Category: Stella

stories of estrangement and our lost daughter, my best friend who has wandered away

Lying

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Shivering in the morning chill, my porch is no longer my comfort place. Birds chirp insistently, the feeder empty. Flitting from tree to tree, they come back to complain. Still, I remain, unable to gather the energy to add seeds for my winged friends. Later, I whisper, later I will bring you food. I may be lying. I’m too cold but can’t get up, I know warmth is only steps away, inside, a blanket, socks. Still, I remain. Everything is empty, drained of hope, drained of joy, drained of caring.

The dogs are slowed, responding to my ache. They don’t play, the sit and asked only sometimes to be petted. They know we are having a funeral for my hope.  My Plum told me at dinner that I looked sad. No masking my desolation from this perceptive child, he sees into my soul. I admitted that I was, asked what he does when he feels that way. He suggested I hug one of my specials, he hugs his purple blankie. He is my special. I cannot hug him long enough to quell this hurt.

Sunday again, time for church. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to move from my cold porch, change from my ratty robe, talk to anyone, hear music. I don’t want to enter into God’s house. Rather I want God to come see me here on my porch and bring me hope. I want God to tell me this isn’t a funeral. To whisper, be patient, my child. She is safe. Even then I may think He is lying. I don’t know how to trust again. This is what it feels like to be alone, without the surety that God is leading the way.  Tricked, confused, lost, how can I know what is right anymore. Then the sun begins to hit my chair, spreading warmth. Damn warmth, damn light, right where I sit. Angry, I miss the cold. I want to stay in the cold, the empty. It keeps my numb. I don’t want to feel angry, that lets other feelings in. I can’t bear the other feelings.

My head is screaming just leave me alone yet my soul is aching for the presence of the One who sees me. Grieving again, too much grieving. Unbearable heartache and I have to go to God’s house to sit with others who worship. I may sing the songs but I could be lying.

Splinters

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

How do you fix something this broken? I was sure this was from God, the chance sighting of my long lost daughter. Chef had lunch with a friend from church, she walked in, didn’t see him in this tiny campus thai spot. Four years ago on this day we were visiting our strong bright girl in South Korea, our girl who was capable of speaking multiple languages and finding her way. Soon I would go back to travel Cambodia and Thailand with this girl, so proud of the young woman she had become. Now she sat in the thai restaurant inches from me and couldn’t find her voice. She allowed her husband to speak ugly hate-filled words to her mother, to her step-father, in front of her child. She didn’t use her voice, he spoke loud profane threats. He called the police. She stayed quiet. I know she allows worse for herself. The officer tells us she has to choose to leave, we can just let her know we are here for her. They suggest easing our way back in. Incredulous, I explain that was what I did. I said hello. She looked down, wouldn’t meet my eyes. She didn’t speak.

I taught my children to use their words. We didn’t allow violence into our home. Teachers always remarked with awe at the unusual ability of my kids to express their feelings. Teachers didn’t know we learned feelings words like primary colors. I was determined my children were never going to be silenced like I was. I gave them voices. I thought I gave them strength to make safe choices as well. I thought I gave them faith to always lead them in the right direction. I only gave them wings to fly away, minds no longer strong enough to stand up to cruelty, hearts hardened so easily against their one true champion.

Intellectually, I am angry at God, what a mess this all is and where is He? I could have had a perfectly normal Friday, not knowing she was even in town. How could I not believe He was in the timing and yet the disaster that ensued was surely the devil’s work. This story has been dragging on for almost 2 years, maybe this is the middle, not the end. Maybe God is using this horrible time to wake her out of this fog, God doesn’t tell me all of His plans. I don’t get to see each day’s outline, the agenda for the meeting. I know God can handle my anger, my questioning, I am not abandoning Him, He hasn’t done so to me. But surely, surely something must be gained from this?

Hours and hours of fantasies about a chance meeting, this was not ever how it ended. I went in too quietly, apologetically, slowly. I missed my opportunity to say everything I have stored up for 2 years. I didn’t know I only had seconds. I didn’t expect him to become aggressive and hostile in public. I thought I could hug my daughter, hear her voice. I ache to hear her laugh, to look into her eyes again, to hear stories about her daughter.  Maybe this is not the end of the story, just that really scary awful middle part. God hasn’t told me the rest.

I sat on the porch swing, the rocking disguising my quivering body. Still shaking an hour later. The slats of the bench need sanding, weathered by too many summers in the sun. Rubbing my hands along the seat, I realized I was just trying to feel something. I have lost my words, my feelings are so deep, buried, too dangerous to release. I think my Stella and I might be closer than I thought. Voices and feelings are often powerful, tornadoes that can destroy all in their path.  Ours have been buried, silenced by fear. I imagine another force of nature, a volcano, long simmering. I pray when she does erupt she does so with a safety plan that keeps her and little princess away from the distruction. I don’t know when I will let go of my feelings, I wish I had the strength to break a wall or cut down a tree but quickly dismiss these as wasteful and I love trees. I don’t advocate the cutting epidemic among the youth but have new understanding of just wanting to feel. My Chef tried to hug me, he is seeking any way to comfort me. I told him to stop. I learned early how to not feel. This is too big for my to allow into my world.

Rocking, shaking, touching the rough wooden swing, I try to begin again living without my daughter, an artificial loss, neither of us really gone. My laments only heard by God, I know He hears my cries. My prayers are soul screams. My heartbeats are demands for help. Rooted to my seat, silent, I swing and wait for the Lord.

.

Half A Pack of Mourning Daily

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

I started smoking as an adult who knew better, at a time of huge stress, when I was locked away from my children. I continued this habit for a couple of years after we were rejoined, even after my kids complained. I knew better but was hooked. My son put Mr. Yuck stickers on my cigarette packs. They told me I smelled. I did. I tried the medicine touted as the best way to quit, I became a raging lunatic. Finally I just stopped. That was over 17 years ago, maybe longer. It was a good run.

Through all the crises of addiction and unplanned pregnancy, watching your child choose homelessness, fighting for security for the baby who didn’t choose any of it, I still didn’t stop at the gas station and buy a pack. I ate M&M’s, reverted to some horrible eating habits, prayed, cried, drank too much wine, managed. But I didn’t smoke. Then came my daughter’s wedding that I was no longer invited to, a day so crushingly painful I was sure I wouldn’t survive. Chef and I had traveled to the “paper wedding” in front of a judge where I was surprised to be a signing witness. The relationship was already incredibly strained at that point. I didn’t know what was ahead, I didn’t know I was truly losing my daughter, that the visit then would be the last time I would see her. Seven months later when the real celebration rolled around, I was too thin, too broken, every moment without reconciliation bringing me closer to madness. I went with a friend and bought a pack, as a lark, to get through the day, not realizing this crutch was going to get me through all the days. For two years.

I actually love and hate smoking. I hate the smell, hate that it pushes me away from everyone who loves me. No one in my circle smokes.  No one joins me on the porch with a nice glass of wine and has deep conversations with me. I sit alone and rush through the fire tipped reminder of all that is wrong. But there is a part that I love and it isn’t the cigarette. It is the very same aloneness. Sometimes I just need a time out. I need to pull away from the chaos and the chatter and get re-centered. I need to be alone with my memories and mourn for 5 minutes and then go back to being present in my day. I know why I smoke and I know why I shouldn’t. I tell myself with each purchase of a pack that is the last one but then myself laughs mockingly. I don’t believe me. I haven’t yet committed to letting go of my mourning period.

I never imagined I would lose my daughter. I have fought so many times to keep my son alive, the only way being to give him up to other authorities. My girl, though, always my closest person on earth, always the one who could make me really laugh out loud, I never ever imagined her not in my every days. My heart had no room for such a notion. Coping skills completely broke down, nothing worked on this heart ache. While I have tried extensively to bridge this gap, I haven’t tried to stop smoking. I realize I cannot control when she will come back into my life, if ever, but I can control when I will stop mourning with a lighter and an ashtray. That time is coming. My Chef is so stressed right now I worry that he can’t handle the definite crazy moody swings and nastiness that will result in my withdrawal. I worry that I won’t get my time away from everyone, no excuse for them all not to follow me. I worry that I can’t do it, just like I worry that I can’t really go on another day without a phone call, text, email from my Stella. But I do go on. So maybe I really can quit.

This might just be my last pack.

Waiting with Hot Chocolate

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

Growing up in a sexually abusive home means my memory is sketchy. I don’t remember full stories like my little brother. I love to listen to him tell about our shared life, the good parts. He was mentally present. Instead I have snapshots, quickly grabbed photos in my mind that tell the bits of the story I can handle. Many years of therapy have created even more distance between those snapshots and my feelings. Of course horrible counselors insisted I dredge them up and attach emotions to them before I put them away for good. Mostly that works until a nightmare insists I’m not free of those memories. Until the devil himself decides my sleeping hours are his playtime to create such unrest I wake afraid. I awake so unsettled I want to hide again, put on heavy layers of dark clothing, ignore the birds singing their joyful songs, cower under blankets. I can’t hide from my own memories.

We read a book to Plum often about going on a bear hunt. He is afraid of bears. I have explained that bears understand our sign at the front door that says, “Be Nice Or Leave.” He believes me because he needs to. The book finds the family facing tall grass, mud, a forest, a snowstorm. The refrain repeats with each obstacle: we can’t go over it, we can’t go around it, we have to go through it. Together they handle what gets in the way of their goal, until they find the bear. Then they run back through each thing to the safety of their bed. The bear who has been following is left to trudge back to his cave, quite dejectedly. I tell Plum the bear only wanted to play and maybe have a bit of hot chocolate.

I think I need to go through the obstacles again. I want to go around, over, skip them but I can’t get to the damn bear if I don’t just go through. Except I don’t want to find the bear. I want to be left alone. I want to avoid the adventure and let the bear stay in his cave. Yet bears in caves are much scarier though than bears who want a bit of your warm drink, bears who travel over tough lands to play with your Legos. Bears who’s eyes shine in the dark seem so much bigger. Maybe if I travel a bit through all the mud and muck and memories to find the bear, the bear will let me get some sleep.

So, I remember. I remember not just those horrid times as a child but the horrid times as an adult when I felt like a child. I specifically recall sitting at the bottom of the stairs in a filthy apartment looking down, saying no. He was already at the top, saying yes. I said no. He came back down and grabbed my arm and pulled me up. Up to the end of my career, to the end of my marriage, to the end of being present for birthdays and Christmases and everydays with my children. I sat on those steps as if I was 3 again, as if I was 4 and my father had called me home from a play date while my brothers got to stay outside and my mother was at work and I had to go into the bedroom with him or into the shower and I knew I couldn’t make it stop. I sat on those steps until I didn’t and I was upstairs. In that time of climbing step by step my life was over and I don’t even remember climbing. I got to the top somehow to a stained mattress with no sheets to a room covered in old food in wrappers in dark in horror. I see her, I remember the crashing against her body. Then someone comes in and asks if she is ok. Why is she crying. He is gone then. It is over. I am over.

Climbing those stairs took me not closer to heaven but actually straight into the depths of hell. Every choice after was worse than the one before, choices made that never felt like choices. Survivor statements have awakened the national consciousness lately, outrage at light sentences gaining momentum for change.  Stockholm syndrome means you will say anything to appease your captor in order to survive, captivity may be an emotional state. I lost my daughter as I climbed those stairs even though doing so was the only way I knew to survive. Every choice afterward was the only way to save her and my son, saving them for a future that now doesn’t include me. Without being 3 year old me how can you understand 27 year old me who didn’t know how to run? Who only knew how to be silent and go into the bedroom when my father told me to, to go with the man my father told me to, to go, to go, silently.

I want to yell at my daughter that she is so strong because I made her that way. That I taught her to stand up and fight and to yell and to tell people to go away if they hurt her. I taught her those things so that she would never ever have to be silent. Now she is silent to me. She may never understand but at least I know she was always safe from ever climbing stairs or going into bedrooms where horror awaited.  Maybe it isn’t about the bear, maybe it isn’t about the mud and the muck and the snowstorm. Maybe it isn’t even about the nightmares that steal my rest. Maybe I just want to find my way around, though, over this estrangement to get to my daughter. I want her to read those survivor statements and see her mother. I want her outrage to include empathy for the lost little girl that I was, even when I was an adult. I want her to travel over, through, around her own mess to find her mother again and see that I am not a scary bear.  I am just the same mom waiting with hot chocolate.

My Gift

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

I took over 1,000 pictures in the two weeks I was traveling. I didn’t have time to look at them each day, mostly just click and go. I was pretty sure I was a genius though, I was amazed at my newfound gift. I was a photographer. I mean really who wouldn’t be with the scenes before me? The mountains clearly took up many of my shots but I became obsessed with the individual grasses of the prairies in Kansas, the tiny dots of color that made up the wildflower hills in Colorado. Cows have always been a favorite so their glistening skin definitely caught my eye and my viewfinder. Windmills, remnants of old mines, cables abandoned long ago all became art in my eyes and I was sure, in my camera.  I envisioned huge canvas prints of wheat, of cacti, of nature gracing my walls. Glorious.  Only not so much.  I was given amazing views but not amazing gifts as a photographer.

My daughter is an artist. So is Janet. They don’t understand that I am not, maybe that everyone is not. I have watched both take pencils, chalk, paint and turn paper into glory. I turn paper into indecipherable disasters, there is no art from my hands. My brain cannot communicate the beauty it sees to a solid representation. The road is blocked if it was ever built. Just not my gift.

At church there is a young woman who sings like God is pouring out of her soul.  I sing along with her but real quietly. God prefers it that way. So do all those sitting close by.  My desire is strong, my gift is not in singing. My children can attest. I loved when they were little and they knew no better. I sang rather loudly then, a very long time ago.

My chef can run through numbers and talk to anyone about anything. Neither of these are strong places for me. I am okay with math, not scared, actually more afraid of people than fractions.  Clearly my gifts are not found here.

Everyday I tell my Plum he is my favorite. “I know, gran,” comes the exasperated reply. “But how do you know?” I query. “Because you tell me all the time.”  I still figure it is worth repeating because soon enough he will figure out there are many things he is not so great at. He will search for his gifts in a world that pushes for conformity, being quiet, going along. It takes courage to sing loud, to try out and keep trying out, to paint and draw even when your pictures are different from everyone else. My Plum asks what I am good at. This gives me pause. I want to demonstrate for him positive self-esteem but I’m not good at that. I ask what he thinks. “You are good at being smart and being my gran.”Right then I realize I may never take a wall hanging worthy picture, may never doodle an identifiable tree, may always be awkward in social situations, but I have mastered the most important gift God ever gave to me. I rock as a gran. I might even sing a song about it. Quietly.

Finding a New Way

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

One of the bridges that connect our two communities was deemed unsafe. I have traveled that bridge for over 30 years, crossing from our side of town to the bigger city section for real shopping, dining, employment and most importantly, usually to collect my Plum. Our side holds the university and ethnic dining, a true bedroom community, relying on the larger city for most of our needs.  Of course the university is one of the major employers in the area so just as many on the other side travel the bridges to come this way. Three bridges unite us, hold us without complaint, as we travel back and forth carrying groceries, families, pets to the vet. Until one was no longer safe.

Our state department of transportation took over the task of fixing this bridge. We learned it had already been fixed before but was sinking into the river, the supports weren’t holding. The bridge was closed, work began. Watching this effort from afar, the slow progress fascinating if not a bit unnerving. I remember stories of bridges that have collapsed, terrible events where lives were lost just in the traveling of a road always trusted. I had always counted on this bridge, the one they were dismantling. The one now left with pieces of concrete, no barriers.  Without thought I drove those I love most daily onto this span, trusting we would never fall, believing that someone who knows more than me would surely keep us safe. I am guessing the good people in Minneapolis believed the same until that horrible day in 2007 when 13 were killed, another 145 injured when their trust collapsed. Work began, our bridge was taken apart, piece by piece. Finally there was little left to do but explode what was left, completely destroy any remnants. We saw footage of this history-making event, I was sickened by the loss even as I knew it was necessary. Clouds of dust filled the air, particles of our past. Clearing out the old was complete, the true rebuilding could begin.

For months traffic has been a nightmare, groaning and anger fill conversations and letters to the editor. Appointments are missed, being late is almost expected. I wonder once the bridge is reopened, how long before it is taken for granted again. How short will our memories of this season of suffering, of inconvenience be? Have we stopped to pray for the men and women creating our new roadway, our new path? Our impatience to get where we want clouds our memories of all who have helped pave our way.

The thing about not using this bridge though is that I have discovered some new routes. I drive alternate roads, trickier less direct streets only to find areas of town I had forgotten existed or never seen. Beautiful neighborhoods, a donut shop, street art. I am seeing the other side of town, forced into a new perspective. Shaken out of my routine, exploring my city with fresh, attentive eyes.

We have had some bridges explode in our life these last couple of years. Bridges that we kept patching and adding supports but really were deemed unsafe. We cannot continue to travel over the same roads, ignoring the realities of addiction, of emotional abuse, of the conflict between faith and work.  We have grown weary with the blasting of our bridges. Even though we knew the dangers, these were our bridges, we kept taking the risks. Explode they have, though, dust clouds of our lives covering us, choking us, until it settles at our feet. Some days we sit in the ashes like Job, as Pastor Chris reminded us, other days I get out the hose and wash it all away. I am most impatient often for the rebuilding, I seek out alternative routes that lead me not to my expected destination but somewhere new. During our rebuilding we are blessed to be discovering some new routes, new communities of friends who are supporting us as surely as the trusses going up across the river. The phone calls, emails, texts build us up each day as we construct our new lives. We stop often and pray for those who are building these bridges for us, bridges that may lead us to different places, with new perspectives. Once a new donut shop is discovered, it really cannot be dismissed just because a faster route is completed, our deepened faith cannot be shrugged off once all the pieces are realigned. We are changed, we understand the risks, the dangers of relying on just one path. We recognize it is foolish to forget the bridge isn’t really what holds us up, ever.

One incredible blessing when we received our great shock two weeks ago (has it been three now?) has been the texts and phone calls from our son. This young man, filled with anger and alcohol, who left our home to establish his own, setting fire to all behind him. The thing about love between mothers and sons is, at least my Arrow and I, when life hits us hard, we come back together. He was horrified at the news, his indignation at the unjustness once again joined with ours rather than against us. Over these weeks he has reached out, shown concern, offered assistance. I volunteered his totes full of household goods, he accepted. We are constructing our bridge, maybe a suspension one, but we are both willing to cross it with hearts ready for gentle steps toward a new relationship. It will never be the old one, that is good. It wasn’t safe for any of us to travel.

I keep waiting for the same reaching out from my daughter, the silence all the more painful in this time of family crisis. I have extended every invitation I know to make that connection again, I can’t find a way to her. My impatience to reach her must sound to the heavens like all the commuters groans during rush hour, for all these months of reconstruction. I have been groaning for too long now. God is in charge of this bridge, like all of them. I am not meant to cross just yet, it is still unsafe.  I imagine He thinks much work remains on my side, even after the explosion. Surely the work on her side is great as well. In the meantime, I mourn the loss of that easy route but celebrate our discoveries.  We are blessed, we found a new donut shop, we have friends to help us cross the waters. We will travel safely, slowly, securely again one day. Today we have some rebuilding to do.

Blank Check

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

What is the cost of forgiveness?  A loaf of bread, a bag of coffee, a tankful of gas? The transgression, I guess is the deciding factor, the way to establish value.  Maybe a mortgage payment, maybe two.  If not monetary, than what? What does one have to pay to be forgiven when apologies, accountability, acceptance of all the sins aren’t enough?  Time?  The most exorbitant of all. I want to rush the remittance process, pay off any debt, get to the other side of owing.  I have to wait for my liability to be cleared, long after the check has.  I linger, giving time that cannot be reclaimed. I still pay, then, daily, seemingly my earlier disbursements  going towards interest, never hitting the principle. With no knowledge on the extent of my debt, I cannot determine when I will be in the clear.  Calls to my creditor go unanswered.

What is the cost of forgiving? Humility, laying down pride and picking up the phone. Apparently very expensive indeed.  Closing the books on a debt that has broken everyone involved looks only possible with the help of the One to whom we all owe the most. Accounting isn’t my strong suit, I figure in grace too much. As one who has been forgiven much, I forgive easily, quickly. I remember the lasting trauma my older brother experienced when my father died, a fight days before never reconciled. I learned my lesson early on, all the cliches held truth. Relationships hold more importance to me than any sense pride or self-righteousness. Every day, I look for a way to reach my Stella, to claim her forgiveness, accept whatever fault she needs me to, in order to move back together. I turn the prism, this way, that, trying to find a new angle of light, something I have missed. No new light shines.

I miss her with each breath. My first born child, I know her smell, I know the shape of her hands, the silk of her hair. I see her in my heart’s memories: sleeping, laughing, eating, cooking, reading, holding her nephew, playing with her cats. I see her but I can’t. I have one move left, one reserved for truly desperate times. I know the way to her house, I even have a key. Can’t I just drive, show up on her doorstep?  Would she really be able to block me in person? Wouldn’t we have a break through, talk, hear each other out? I would listen, accept, apologize for hours, whatever it takes. On days when I think I can’t last another minute, I tell friends I am ready to get in the car, make the drive. They turn the prism, ask me to look again. I hate them and love them for that. I may not get what I am seeking and quite possibly could make things very bad for her. I put the car keys back, I wait some more, pray some more, pay some more.

This debt just cannot be discharged, I can’t find a way to make payments that are accepted. I don’t want to be divorced, I don’t want to be broken up, I don’t want to stay unforgiven. I want my girl back in my life, every beat of my heart screams it. Can she hear the heart that once beat so close to her’s?  How much longer until she can meet me somewhere, anywhere, tell what to do to pay off what she believes I owe. Carrying the weight of the liability is surely a burden for her as well. I know this child is missing her mama. My heart hears her cries. I will pay anything to ease her pain. Even as a child who climbed on my lap so I could make it all better, she had to make the first move. The art of vulnerability isn’t in her portfolio.  I can’t do it for her, try as I might.  We both bear the cost in time and missed memories, the withdrawal of relationship a horrible punishment,  the high price of forgiving.

Atone, atone,atone some more. Pray and pay. Pay and Pray. Our hearts cry on.

 

One day my Princess will come

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

We planted my tree yesterday, 12 days late, but still, she is in the ground.  My Chef labored over the hole, the ground rocky, a stump that needed removed.  He researched on Youtube the best planting of a flowering crab, let me say that again, he researched using the internet.  Not his comfort zone.  He packed his trunk with proper soils to mix to give the tree the best start, to prepare for the big day.  I bought pink ribbon, a pink bird feeder.  We forgot about how the older “sibling” feels when a new child is brought into the family.

Plum and I have each claimed a tree in the front yard, his the glorious Liliac, mine the sad Tulip the lighting is partial to as well.  Bird feeders hang from each, suet in the winter.  Much competition ensues as we watch how many visitors we have at each tree, he always wins. Of course I fill his feeder with the premium seed, the yummiest suet.  Bringing this new tree into the mix with pink adornments upset the balance, he wondered why his cousin got her own tree, why the fuss.  A hard conversation as he hid under the bushes, feelings raw for both of us.

How joyful my little Princess will be when she finally visits and finds her own tree that her best cousin planted, mixing soil, moving rocks, dumping, loading, digging, all for her.  Someday she will come and see birds visiting, listen to their songs.  “But, Gran, what if she never comes again?”  I never make promises to this little boy who trusts so few.  I told him we were trusting God with that, we were planting our Princess tree, we were going to care for it and watch it grow and I believe one day she will play under it.  “Gran, can I play with her?”  He spoke my dream.

We planted our Princess tree yesterday.  My husband was in labor for several hours, we brought him Gatorade and tried to keep him comfortable. We proudly took pictures afterward, we found a place in our family for this newcomer.  Today I sit on the porch and watch God pour rain down, blessing my hopes, feeding my dreams.  One day my Princess will come.  Until then, I will watch her grow for my chair on the porch.  Today is a good day.

All God’s creatures need me today

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella1 Comment

How dare the sun shine today? How thoughtless of the birds to sing on this morning, flitting around our trees as if my heart wasn’t broken. My elusive cat chose this day to arch her back and chris-cross through my ankles, purring expectantly, as if I had anything to give to her.  My yellow lab, 100 lbs now, wants on my lap, requesting rub downs, covering me in dog kisses that do little to alter my mood.  Can’t anyone see I don’t want to be here, I only want to be in Nebraska, away from them all, under different rays of this sun? Yet they don’t leave me, reminding me of needs: cat food bowls and bird feeders that need refilling, balls that need throwing, plants that require water.

Try as I might to ignore the angels God has sent to make this day bearable, I have to delay my tears until everyone is fed, played with, fed again, until maybe by the end, my tears are not needed.  Today hurts but God sent some balm for a grandmother’s aching soul.  I will make our cupcakes, plant our tree, tend to those who depend on me while my mind drifts to a little girl celebrating her 2nd birthday not knowing she has more family who love her. Maybe I wasn’t a great mom but I rock as a grandma, I hope to show her one day.  Second chances, a new start.  Wouldn’t that be an awesome gift to give your child, a grandma?

Today hurts.  How dare the sun shine.

Happy Birthday Princess

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

When my children were little, our house was graced by a gorgeous flowering crabapple tree   in the front yard.  It was big enough to hold little ones, swinging from a rope, small enough for them to climb.  My daughter used to race out the front door on summer mornings, filmy nightgown and white blonde hair floating, to get to her tree.  She would grab the rope, little girl panties now visible to all, and swing with abandon.  The picture of her in this tree, covered in pink blossoms, my little girl, so free, has never left my heart.

My granddaughter turns 2 on Thursday, I haven’t seen her since she was 6 months old. The gift of watching her birth connected us, nothing can break that. I have decided we will mark her birthday with the planting of a flowering crabapple, a pink princess if I can find it.  I want to watch it grow, to pray over this tree and know that one day she might swing from its branches, climb up to read a book.  I will make pink cupcakes, look at old pictures, wait for the day that I have new ones.

Pastor Paul talked this week about planting trees for the next generation to enjoy the shade. We will plant this tree for our Princess, trusting that one day she will see the flowers and eat cupcakes with her grandma. We will plant the seeds of hope on this child’s birthday, watering, nurturing, protecting our hope through each season.

Until she comes her to see this tree, I pray she has her own, to race to in a filmy nightgown.  I pray her life is full of joy, mud, sticky things, and cupcakes.  I pray that God whispers in her heart that somewhere there is a grandma who loves her beyond measure. Happy Birthday little princess, swing free, climb carefully.  I know your mama will catch you.