) 

 It is a beautiful thing to find that you are still capable of feeling pain.  

And that was it.  My sign.
 
A gift of tears.  

My dad's wife got a rainbow and I got the rain.  

I couldn't have been more grateful.
 

A Time to Dance

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under
heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up
what is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep; and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to seek and a time to lose;

a time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time to love, and a time to hate;

a time for war, and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

Today, my Aunt Eileen and I buried my grandma. She has been gone for over a year now and my aunt has had her ashes in an urn at her house. We finally felt it was time to lay her down to rest. It was a beautiful fall day, full of autumn breezes, one that my grandma would have basked in.

My aunt and I shared a lot of great memories and knew that grandma was laughing right along with us. One of the greatest things about her was that when she laughed, her shoulders shook up and down. Even if there was not a sound coming out of her mouth, her body was jiggling.

Right after my biological father died, my grandma and aunt went to a group meeting that they were told would help them cope with their loss. The group began by going around and making introductions. The first person they came to said, "My name is _____ and I have terrible anxiety. I can't even go to the grocery store without having a panic attack". The second person, "My name is _____ and I break out in to cold sweats when I leave the house". As the introductions continued, my grandma and aunt realized they were in a group for people who suffer from agoraphobia. My aunt remembers that out of the corner of her eye, she saw my grandma's shoulders start to shake up and down uncontrollably.

Even in the midst of unbearable pain, there is reason for laughter. We have certainly grieved, but today we celebrated and did so with a smile.

The Joy of Sneezing

Today marks the one year anniversary of my Grandma Graham's (and dear friend's) passing on from this world and in to a place far greater.

My grandma was an extraordinary woman. She always encouraged me in my love of writing and of music, two things that bring such joy to me. I examine my life today and know that it would not be nearly as fulfilled had it not been for her strong influence.

I watched my grandma's body slowly be taken over by Parkinson's Disease. It was over a course of some twenty plus years, but the amazing thing was that her mind stayed extremely sharp until perhaps the last couple of months.

As I watched her shaking hand try to get her fork up to her mouth, I thought how miserable her life must be. She couldn't button up her shirts or her bras anymore and no more necklaces with the little clasps that she loved. She was stuck inside now and needed someone nearby almost twenty-four/seven. 

She needed someone to assist her while she used the bathroom, yet humbled herself in doing so.

We literally had to scrape pureed food between her jittering teeth and the top of the spoon to get nutrients into her body.

In the midst of all my feeling sorry for her, I happened to sneeze. 

My grandma looked at me with a dreamy smile and asked, "Don't you just love to sneeze? I've never understood those people who try to hold their sneezes in; it's really fun to sneeze." 

And that's when I realized, the human spirit can lose all things, but if they let go of their sense of joy and gratitude, life becomes toilsome. 

My grandma held on to that truth with trembling hands.

Today I remember not her infirmities, but her strength and dignity.

I hope your day is full of the joy of sneezing and all of life's other little wonders.