travels in waves. a long post but then again it's been a month.

Photo by Mark Matastic


Grief comes when it wants to come and like so many things God made it to travel in waves. Curiously, you feel okay a lot of times. And then you drop the laundry and the tears come and sometimes, the best times, they turn into a keening: freeing, exhausting, emptying.

This happened to me after my first miscarriage, which I know we shouldn't talk about because it makes people feel weird or judgmental or sad. But it happens, and it did, and what I needed more than anything now that I was no longer having a baby was my mom's chicken soup, and since she wasn't in the vicinity or even the country for that matter, I was going to have to make it myself. I was digging around in the attic for the stock pot when the wave hit.

I've always been suspicious of attics. They seem like a perfect place for a witch or ghost to hang out waiting for the perfect moment to eat your face. I definitely would not have picked my attic as the location for an emotional release. But another thing about grief: you must, you must, grieve when the wave comes. Each wave washes away some of the pain like ocean waves erode the sand right from under your feet, and if you keep standing solid in the sand like that your feet will keep sinking and sinking and then you'll fall. But once you fall you're stable again. If you miss the wave you must wait for the next one, or put on some Coldplay and try to force it. Better to seize the wave as it comes.

If there were any witches or ghosts in the attic I'm certain I scared the crap out of them with the way I cried, an ugly, snotty, mean, loud, yelling-hoarse cry. I'm pretty sure I accused God of lots of things contrary to His actual nature. Shakily I climbed down the wooden ladder with my stock pot. Shakily I started the preparations for my soup.

Mom's soup takes a long time to make but I had time. My thoughts wrapped around the activity and it was comforting, the eating was comforting, and for three days all I ate was soup, my soup, Mom's soup, this soup that was like Mom's and also not like hers because I made it, and God sat there with me in that desert full of waves and we ate soup.

a short tale of two cities and one highway and one little girl and also a boy.

Highway 259 couldn't get there soon enough for a little girl wanting to see her family, to dig in dirt and hold kittens and run barefoot. There were few rules and fewer expectations. Big Mama was Big Mama to all of us and anyone who walked through the door; the screen door slammed as she came to the porch and told everyone in the car forcefully and good naturedly with her soothing accent to "Get inside this house right now."

Inside the mess collected in the corners and on the couch, letting you know right away that there was nothing to do because there was so much to do. Relax and sit a spell. The window unit was so cold and rattley, dripping water on the old textured green carpet, you knew a nap was on the way. The clock ticked loudly. There was no time in DeKalb, not really. Just sunbeams that slid lower and longer across the room.

Front Street and Runnels, Highway 82 and 990 and the Post Office, Box 243 or 234 or something like that, something like that. Big Mama loved her letters and Poppie loved the Cafe and everybody loved to tell you that Dan Blocker grew up here and that he became a hero in Korea. Everybody knew you and everyone knew those stories about rose bushes and rodeos and dresses you had to have, the stories they knew, and you didn't, about your own self.

Highway 259 meant all these things, as it came into focus on the Interstate. Exit, turn left, under the bridge and through the tunnel of trees.

But,

Had I turned right on 259,

And kept going,

For a long time and through many other small inconsequential Texas towns full of living and family,

Past pink houses and fresh eggs for sale and cars rusting quietly in front yards,

Past dogs on chains and loose dogs and sleeping dogs and children not wearing shoes and basketball hoops with no nets,

If I had gone down that highway long enough,

I would have found my husband as a boy, growing up with his family that I also love. But instead I found him a lot later and a lot of living later, in the big city where we fell in love, far away from Highway 259. He said, and I said, that we used to wonder what was down that road, at the other end.

here i am.

Photo by Morey Milbradt



The lower case "i" in the title was a typo, but I decided to leave it.

We often want to know where God is. Interestingly, non-believers sometimes shout it the loudest. Where was God when is a popular way to begin a sentence in times of trial. We want to know where we can find Him in order to pepper Him with our accusations and questions.

We want to know where He is to ask Him for the desires of our hearts.

We want to know where He is
(oh grateful for this small sign of righteousness taking root)
just to feel His presence envelop us and
(be still and know)
after everything, to stand.

Once on a run I was so hot. My forehead felt like it was baking and the sun was harshly victorious. The sidewalk narrowed, and quickly became so constricted that I had no choice but to brush up to some towering photinias that were overgrowing the path. As I did, an unexpected meeting between myself and God occurred as each leaf dropped icy cold water onto my skin. For about 20 yards I ran with my shoulder pushed into the long line of shrubs, each leaf releasing a generous amount of cool water, then I turned around and ran up the other direction.

Maybe some people would say it was just blind luck that the sprinklers had hit the leaves in such a way, that the wax of the leaves and the shape of the leaves made them capable of holding the water, that the path narrowed forcing me to find it. I'm just arrogant enough in God's affection to believe He meant for it to happen.

He was there.

Every time I run by that string of hedge I think about that moment. I've even run by a few times with my shoulder jammed into it, but it never happened again. Part of the fun of a relationship with the Living God is that you never know where He will be. And in this way we have so many altars, scattered.

golf balls and entropy.

For some time now, a hot steaming cup of tea has symbolized freedom to me. My ability to put the water on, to steep it, to prepare it properly, and specifically to drink it has become a gauge to the level of chaos surrounding me.

I remember the days (however empty of things to love and be loved by) when I would sit uninterrupted, sipping espresso and writing bad poems. How wastefully I spent those hours, and how ungratefully.

With William young and the girls in all different stages, there are days I struggle to find a moment to myself. Literally a moment. I don't know exactly what Paul meant when he said he was being poured out like a drink offering, but there are times when I feel as if those words are the expression of my mother's heart, an ache of being emptied completely, a sustaining feeling of love thumping hard in my chest. Being poured out. Beautiful in its humble hollowness; pain and beauty as dancing partners.

I sat praying these thoughts out to God one day, tears welling in my eyes and again disappearing. Strength ebbed and flowed inside of me. I asked him passionately for help. Help me survive. Help me get through this time. But help me cherish it. Help me savor it. Help me. My eyes were screwed tightly shut as I silently shouted. I clutched my cup of tea, cold now, as I prayed.

When I opened my eyes, William was standing there smiling at me, his hands clasped behind his back sweetly. Then he threw a golf ball in my tea.

God answers prayers in funny ways sometimes.

why I liked Tuesday.

Horse Apples were collected, and thrown into the creek.

There was a creek.

And a log to sit and climb on with best friends.

And with sisters.

Mud got inbetween toes, and it was cold and squishy and fun. And minnows watched it all.

Seeds and nuts and leaves and twigs were victoriously found, and referred to as treasures.

Shadows grew long and no one hurried.

Going home was their idea.