if this virus has done ANYthing for me, it's- well, who am I kidding... it's done a lot.
for right now, the corona is making me realize I need to solidify moments. Not just freeze them in time with the snap of a shutter (or tap of a screen... who has a camera anymore?), but somehow with my eyes. That path between looking and remembering. Keeping. Breathing in the time. Ironing these blinks into my memory.
look at these pictures, engage your memory-space, and join me for a few...
1. remember. this elephant reminds me of a defining, significant time in my life. he tells me to address the elephant in the room, always. it's huge, no matter what it is, and it won't just go away. ever. the elephants in my life- the ones who have taken up the most space in the room and in my heart- have either done the most damage or made the heaviest impact, lodging themselves permanently in my never-forget.
2. remember milestones. as most of the people who may take the time to read this blog may know, this picture was taken while I was unconscious after having had a major stroke. KJ's 16th birthday. Imagine trying to celebrate a milestone while an entirely different memory is burning itself into your always. In this case, the photo-snap is a Godsend; I wouldn't have this visual blip of time were it not for the iPhone, but this reminds me where I was, where she was, and how our lives changed that day. Reminds me, again, about presence. Mine in the physical was not possible this day at this hour, and it means all the more now for me to share as many moments with her as I can. My stroke robbed her of a portion of her birthday that day, as this CoVid thing is stealing some of her senior year milestones. What I can do for her is allow safe presence of the important things in her life, and ensure my presence as a constant for her; she'll be gone soon, and whether or not I chose to be present will matter much more then than it might now.
3. remember that family isn't just "blood." these people in this picture have been a part of my life for 15+ years- one of them is now my God-given, blessing-of-a-husband. what do I remember here? Why this photo? This was a glimmer day in a grey season. It was an evening I was given a chance to laugh- a refreshing change from sleepless sob-nights. The disconnect between a place of smiling and my soul wanting to close its eyes to the possibility of anything remotely resembling happiness. My husband had left only a few months prior; I was in this bizarre transition, this crazy unknowing, this "what am I?" place, but these guys surrounded me - day after day- lifting me, fussing at me, allowing me space, understanding the tears, cheering me on. I remember this day, this trip to see Willie Nelson, this start of the healing... I was "on the road again," in a way.
4. remember when they were babies. i watched my daughter the other night, swollen with their rainbow miracle in her tummy, praying over their dinner, sharing time with her husband. It was this past Tuesday; a bit of a pickle, actually, because she's not a mama-clinger, not emotional, not a "feelings" girl, and she chose that particular night to stick around. Tuesday is typically Aaron's and my night since it's Bonham time with his dad, but it turned into a time of my gratitude for the adult-babies' time at my table. They were face-to-face over a supper of Zaxby's, a meal they've shared countless times, undoubtedly, but I tried to freeze this second in my remember place as the first time it slammed into me that she will always be my baby, but she is from now on his wife. She is grombeebee's mama. She is the nurturer and the pray-er and the love-er and the heartbeat of their home. I carried her, grew with her, birthed her, and guided her, and now I carry those blinks as memories. I can move from a place of parenting her to watching her become a mother, and guiding her only when she asks. She has him for that now, and she has Him. The transition happening in their hearts, their union, their family- only as God would have it- is as miraculous as the life in her belly.
5. remember them. they won't be here forever. I maintain that my posts about Millicent could be numerous, and they probably will, if I'm honest. Next to my parents and my sisters, she was the life-giver I knew would always be around. Millicent was permanent. She was the poster-child for strength; fortitude; and hands-down, stubbornness. She was a constant, she wouldn't ever go away, and she would be able to share all of my bigs for the rest of my days. The solid under all of my happy- in the crazy bonkers, the stupid choices, the boys, my tears, my car crashes, her car crashes, health, sickness, nail-painting parties, brownie batter, the navigation of the death of one of the greatest men that ever lived, cook-lessons, late-night ice cream, marriages, divorce, astronaut ice cream, bad hair, incredible holiday decorations, autism projects, euthanized kitties... swirls of life, shifting everything- except Millicent. She stayed.
Until she didn't.
We moved out of her house, after having lived with her for almost 8 years. It was not an amicable parting, for myriad reasons. As I've mentioned before, though, had started. Mending was taking place. Stitching together, slowly. Quiet nights on my porch, in starlit prayer, for one year, I lifted her. I lifted us. I prayed for forgiveness- on my end, and hers. I prayed for healing- hearts, relationships, words. I prayed, over and over, for restoration, however He saw fit. Calls came, she asked us more frequently to come back over to help, we swallowed pride, shoved anger out of the way, prayed, and went. Several times. Salve for the wounds, but letting time and God do most of the underneath.
Then, a UTI. The hospital. None of me - not one part- wanted to go. Mom needed a break, though- she hadn't slept- so KJ and I swallowing and shoving the negatives once again, went. I won't go into the horrendous detail; suffice it to say, the night was long and it was the most bizarre night of my life. I kissed Millicent's head when I left the next morning, relieved by the next shift (mom, i think?), told her I loved her, and prayed thanks for the time I had been given.
It was the last time I would share space with her.
the last time.
Sepsis took her from us.
She was finally healed, and healed completely. Not in the way we would have thought, but better- for her. He knows what we need, even when we don't.
My point is that people are here, y'all, and then they're not.
They're gone.
I still reach for my phone to call her. I still speak of her in the present tense. I still say things like "I wonder what Millicent would say..."
She'd tell us to remember.
6. remember you're doing your best. I nursed Bonham until he was weeks away from his fifth birthday and I had my stroke. I was doing what was best- for me and for him- at the time. I had critics and I had supporters, and guess what, y'all... I still do. I homeschool him. Critics and supporters. Positive reinforcement? Critics and supporters. KJ in private school? Critics and supporters. Husband number 3 (yep, it's true)? Friendship with the ex and his girlfriend? Hate bananas? You guessed it- critics and supporters. It's part of being human, and it's part of life. But I daresay most of us are inhaling and exhaling, growing humans, raising them, and doing life-things honestly as best as we know how, aren't we?
Remember that.
I posted yesterday about comparison, and - pardon the language- comparison is a bitch. I'd do well to take my own advice, for sure, and remember I'm doing what I can with what I've got.
I read this thing that apparently Maya Angelou said (not 100% it was her bc you know, internet...) but it's this: “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
Do that.
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