So Was That It?

 

Lush green foliage exploded up the century-old corn crib which had been transformed in recent years to a hobby farmer’s fancy. The lace white blooms of the Sweet Autumn clematis were a few weeks from showing, but the vine was rich and full. It would, we thought collectively, make the perfect backdrop for next summer’s wedding.

At the end of last summer, when Sam and Emily walked the property and decided to have their wedding at the farm, the vines were as strong and breathtaking as the promise of young love.

The rhythm of the year continued.

As we marched through the snow and braced ourselves against the winds and record-breaking temperatures, we made plans, sketched our thoughts and wrote down our dreams, washed the barn, collected things, and waited…how we waited…for the long, cold winter to leave us alone in favor of what we longed for.

Somewhere, a whole season was lost. The rains came down even as the preparations continued; the time-thief assured us that the wedding day was approaching. Clad in muck boots and with steps sluggish from the weeks of excessive rainfall, I visited the corn crib daily. Just a month out from the farm’s grandest event, the only evidence of my Sweet Autumn clematis was manifest in a few sorry shoots trying furiously to stretch forth from the flagstone at the base of the metal grid walls. Maybe soon, maybe tomorrow.

As I cry out for all the things I can’t change, just to try to make myself feel better, my tears are peppered with thoughts that are too heavy for my soul.

The sleepy perennials struggled to look respectable, but the calendar turned and the time was near.

Through the mist and clouds, a gathering of hands arrived to transform the barn and grounds with sparkly lights, tiny flower vases, hand-chalked signs, and countless other touches to add to the glory of the day. Emily had used avocado seeds to dye cheesecloth a sunset pink, and her friends gathered branches from the yard and tied these into the cloth to make my vineless corn crib simply beautiful for the occasion.

As I turned, I believe I saw the sun.

It was a miraculous, magical afternoon and evening where high school sweethearts became man and wife, and where childhood turned a memory to many more.

The evening following the wedding, Moses was getting undressed before his bath. Family members were still in town, but the party was clearly over. I was pouring lavender bubbles into the water when I heard his small voice: “So was that it? For the wedding?”

Yes, dear one. That was it, for the wedding. That was it, for the Sweet Autumn clematis. And that was it, for your big brother’s time as a child on this earth.

That was it for the wedding. It’s just the beginning, though, of what’s to come. At the threshold of this new life, a new love, the beginning of relationships, with glasses raised, hands together, we celebrate what we have been, who we are, and where we will one day be. There will be more sorrow, grief, unthinkable hard days, loneliness, rain, laughter, belonging, joy, celebration, and sun.

I can’t remember if I made an audible response to my little son’s question. He, though, seemed to have moved on to selecting plastic boats from the bathtub toy basket.

So that was it, for the wedding. That was not it for the adventurous supply of spirits for the anticipated day or for the tissue paper flowers handmade by a sweet sister which still hang elegantly from a sycamore branch in the barn. That was not it for occasions to celebrate at the farm. And that was not it, I hope, for the Sweet Autumn clematis, though the splendor of its bloom could not have made for a brighter day.

I love you, Sam and Emily.

“Tomorrow will always come, and tomorrow may well bring the sun.”

–Ben Howard, “Three Tree Town”

If you find meaning in my writing, kindly share. My second book, “Ode to a Boy”, is now available at http://www.lulu.com.

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The Kindest of Wolves

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not into thine own understanding.” –Proverbs 3:5-6

“Shut up, you stupid idiot, or else I’m going to punch you in the eye.”

“Hi, Miss K. I love you.” I am secretly just a bit jealous of the spontaneous embrace that my little boy gave to his teacher. After all, I was still recovering from unsuccessfully dodging the sippy cup that had been hurled at my head just moments before. And it was me, not her, that had made him waffles for breakfast.

My child skipped off to join the other four-year-olds at the playground. I watched as he offered his friend, clad in Dalmatian spotted pajamas and cowboy boots, a boost onto the climbing apparatus. “Thank you,” said the polite Dalmatian child.

“You’re welcome,” piped my son, who, apparently, does actually have manners, evident only when he doesn’t think I am watching.

On a given day, it seems as if someone has swapped out my child for a ghoul, a monster, or a demon. He’s a little boy, but he’s also a fierce child who came into this world fighting against things over which he had no control.

“Is that your grandson?” I have been asked this question many times. He’s not, but he certainly could be. I wonder if I parent more permissively than I did in the early days, if I am less aware of my surroundings, or if the often baffling behaviors really are bigger than me.

It’s defeating to be overpowered by someone that weighs one-fifth as much as I do. It’s more than defeating when, after nearly three decades of parenting, I really have no idea what to do. And really, I don’t.

At just the same time that the nation was thrust into World War II, a seedling, called simply “3-35-40”, was being developed in France. During this period of unthinkable devastation, a thing of great beauty was born. This seedling, further propagated after being sent to the United States, became the world’s most beloved rose, called “Peace”.*

I wonder, if I collected all of the hours turned to days, and strung them together into weeks that I have spent sitting in an unforgiving vinyl recliner, waiting for someone with a name tag to make a decision about the next supportive action for the mental health of a child in my care, how much idle time has slipped away in favor of the angst of things out of my control?

Parenting is relentless.

“He doesn’t act like that around me.”

Well, he acts that way around me.

“You’re his safe person. He knows he can let his true feelings flow, and he will be okay.”

Well, I don’t think I like this. It’s tiring living in a cartoon where body parts and random expletives spin in circles over my head, and I feel poorly equipped to tame the wild that has been given me. And when the child is bigger and stronger, when the fight burns hot inside, when the child is almost no longer a child, when I don’t know what to do…when I cannot draw on my vast parenting experiences of pushing strollers in the park, school shoe shopping, rescuing frogs from the basement, and sewing laces on pointe shoes to manage a child who, eyes filled with rage, takes on a strange state of being, writhing, nearly foaming at the mouth, tossing heavy objects into newly-painted walls, and, perhaps the hardest to bear, expresses the wish to no longer be part of our family.

There’s no answer here.

The wolf is revered as signifying loyalty, guardianship, and spirit. A young wolf may leave the pack, trying to fend for itself in search of independence and freedom.**

Pushing away, fighting, searching…

We are here, maybe along for this journey, but definitely not running the show. It’s hard, a different hard from the physical labor of turning a compost pile or carrying a 40-pound bag of layer feed to the barn.

It’s hard, as in “how could this possibly be happening?” and “how could there be any more than what has already been?” and we know it.

I look at my image in the mirror and wonder, bewildered, who is this shell of a person raising, or struggling to raise, these children?

As I turn to the Maker for strength, no longer for reason, my grown son appears through the hospital doors with an iced soy milk latte and a single Peace rose.

It was hours later when, through eyes bleary and body weary from the emotional weight of the recent days, I sent my son a message thanking him for what he had done.

His formative years included many scenes where burdens of trauma and pain were indelible, yet he recalls the good, too. He returned my message of thanks with words that will not be lost on me:

“I was raised by the kindest of wolves.”

When I am called home at the end of this life, I wish to look back with peace, if not understanding, knowing that all of my wolves have returned to the pack, with or without Dalmatian pajamas or cowboy boots.

References:

*www.starrosesandplants.com

**www.pure-spirit.com

Thank you for reading. Kindly share if you have found meaning in my words.

Luke Ate The Snowstorm

“Last year, at this place in Michigan, they got FIFTY-THREE FEET of snow IN ONE DAY.” The words spilled emphatically from his mouth and sent forth little drops of spit that distracted me, but only slightly, as I imagined this extraordinary snow occurrence which, in his mind, had certainly happened.

“Maybe you mean fifty-three inches? That’s still quite a bit.” Dan was always the polite voice of reason.

“No, I mean FEET, you idiot.”

Okay.

There was an impending snowstorm. We may have been ready. The news reports described something nearly as foreboding as our son’s description of what had hit Michigan last year.

“Luke ate the snowstorm.” Our youngest boy had to offer a fantastic tale of his own. “Luke” often emerges in conversation. He seems to be a phenomenal boy, quite skilled for just four, who has done most everything and who shows up randomly but is never seen by anyone except our own four-year-old.

Someone once told me that having an imaginary friend is a sign of high intelligence. If that is so, what does an imaginary snowstorm signify? Years ago, Ethan also had an imaginary friend. The friend’s name was Jake Harrison, and he lived in a yellow house near the university. He had never been described as doing outlandish things such as eating a snowstorm; rather, he would sit alongside Ethan and sometimes accompany him around town. Perhaps in this simplicity of character, Ethan found some calm for his restless spirit.

Luke, though, seems to seek the thrills, get the latest haircuts, eat the greatest amounts food, and own the most exotic animals. My child was quite convincing, and I was curious enough that I felt compelled to verify his non-existence at our preschool meeting. The teacher, principal, and therapist assured me that this extraordinary child was indeed my little son’s imaginary friend; they could think of no one named Luke that fit the description.

I thought so. But sometimes I just don’t know.

Dan has had cycles of painful headaches for years. They are debilitating when they occur. An eight-inch blanket of snow had fallen overnight, as predicted, blanketing the farm in winter’s magical and bountiful, and also heavy and sloppy, offering. Through the window, I watched him drive his tractor, recently fitted with the snow attachment, and I admired his courage for doing his best to take care of us even during the worst hours of his affliction. There is much to read about these cluster headaches, but what people do to get relief seems as random as the manifestation of our imaginary friends. Dan and I had both read about drinking Red Bull or some sort of energy drink at the onset of an episode. Today, after the snowstorm, he tried it, and very quickly, he felt better. We shouldn’t ask the questions. We should just go with the answers…for now, for today.

So often in parenting, and in all aspects of life, really, I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. So I just don’t do or say anything. Perhaps by not doing anything, I am doing something. But I just don’t know.

One of my more spirited foster children told me that her sister had the second longest hair in the world. I had actually met the sister, and I had admired her pixie-ish haircut. But, in this little girl’s world, where it was just her and her sister, her sister did have the second longest hair, second only to her own. So I guess she was, in her own way, right.

“Luke ate the snowstorm, and it turned into ice cream.”

Now, we are getting somewhere.

While our resident farmer was plowing the snow, the boys and I were busy making snow ice cream, a winter treat that we have grown to love. Aaron gathered a bowl of freshly fallen snow to which we added milk, sugar, and a little vanilla.

We, then, ate the snowstorm, but not fifty-three feet’s worth. We will leave that to Luke.

Mother

In the morning, I saw my mother in the mirror for the very first time. A bit later that same day, my husband reminded me that my mother-in-law was four years younger than me when she lost her husband to cancer.

There was a magnificent purple in the dusky sky as it beckoned nightfall. I was out of my element, an anxious, slow moving person that held fast to all available handrails in this city of lights, sparkle, and circumstance. We had spent the day in the city: the girl my son will marry, two of her close friends, her mother, and me. I was honored to be included in this entourage on the day that a perfect girl searched for the perfect wedding dress.

So far from my usual rhythm, I was an observer, keenly aware of the passage of time in more ways than one, of a day that included homemade chicken and dumplings at the charming home of one of my older son’s now-grown-up childhood friends; the lilting beats of a street musician; walking in Chicago time with the parade of people-going-places; and the reason for this day: the pursuit of something beautiful, for a beautiful someone.

I had never seen my own resemblance to my mother. That morning, though, there was something. Perhaps it was the cumulative years of wishing that I shared not physical but constitutional characteristics, those which drive her to her successes and motivate her to make a difference on this earth. She is dark-haired and slightly built, tidy in all affairs, accomplished in business and philanthropy, and comfortable in a crowd. I am none of those. But our eyes: they have the same green. Maybe that’s what I saw in the mirror: my own eyes reflecting the soul of my mother into mine. I am not what she has been, but she has given to me what I am.

I wonder if my own daughters will ever see me, or what’s inside of me, in their own reflections. If they see me, and even when they do not, I wonder if they will know.

When my son was ten, there was a time when we worried that he may not survive, that the tumor in his brain might take him away. For a while, the surrounding fears defined our days. Time has taken those fears; time has turned our boy to a young adult, forging his path together with his beloved.

I wasn’t sure what it meant, but once my eyes were opened, I couldn’t forget. It was a bit like a show I had watched some years before we moved to the farm. She would disappear behind a wall, only to emerge in lace, sparkles, fanfare and splendor, all pinned to her tiny frame with clips. It was exciting, dizzying, and beautiful. She sat for a moment beside her mother, and the two seemed almost one person. To me, they resembled one another in many ways that were not just physical. One had carried the other so many years before, and now, flush with emotion on this monumental afternoon, they were at the threshold of something that was to come. I watched them, and I loved them both, and I was grateful to be part of this space in time. I may have been confused by the letters, but in the end, all the signs seemed to make sense.

Tomorrow, my husband will turn the same age as his father was when he left this earth. I hadn’t met him, but I feel as if I have known him, as part of him is carried by his son.

And for our children who were not born to us, still they carry us with them. They carry, too, those that birthed them, and our Maker has made us all as one. Relationships are at once rich, painful, complicated, and the force which pulls us through the years.

And so we walked, together, for a very long time, for however long it took to get there. Through the rhythms, reflected in the mirrors, across the seasons, through biology, adoption, and the extinguishing of life’s light, our blessings abound.

Ode to My Child’s Teacher

You have been my child’s teacher, and I am grateful.

For a span of nearly twenty-five years, children of mine have had the privilege of being taught, nurtured, cared for, and loved by so many extraordinary teachers, men and women who have helped to form these young beings into who they are.

My nearly grown son stopped by the farm earlier this week. He was about to leave on a business trip, but he made time to deliver a bag of apple cider donuts from the nearby orchard. I had been harvesting watermelons when his car pulled in; I have a bit of time now to work on the chores that have piled up for too long, as the littlest boy is now at school for a few hours each morning.

My son drove off just before the bus returned my preschooler to me. Time has a way of turning our boys to men even as we spin around to tend to the things that fill our days.

In the early years of motherhood, we hold our little ones close. To them, we are the whole world. The doors open, though, and there are influences that reach past our own fingertips, influences that help to form these tiny souls into who they will become.

And that’s where the teachers come in.

I am busy with the things of adulthood; I have waved to my child as she looked back at me through the school bus window, and I hope I held a thought of gratitude for the teacher who was moments from receiving my teenage bundle of attitude, unrest, and great promise (who just happened to be wearing pajamas).

Because you have always worked to forge a partnership with us, and to find something good in difficult circumstances, even when actions and behaviors were beyond understanding; for your tenacity, I am grateful.

Perhaps the nature of my family makes for a good longitudinal study of some sort. At the very least, it has allowed me to see over and again how the great love of a teacher can make a vast difference in the life of a child.

You made me feel like I am a good enough parent, through my tears and frustration, when life’s forces were bigger than me; for your support, and for your kindness, I am grateful.

For seeing past my child’s dirty fingernails, for praising him for his careful coloring, and for asking him to tell you more about his special train engine; you have done these things, and you have made a difference.

For helping my little boy to see that he is magic and brilliant even as he struggles with below-grade-level work; for your compassion, I am grateful.

For giving my daughter the time and space that she so desperately needed to be ready for learning, and for lifting her up so the burdens she carried were just a bit lighter; for your understanding, I am grateful.

I sometimes wondered how we would ever make it through the day. Then I turned around, and a whole year had passed. The year turned to decades, and I see grown children whose lives reflect the gifts they have been given by their teachers through the years.

I love those cider donuts, especially at this time of year. I ate three in a row that morning, right from the bag.

Perhaps it’s the time of year: transition, gratitude, thanksgiving as all around me are fields in the throes of harvest. I am grateful for the little things, which really might be big things. I am grateful for my children, for what is before me, and for you, the teachers that have given so much of yourselves for so very long.

I am grateful beyond any words I could write, and I hope you know that as you offer your hand, once again, to my child.

Thank you.

Racing the Clouds

“I know a lot about dinosaurs.

My favorite is the Velociraptor.”

“Is that a big one?” I immediately regretted encouraging this boy to carry on with what was clearly going to be more information than I could…or would want to… process.

We were at a birthday party, and my little son was playing ball with a few older boys. I had been standing in the shade in a rare moment of solitude when the dinosaur boy came upon me.

He answered the question that I wished I hadn’t asked.

“No, it’s small. It’s the size of a turkey. It has a tail that’s all feathery.”

The boy was six or seven years old. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a golfer’s polo with a collar that fell just right, pressed tan shorts, and clean running shoes.

He continued, offering words that I did not expect to hear on a sunny Saturday.

“And they eat meat. YOU are meat.”

With that haunting thought, I took my attention elsewhere.

Three has been a challenging age this last time around.

“Shut up, Mom. I hate you.”

I thought of that Velociraptor, coming at me when my back was turned.

I know they are just words, circles and lines from the tongue. Still, I fall in defeat. I cannot stop them. I cannot stop him. I cannot stop anyone.

For the times that I stood alongside you yet could not hear what you were saying, for the times when my own thoughts were too loud to hear your words, for the times when you felt that what you had to say did not mean enough to me, I am truly sorry.

I took the three little boys to visit Sam and Emily at their new house. The drive was nearly three hours. We spent a great day in the late summer sunshine, and before we were ready to go home, night had fallen. As we drove into the darkness, the stark evening sky called up emotions from my soul as a tiny three-year-old voice.

“I see the moon.”

Indeed, it was bold and full, holding stories and mysteries of cheese and an enchanting man who lived there. This small boy, too, would know them.

“I hate you, and I love you.”

Moving from one highway to another, across an illuminated trestle bridge, into more darkness…senses reeling. I still had a vision of the string lights as they lit up the backyard at the house of my grown son, my small child, my backpack baby no longer.

We were not used to these evening drives.

“It feels like we’re racing the clouds,” piped one boy.

“You’re like a race car driver! We’re going to win,” announced the youngest.

The oldest of the little boys sat in quiet solitude, but I know he heard everything.

We drove on into the night, stripped to our senses, and I was grateful for the chance to share the space in the old black van, alongside an abandoned camp backpack, a couple of baseball mitts, and treasures from today’s trip, with these three small beings that have given me the chance to care for them, to be their mama, and to take a day’s journey in the car to visit a brother who was once this small, and who would still appreciate the wonders of the night sky.

Three hours is a long time; twenty-four years is the blink of an eye.

There was truth in what the dinosaur boy told me, whether I wanted the information or not.

Sometimes I hear you, but I don’t know what to say. Though my words are elusive, I am listening still. Your chatter confuses and overwhelms me. YOU are meat; WE are meat. Please, keep talking. Keep talking, my son. Help me face what I cannot see.

Race the clouds with me. The moon is amazing, just as you are.

Sunsets and Storms

“How long do you think I’ll last? I mean, when do you think I am going to die?”

Ethan’s questions still sometimes catch me a bit off guard. I am not sure I ever give him answers that satisfy or even make sense to him.

I had to come up with something. “Well, Grampa is eighty. You could live a very long time.”

“Grampa eats fruits. If you eat a lot of fruits and healthy stuff, then you can live a long time. I don’t eat that many fruits.” He went back to what he had been doing before. The conversation was enough for him, though to me, rather unsettling and incomplete.

There are times when nothing makes sense…to anyone…at all.

I had hoped to hide from my embattled reality for at least three minutes. Just as I turned the lock to the bathroom door, I heard the skip that is unmistakably Aaron, embodied, bounding upstairs.

“Mom? Are you up here?”

He knew where I was; there was no hiding, no refuge to be sought. I was glad that he spoke first, before my annoyed retort for befallen peace sent him away, certainly without skipping this time.

“Mom? It’s a beautiful sunset. You should come see.”

That’s why he had come upstairs. That’s what he wanted to tell me: that the sunset was beautiful. He wanted me to see.

My little son knew that tonight’s fleeting gift of God’s creation would be worth more to me than a little time alone in the bathroom.

My birthday is coming up again. I am keenly aware that I am at the brink of the manifestation of the sunset of my life. While the future had once been something to envision from a great distance, that tide has now caught up to me, and my steps are not defined as I had expected that they might be. They melt; they disappear into a million grains of sand, indiscernible from the tracks of those who have gone before.

I wonder how my son, my child who views the world through a black and white lens, would make sense of the loss of a child. I wonder how anyone would.

The behavior specialist from Ethan’s school called last week. After analyzing the data from the past year, she was pleased to report that though the incidences of physical holds had increased, the overall challenges with his behavior had decreased to the point where he would be dismissed from her caseload. This, for us, is a type of victory.

Are the days that follow the second half of what has already happened, or is it a new start? Is it the end of the beginning, or will there be an entirely new purpose?

Olive Chickens (thanks, Elliott, for the middle name) does not appear to know where she is going in a given moment. Her feathers hide her eyes, and one wonders how well she can even see. Somehow, though, she finds her way home, or close to it, at night. Once, though, she almost didn’t.

I had taken Ethan to the specialist out of town. The driving rain made travel hard, and it was well after dark when we finally returned to the farm. Dan and Aaron had locked the other chickens down for the night, but Olive, who had been with us for just a handful of days, was nowhere to be found. She was certainly scared, cold, wet, and tired, if she had even been spared. After what seemed an eternity in the darkness of the still-stormy evening, I heard her unmistakable peep. I was a child on Christmas morning: Olive Chickens had wedged herself in a less-than-two-inch wide space between the coop and the run. She was trying to get home. She was scared, but she was okay. With the help of a rake and some urgent prayers, she was soon safely perched with her coop mates.

The boys were waiting for me when I finally made it inside. Ethan was first to approach. “Mom, you really care about that weird chicken.”

If only he knew.

So when the storms are inside, coming from a now medium-sized boy, and they overtake an hour or a day, I remember that we have come far. I remember that the beautiful sunsets had been further between. I only hope that we won’t run out of time before we make it home.

When I am gone, when my days are done, I hope that someone will be glad that he is alive, that someone will search for him when he is lost in the storm.

Here’s to eating lots of fruits, always finding our chickens amid the thunder and lightning, and never, ever missing out on a beautiful sunset.