February 9, 2010 by admin.

The garage door shut with the usual resonating sound as I struggled to manage the purse, the bag, the leash, and the cup left over from the amazing dinner my nephew and I had just shared.  My head was brimming with the chatter of the evening, my ears filled with the bustle of home restored even in the absence of Sweet One by the dog being chased by the boy. 

I was mentally sorting out the agenda of the evening as I emptied my arms in an elegant heap on the kitchen counter.  I paused and took a brief moment to purposefully breathe in the laughter of the boy, remembering again that he will not always beg to come to his Aunt’s house just to bake a batch of cookies..  I glanced up to see his red hair with the golden glint of evening sun reflected off the golden tendrils woven through and then I saw them.  There sitting on the kitchen table was my crystal vase filled to the brim with the brightest yellow dipped in crimson red.  I smiled at them and as I made my way around both boy and dog.  I saw the note carefully placed there by the vase and as I my eyes brimmed with tears I read.  The silence of the house did not register until it was broken by my nephews tender voice.  His words “It’s okay if you just need to cry Aunt Ally” nearly broke the fragile hold I had on those tears.  His cheek brushed my arm as his his head nestled against me so he could read the note and understand the tears.  I offered to translate since it was in cursive but he reminded me that he learned cursive two years ago.  Oh how time flies.  He noted the roses were from his Uncle and with a satisfied nod her returned to playing hide and seek with the pup.
 

The note, written in eldest sisters careful script, explained that my Sweet One had sent money across all the miles so that she could bring me flowers from him “at random”.  The incredible thoughtfulness behind the gesture nearly took the air out of my lungs.  The depth of his heart and his understanding of me were there in tangible form filling a crystal vase from another lifetime.  Redemption, in yet another form.  Those roses spoke too of the love between sisters and the extent we go through to simply say “you are loved”.

*Written as part of Chatting at the Sky’s Tuesdays Unwrapped*

Posted in Tuesdays Unwrapped, Love | 1 Comment »

January 11, 2010 by admin.

I have ghosts.

You do too.

Maybe you don’t call them ghosts.  Maybe you call them fear, or insecurity, or doubt.  Maybe you don’t name them at all but rely on the age old method of denial.  Maybe you have had them so long you no longer even know why they are there.  Maybe they don’t have specific memories the way mine do. But you have them.  We all do.

The ghosts, they rob us.  They rob us of ourselves, of deep relationships, of hearts free to love.  They whisper in the darkness and all too often it is easy to whisper back an agreement.  In that agreement we choose to give that particular ghost power.  Soon we live lives that are but fragments of the life we are capable of living.

I’m learning to battle the ghosts.  To name them.  To seek scriptures to battle the ones I can identify.  To walk through the albums of my life and find where the ghost began, and take away power by identifying the heart’s reason for giving the ghost residence.

It’s not easy fighting the ghosts.  It requires attentiveness to oneself.  It requires an authenticity that often hurts.  It requires a willingness to change.  It requires introspection that demands both solitude and time.

If you can summon the strength, if you can lean heavily on Him, if you can have the courage to fight, you can conquer the ghosts.

In the end you will be free.

But first you must fight.  Freedom is never free.

Posted in Perspective | 2 Comments »

December 23, 2009 by admin.

It was twelve days ago my sister found him on the side of the road and barraged her husband until he turned around and picked the small dog up.

It was twelve days ago I received a text “want a dog?” and sent multiple responses assuring them I did NOT want a dog.

It was twelve days ago I spent the better part of the morning researching the breed of a dog I Did Not Want and sending those facts via text to my sister.

It was twelve days ago I found myself at a check out counter with a pile of dog toys, milk bones, and a bag of food.  This might have been reasonable, except I hadn’t even met him yet.

It was twelve days ago I sat upon my sisters floor and the dog crawled his way into my lap and stole my heart away.

For twelve days he has slept curled against me, he has sat in my lap as I crochet, he has followed me from table to room while I sew, and now he sleeps under my desk as I work.  He has traveled with me to the various houses I visit.  He learned how to get in the car by himself, and knows to wait until the car is done making the initial turns out of the neighborhood before he crawls over into my lap. Teaching him boundaries requires only a firmly spoken “no”.

My to-do list remains a little longer at the end of the day, because I spent “too much” time curled up with the dog.  My clothes are mostly ironed, though perhaps a little less crisply because our morning walk took a bit too long.  My generally clean house has a bit of dog hair here and there, as do the outfits I wear.  I don’t mind though.   I like to think of him as my Merry Christmas present from God who knew His girl needed to dole out some love in great big heaps, and receive love back in the adoring golden eyes of a dog we named Hunter.

Posted in Hunter | 1 Comment »

November 26, 2009 by admin.

It is the day of gratefulness.  A day to acknowledge the many blessings in our lives.  Though I could have chosen many, especially this year, there are two blessing that have helped me survive this chaotic life we live here on Earth.  My big sisters. In so many ways they are nothing like me.  In so many ways we seem to be made of one soul.  We each complete a part of the other, within one an0ther we find a place of understanding that no one else quite manages to fill.  When I think of moments of gratitude my sisters are always at the core.

One sister held me that first devastating night when I was told I was no longer welcome to be a wife, she curled up on her couch with me and held me as I sobbed for all the lost dreams and unattained goals.  She cried with me at all the broken promises.  She was with me through the months that followed as I slowly learned to live a different life, one of safety and of love. She willingly shares her children when I need a “momma moment”.  When the car breaks or something needs hung on a wall and it needs to actually be straight and centered, she willingly shares her husband.  When I am sick and the Orange Juice does not magically refill itself, a new bottle magically appears on the porch instead.  My walls are covered in prayers she has “doodled” and my pockets filled with reminders of her love. She’s my big sister.

Somehow God saw fit to bless me with another sister too.

She shares the same feisty attitude combined with artistic flair my other big sister possesses.  Yet, she shares my need to explore the deep and to give words to the emotions of our hearts.  She guides me through life, sometimes by hanging on and sometimes by letting go.  She has taught me the value of taking care of myself, of meeting internal needs, of admitting I have needs to begin with.  She has given me license to explore my creative side and with her as a patient teacher along the way I have ever so slowly spread my wings.  She is always there, and knowing my need for “remembrances” she leaves me gifts to remind me that I am not alone.  A bouquet of roses, a special necklace, a new drawing, and once even a series of paintings.  She is always there in amazing ways, reminding me that the sisterhood has me safely held no matter how the world crumbles around me.  It was June when the world finally collapsed in on me, all the changes - though exponentially good - were just too much for one timid heart to bare.  In the dark of night, tucked into a hotel bed in a place that is more home to my heart than any residence I grew up in, the emotions swelled.  The tears erupted and as the sobs shook my body she pulled the blanket back and curled her body against mine.  With a shrug she said “over there is too far away”.  Her hotel bed was a mere two feet from mine, but her heart tugged so she held me as the tears finally escaped the iron clad lock I prefer to maintain on them.  My big sister held me, stroked my hair, and soothed my heart with her presence.  When the tears had ebbed she unfurled from my blankets and went back to her own bed.  With a softly whispered goodnight we each closed our eyes and welcomed the sand man.  This is the way of “us”.  She’s my big sister.

For our little trio “over there is too far away” has become a way of living.  Intertwined lives, homes separated by only a few miles, husbands who understand the incredible blessing of sisterhood and encourage us in our relationships with one another.  We share the grace of learning about the things the other sisters are living with, be it bi-polar children or hormones gone awry.  Together, we muddle through life rejoicing in celebrations together and gathering for tragedies.  We manage to get a fair amount of the mundane mixed in the middle too when we meet for a meal at our favorite bakery.

I am thankful for them, for the sisterhood we share and for the way they bless my life every single day.

Posted in Family | No Comments »

November 11, 2009 by admin.

I found a blog a couple of hours ago, and I got rather lost in it.  A young mother writes it, she had the terrible job of burying her little girl unexpectedly.  The way she writes is raw and almost artful in its truth.  It draws me back to years past, and so many things that my heart has lived through.

It still amazes me, how fast I can be transported back to those days of my life when things were so much different than they are now.  It happens when I read the words, dripping with grief, of other women walking similar roads.  It happens at random times when I see something that reminds me of a mightabeen.  Sometimes the emotion pours through me when I finger a cotton remembrance I pieced, the only legacy I allowed myself to that child that existed for such a short time.

This past weekend I took a couple of quilts over a friend’s house along with a pile of fabric.  We sat among the various shades of cotton and patterns debating this option and that for a new quilt I plan to make.  I showed my friend the Kaleidoscope Emotions quilt.  As she fingered the slightly tattered cotton she just gazed at me, and I answered the unspoken question.  I told her I made it a long time ago, for the little one I lost.  The little one that barely existed.  She smiled and nodded and we moved on to other happier topics.  Though I was fully engaged with her in those new topics, there is always a part of my heart that lingers, a slight heaviness about me when even a minor remembrance occurs.  There is a weight to life after grief.  Though it doesn’t always bury you the way it does in the early days after loss the existence remains, it runs through your veins.  There are days that go by I don’t notice it much, and other days the weight is undeniable.

It was hours later as my friend and I drove that she asked me how far along I had been, and I gave her my usual vague responses.  She asked more questions, so with a deep breath I answered them.  I told her about that baby and the other four the doctors tell me I lost.  I told her about the three failed adoptions in more detail than I generally offer.  I didn’t tell her the way a red headed little girl still has the power to take my breath away, despite my acceptance and appreciate of the life I am living today.  I didn’t tell her about the bear that sits in my closet waiting for the next times the tears can’t be dammed for the dream children I will never hold.  I didn’t try to explain to her the way you can be a mom and not a mom at the very same time. I didn’t tell her about burying Brenna, I didn’t tell her about the quilt blocks and pile of fabric buried in a box on my closet shelf, along with the other mementos of that child’s life.  We talked about many other things, all the while the things I can never quite explain ran their own monologue in my head.

Today, I read that strangers blog and it rushed back all over again, the way life was after loosing my little one and then burying Brenna.  I should have stopped reading, I know, but I didn’t.  I just kept going for pages and pages, which equated to months of her life.  I kept reading and remembering.  Sometimes, I can nearly forget the life that came before.  It is not an intentional forgetting, it’s just that life is filled with different things than it was in those days. Time changes you, life moves on, happier days come and more hard days come but the memories remain and you are forever altered by grief survived.  It shouldn’t startle me, the power a heart has to hold on, but sometimes it does.

Posted in Grief | No Comments »

September 16, 2009 by admin.

Finding me.

It’s been a long journey.  A grueling process.  It will never be done, but I am closer than I have ever been before and in that I choose to celebrate.  I forget, from time to time, just how many circumstances have changed as of late.  I forget the ground my heart has covered.  I forget how much has been conquered in all the internal struggles that have waged war.

A couple I hadn’t seen in quite some time was over at my place recently.  Her genius husband was fixing the network I had managed to crash.  As he labored and yelled quietly at the pile of electronics surrounding him she and I sat on my couches and chatted.  She asked me “how did you two meet”.  She was referring to my Sweet One.  As I sat contemplating the words I should hand to her, the story began to flow.  I told her of our first meeting, the question he posed, the first date, and the many miles my heart has come in the time since.  I tried to make the story succinct but this is not a virtue I have ever been able to adhere to for very long.  So I spoke as she patiently listened to the tale.

When I was done she smiled and said “You seem happy”.  This is the predominant response from all those who have spent time with me lately.  I suppose if I were honest happy is not an adjective that has been a prevailing force in my life.  There are other words that were far more familiar for too many years.  Then she posed a question.

“Does he want kids?”
I swiftly responded “No, and neither do I”.

We both sat and stared at one another.  The years we have known each other flashed through my mind.  The mental picture of her sitting on my couch that long ago Friday night.  The night the infertility bible study began.  The fact that we were sitting on the very same couches housed in different walls did not elude me.  The vast changes that brought me from those walls to these struck me deeply.  She was no longer the timid woman with her head hung, afraid to speak or be heard.  Her shell has been shed layer by layer just as my own has.  I remembered all the tears we have shed, the angry words we have said to one another regarding the unfairness of it all, the fears of adoption, the cost of infertility drugs to both the pocketbook and long term health, so many epic emails over the years.  It all flooded me and seeing the shock written across her face I knew similar files must be playing in her mind.  The desperate quest we once shared, I had abandoned.  It seems there should have been some fanfare involved, or at least a recognition in my heart that the battle was no longer waging.  In the stunned silence between us I began to question my own words.  I found, deep in my heart, they were truth.  I do not long for children anymore.  I began in a slow whisper to defend my heart on this matter not because she asked but because I needed to be certain the words were authentic.

In a matter of minutes I had laid out my case.  I love my life.  I love my freedom.  I love my ability to love others actively.  I love that my life is exactly that, mine.  I admire the mothers I know.  I enjoy helping them from time to time.  I adore kidnapping my nephews for date nights and sleep-overs.  I like that they go home again.  I like that I am not responsible for their education or theological upbringing.  I like that I can spend a quiet night with a glass of wine and my laptop as I blog without the guilt of neglect.  I like that I can skip out on responsible life and take my camera and my sister-heart and capture the world in a lens.

I, quite simply, love my life.

I’m not sure when the shift happened.  I suppose it was not one moment but rather a very slow acceptance of the past few years, a realization that I could lament what could not be or embrace the “is”.  It doesn’t feel like capitulating.  It feels rather like peace.  There is a certain sadness at what will not be, the things I will not share with a child, but it’s more balanced these days.  Balanced with the joy of what is.  My heart no longer constricts in my chest when I read some momma’s blog about her child’s birthday and all she remembers.  My boys flash through my head and I whisper a prayer of praise that He gave me everything I needed.  The underlying ache isn’t there anymore.  Just a knowledge that my life is different from most.  I have had to redefine what being a woman is to me.  I have had to redefine my roles.  I have had to learn to claim parts of me I had denied, and then I had to learn to deny the guilt for not living the life that is commonly expected of adult women.  It hasn’t been easy.  It didn’t happen without a great deal of tears, anger, grief, and regret.  But, it did happen.  Finding joy.  It’s been a long, tough road.  There are challenges coming that will force me to remember to find joy again.  I know this to be true.  So today, I wanted to remind myself it’s a battle worthy of celebration.

Posted in Infertility, Perspective | 3 Comments »

September 1, 2009 by admin.

I feel like half a woman.

I am His daughter.
I am His beloved.
I am desired.
I am His.

Posted in Family, Infertility | No Comments »

August 30, 2009 by admin.

I heard her frail little cry before we even reached the door to their room.  Unwittingly my steps hastened for there is no mistaking the cry of a newborn.  I opened the door and his eyes met mine.  My baby brother, seven years younger than I, holding his first born in his long thin arms.  A mental image was captured in my mind that I am sure will play many times over the years to come.  Her first steps, first words, first day of school, prom, graduation, all the milestones of her life will be caught in mental pictures and play side by side with that image in my head.  The first time I laid eyes on her.  My first glimpse of my brother as a father.  It is the way of all momma hearts, to remember the past and live the moment at the very same time.

Equal parts frantic-ness and gratefulness reflected in his deep brown eyes.  He held her out and laid her in my waiting arms before the door to the room even latched closed.  Her bright red face told me faster than his words that she has been crying for quite some time.  As he released his grip on his tiny daughter he said to her “Olivia, this is your Aunt Ally.  Maybe she will know what you want”.  He stepped back and his eyes pleaded with me to settle this tiny one, to alleviate whatever it was that had her so upset.  He told me how they tried feeding her, changing her, holding her, nothing was working.  I smiled, knowing instinctively what she wanted.  She wanted held, not in the loose manner of frightened new parents thinking her a fragile newborn.  She wanted held close, tight, firm.  She wanted to feel she was safe in my arms.

I realized as I held her that I feared I had forgotten how to hold one so small and that the way of infants had been lost to me having never held one of my own.  It has been so many years since I held my nephews at this same age. I always fear that somehow the child will know.  They will know I am in impostor unable to bring life into this world.  My fears were washed away by the quiet of the room as she slept in my arms.  As her eyes rolled back in her head  in the peaceful slumber of infancy I stared at her daddy wondering when the little boy in my mind’s eye became man.

I sat next to this boy/man as he showed me pictures of the last twenty-four hours and all I had missed of this new life now sleeping in my arms.  He told me her story and I sat rapt, admonishing me that he was man now not boy.  Man with a child.  His little girl laid curled up in my arms with her long thin fingers wrapped around my thumb.  I ran my fingers down her cheek and she settled more deeply into sleep.  As she slept warm and snug in my embrace I whispered silent prayers for them each.  Then I did the part that is always hardest for this Aunt.  I gave her back to them.  I whispered my love to her, graced her forehead with a tender kiss and walked out the door leaving him to be daddy and her to be mommy to the one they call daughter.

Posted in Family, Being an Aunt | 1 Comment »

August 10, 2009 by admin.

Sometimes, I wonder who I am.

I am the girl who grew up reading.  Curled up on my beautiful day bed, piled with pillows trimmed in lace, lace curtains, white wicker furniture, and quietly playing sound track to Beauty & the Beast.  For many years this was the world in which happiness was found, safe in the sanctuary of my bedroom. Never outside.  My porcelain skin and I were quite content to be hidden in the air conditioned house with the crisp pages of books for company.

This weekend, I was about as far away from that bedroom as I have gotten.  I headed out of town with dear friends of mine.  A camping trip had been planned, and a minor little thing like an SUV with no air conditioning wasn’t going to stop us.  My friend and I, sweating and sticky, as we drove the winding roads until we found ourselves nestled into the pines with temperatures slightly more in the humane range.  We drove for miles on the old dusty back roads my friend’s husband knows like the back of his hand.  His wife and I, windows rolled down and hair blowing, using the quiet time together to ponder the matters of hearts and life as we most always do.  It was there, buried in those old roads, that I discovered another layer of me.

He said we would camp here, in this location.  The look on his face and the tone of his voice told me this was not the spot he preferred.  He said that my SUV wouldn’t be able to make it to his usual paths, since it didn’t have 4 wheel drive.  Little did he know a challenge had just been issued.  In a slightly sassy tone I informed him that in fact, my SUV DOES have 4 wheel drive and I have even used it before.  (Later I amended this to say I had used it, but never NEEDED it the way I had that particular afternoon.)  With a smile and the arch of an eyebrow he accepted my assertion that I could go where he went.  I am not one to back down from a challenge, it’s just the redheaded nature of me.  It turns out, he’s just as stubborn.  Together, we set out.

As the sun began to hide behind the tall mountain pines, we drove.  His SUV leading mine up rocky paths and across flatter terrain.  Knowing I was inexperienced he would allow me to watch him drive up, then climb out of his truck and down the path to direct my slightly wider and longer SUV up the rockiest sections.  Patiently he spoke.  Quietly he instructed with words and motions.  Calling me to stand with him, he showed me the clearance of my SUV, and how to judge what I could and could not cross.  He walked me through logic and explained the things his experience has taught him about four wheel driving.  He moved rocks to make paths more accessible to my SUV.

It was a far cry from my quiet little bedroom and porcelain dolls. We were sweaty and a layer of dust covered every surface of my SUV inside and out.  There are scratches carved into the outer layer of dust on my truck’s sides put there in the moments I was told to “kiss the bushes”.  The brakes squeal from the dust caked in them.  There were some hairy moments.  Times not all four wheels were on the ground.  Times I was following him and he made it up a section of path I couldn’t quite navigate.  It was then, bumper hung up on a ledge of rock, I said to her “It’s okay, we will wait, he’ll come back and help us”.  Somehow, I knew this to be true despite the fact we had not given the matter words before hand.  I just knew, he would see I was not behind him and he would come back.

I spoke the words and layered underneath them I heard the whisper ‘He’ll come back, of this you are so certain, but I never leave. I do not need to come back because I am always here.  Why trust him and not Me“.

I ignored the whisper.  I did not enjoy the truth spoken.  I did not enjoy the realization about myself.  In that moment I realized I was learning far more than how to navigate up paths probably not meant for city SUV’s like mine.

Just as I dismissed the inner voice I saw him turn around the curve ahead and seeing us sitting still he began to jog towards us. He got me and the truck out of that particular spot, and more than a few additional ones in the hours we spent driving those roads.  Even though I had no idea what I was doing, no reason to trust that my truck and I would indeed head down that highway towards home on Sunday afternoon, I kept going.  I kept going because I trusted the experience of the man in the truck ahead of me or the seat beside mine.  I trusted his knowledge and discretion.  All the while knowing he is man, he is flawed.

My Daddy God, is not flawed. He does not base His direction for the steps of my life on past experience.  He knows.  He is omniscient and omnipresent.  He is not “guessing” we will be okay.  He knows.  He knows the number of my days and the course of my path.  He knows when I will deviate and when I will follow where He leads.  I am still working on trusting that knowledge in new layers of me.  Layers that are still afraid to hope and dream.  Layers that spend too much time counting the ways that life has failed to meet my expectations and not enough time praising Him for carrying me this far and loving me every step of the way.  These were not lessons I expected to be enforced as we climbed rocky mountain paths one SUV leading the other.  The best lessons in life are rarely expected, they are just found in the day to day living when you stop long enough to listen to the gentle whisper.  The one that makes you cringe, knowing life lessons are never easy and often painful.

I was shown this weekend that I am perhaps a bit braver and stronger than I realize at times.  After all, I am somehow the woman laughing her way through learning to drive in four wheel drive on back roads where it is not just handy but absolutely required.  I am the woman who, despite my own assertions that I despise camping, came to realize that I do enjoy a brief weekend in the woods with dear friends, good food, and this amazing invention called Smores.  Smores NOT baked in the oven.  Who knew such a thing existed?  I enjoyed sweet friends willing to get sticky hands so mine would be . . .well . . not sticky!  I enjoyed the quiet early morning hours drifting between sleep and awake when the silence surrounding is so big it’s scary.  I enjoyed the random banter, the silly conversations, and the heart’s stories shared there in the little campground we eventually made home for a few days.  I enjoyed the memories made and the laughter shared.

It was a good weekend, a far cry away from that lilac and lace bedroom I was in twenty summers ago.

Posted in Adventure, Faith, Perspective | 1 Comment »

August 4, 2009 by admin.

I wrote this the end of May but never posted it.  For some reason, it seems like today I should.

I walked in to bible study tonight with a list of reasons about why now is not the time, there’s too much stress at work, there are too many things going on.  I walked in with the never ending stream of voices telling me that I couldn’t do it, I am not strong enough, all the what-if’s firmly planted.  I walked in with a pity party cloaked tightly over my shoulders. I didn’t want to be there.  I didn’t want to learn, stretch, grow.  Those things bring pain and I am tired of hurting.

Nothing changed while I was there.  My younger brother is still . . .my baby brother, his baby is still just as much at risk, my computer is still dying, my work is still insane, my dreams are still a shattered mess, my circumstances are identical to when I walked in that door tonight.  I still came home to an empty house, my heart is still aching for things that began but never became.  I still miss the little ones I said goodbye to all too soon for my liking.  I still hate Mother’s Day and the painful reminder it is in so many ways.  Nothing changed.  Nothing disappeared.  Nothing altered.  Mother’s day is still Sunday.  That still hurts.  All these years later, it still hurts.  Acceptance of circumstance doesn’t necessarily change the way it aches.  I’m learning that too.

My perspective shifted though. 

I realized, at least to a small degree, just how far God has brought me.  I only see the tiny path we are on and through the wild tangled bushes I see the life I thought I wanted to live.  I look through the gaps and I long for what is on the other side.  I shuffle my feet and I kick up the dust and I rail at God about how not fair it is.  I tell him that I am angry, hurt, alone, and afraid.  I tell Him I only asked for the things that most take for granted.   I tell Him I am exhausted.  Plumb worn out, tired to the bone, exhausted.  I tell Him to take all of that away and let me live, really live.  In turn He says “Walk with me” and my heart responds “That doesn’t end well.  When I walk with You I walk off ledges that I would prefer never to see, I am told to climb mountains.  Even when I reach the top the climb has been such a struggle I do not enjoy the view.  Plus, I am a little afraid of heights, did You forget?  I get lost in the trenches of battlefields along the way, and those fields do not come with warning signs.  There is no notice that I am about to tumble until I am in the bottom covered in mud listening to the percussive patter of the ammunition flying above me.  No.  I do not like this path, this plan, this life, and I want to live the life I asked You for God.  I made my desires very clear, and godly men told me that You will grant us the desires of our hearts if we believe when we ask.  I have believed.  I have struggled for it, but I have believed.  No, this is not the path for me.”

Instead I make my own way.  I wander off that path, and I tangle myself in the thorny bushes that have grown along side and I sit.  I cry.  I rub my bloody angry red arms, sore from the scratches and the bug bites. I swat away the blood sputtering down my legs.  All the while wondering how I became such a bloody ugly mess.  Then the strangest thing happens.

He comes.

He comes and He picks me up and He holds me close and He whispers “I love you daughter, shall we go back to My path now?”  He waits me out while I sob in His arms, He waits and He just keeps whispering “I love you daughter, you are Mine, I have never left you”.  He places images in my mind to remind me of those times, and how He was there even in the chaos.  My heart aches that the words are finally given to me.  The unwanted daughter finally desired.  Eventually the tears subside and I nod against His chest.  It’s all I can manage in my worn out messy state.  Words are not possible, that single nod is all I have left to give. It is enough, for He hears the words of my heart.  He hears the things I do not have the strength to mutter.  He clenches His hands a little tighter around me as He stands and then He effortlessly carries me.  He carries me away from the dusty tangled web of my dreams, the losses and grievances woven through their spiky gnarled branches and He takes me back to the light.  The light makes everything more beautiful and once the light is allowed to filter through, even the tangled webs are gorgeous in their own way. 

Like a bare tree in the dead of winter, the late evening sun light filtering through the branches tainting them with the orange glow as the sun begins to fade into the horizon.  The light and even the absence of light found in the shadows make the tree beautiful.  It is not a typical beauty, which is found in spring.   In His time, the weather will warm and the tree will be covered in the brightest of greens and gentlest of yellows as new life is brought about.  Still the Wintered tree has its own beauty.  It’s stark, even painful in a way; a reminder that life has been temporarily sapped away by the bitter winter conditions.  The wind, rain, and snow have had their way, despite the desperate desire for spring to come; winter always has its way. 

It began in the fall as the nights began to dip into the biting cold and the leaves turn their brilliant reds and oranges.  They become brittle even as they fade in color and in a matter of days they cascade to the ground.  It happens so fast, the decent from beauty to barren. The previously beautiful leaves rot, fertilizing the soil enriching the root system below.  We can’t see all that, it’s at a molecular level, but our inability to see it or reproduce it does not negate the power.  I look back and I see the autumn months dawning in my life.  The change is slow and subtle so it’s almost impossible to see until you are fully into winter.  Only then is it obvious where the change began.  In the middle of winter, you loose sight of spring.  You forget that it will end, you are left only with the distant memories that you have been here before and survived.

The winter tree survives despite the arid conditions and in Spring all that was lost, the leaves that fell from their perch of glory, the animals that were forced to migrate, everything will be restored.  It will not look the same, but life will be revived.  One day you will look up, and if you are paying attention the morning dew will make those tender leaves sparkle as diamonds in the early morning sun.

He’s still got me in winter, but the days are warming.  The buds are starting to come out on the tree. The beauty will be apparent in time.  For now I am content in the barren beauty of winter, but I joyfully anticipate Spring.  I’m ready now God, ready for Spring, ready to begin to use the rotted nasty mess for You.  

Posted in Faith, Infertility, Perspective, Divorce | 1 Comment »

July 28, 2009 by admin.

2190 days.

2190 days since your tiny frail body was in my arms.
2190 days since your mom and I smiled through tears at your beauty.
2190 days since I learned that He is big enough to hold me through the impossible night.
2190 days since I learned how deep and long love can go.
2190 days since I learned a little more of who I am.

It seems a lifetime ago when I think of all that has transpired in the last 2190 days.  My life looks nothing like it did that long ago summer day.

Yet it seems like yesterday when I close my eyes. I can still see the photos flipping through my head of that week. I can still smell the hospital corridors.  I can still feel the cold linoleum floors beneath me.  I can still allow my mind to wander back to the faces of those angel nurses who held us through those dark hours.  I can still remember the way you felt in my arms, and the way that little kick felt sitting at the gas station not long before you were born. I still remember the trip your mom and I took when we chose your name.  I remember the heart wrenching sobs and silence that filled that week six years ago.  I still remember the Blockbuster shelf knocked to the floor, the Chinese food we never quite ate, the catch of breath with every phone call, and the plea to stare at new walls.

I still remember Little One.  I always will.

I remember how He used those cold hospital floors to teach me to rely on Him and not other human arms.  I still struggle with reliance on an invisible God, but the moments I struggle most I pull up my mental pictures of that night, the sweet nurse that wrapped that heated blanket around my shoulders.  When she left and I began to pray to Him, it seemed as if that blanket was a reminder that He was there holding me even as I sobbed and yelled and begged my Daddy God to take away the previous hours and make a new ending to the story.  That was the night I began to understand the true definition of lamenting.  I had to trust that He had it all in His hands, but it was a struggle with each inhalation I took.  So many lessons began that long sleepless night.  I am stronger for all that I learned in that overwhelming grief.  I have held onto those lessons so many times in the last six years. Tangible evidence to my heart that He is bigger, and He will get me through.  A reminder that even when it feels so very certain that I will cease to be, the sun will rise and I will take another breath.  Your death prepared my heart for so many things that were yet to come on this day 2190 days ago.

Little One, it’s been 2190 days.  My love is not less even all these days later.  My grief has changed into a sad acceptance, a query of what might have been, a gratefulness that you have only known love and peace.  Still, this day, 2190 days later I wish things were different and your voice would be on the other end of your Aunt’s cell phone. I wish that you were anywhere but that tiny grave on the hill.

I miss you Little One.

Thank you Daddy God for holding her close when we can not.  Thank You for the lessons you taught me and continue to teach me through the gift of my tiniest niece. 

Posted in Grief, Being an Aunt, Faith, Perspective | No Comments »

July 26, 2009 by admin.

The lyrics to It Feels Like Home To Me play through my head as I take in the clamor surrounding me.  Sister is by the nearly completely constructed chicken coop slathering it in a rich rust tinged red.  There is as much paint on her skin and clothes as the particle board she is supposed to be covering.  Just the way it always is.  Big brother and Papa are arguing good-naturedly over the proper construction of the remaining sections of coop.  They have been doing this for hours now and seem to be no closer to a solution than they were, but miraculously the building will be done, and done right, by nightfall.  Sweet One is cutting a section from the bottom boards on the barn we started two summers ago.  I glance at him, longing to share the vast array of memories I have stored up of that barn.  The saw is too loud, so the stories will wait but my heart smiles just the same.  He fits in so well with these people and this place.  I love that he has a place now in the memories of Papa’s Legacy that exist in my mind’s eye.  The boys are in the house.  Dark Eyes is watching a movie, Red is playing on Papa’s computer.  They have been in and out all morning long alternately banging hammers, playing with the various dogs, and finding solitary activities indoors. Nana is making dinner, and if the aromas wafting out of the kitchen are any indication the dinner will be glorious indeed.  Of course, with Nana dinners always are.

I’m home daddy my heart whispers to the man bantering with us all.

I walk into the house, heading to the kitchen to fetch a glass of cranberry juice.  Red looks up from his game and in that slightly amused certain tone of his asks “Aunt Ally, are you using power tools again?”.  The last few hours flit through my mind.  Power Saw, Drill, Skill Saw.  The memories of a year ago and the first time I ran a chunk of wood across that whirling blade play along side the more current memories.  “Yeah bear . . . why?”.  “Because Aunt Ally, you have on the Big Happy smile”.  Grinning to himself he fades back into his game, leaving his Aunt chuckling in the kitchen.  I glance out the kitchen window and as I survey the progress we have made I catch my reflection in the glass .  I can’t help but be amused at the state I find myself in.  My hair started out the day neatly twisted into a clip.  The escaping tendrils are now adhered to my sweaty sun screen covered self.  The tank top I donned so many hours ago is covered in saw dust which also clings in patches to my sticky skin. The beginning stages of pink at the edges of the tanks straps are starting to emerge.  My skin has various nicks and scratches from the bits of flying wood those saws I love so much create.  Despite the mess I find myself in I can’t help but see what my nephew saw. The smile, the light in my blue eyes.  It amazes me, the joy I find in projects such as this.  I love the end result, as any girl who measures love in tangibles would, but I also love the process and the life lessons learned there among the saw horses.

I join them again, smiling as Papa tells me they need another piece of wood cut.  Brother marks the length they require and nods once as he hands it to me.  I reach down to flick on the saw, and catch Papa’s proud grin.  Slowly I start that piece of wood.  It binds and both men look up, Papa shouting above the saw “Back it out girl, back it out”.  I pull the wood back and begin the cut once more.  The men go back to the task at hand.  I smile, proud that they no longer come running when they hear the blade catch, they just remind me of the proper course of action.  This trip, Papa didn’t help me with my cuts.  He just handed me wood or called out lengths.  Time changes so many things.  Some little, some big.

I smile at the people gathered there in that yard, and I laugh at the good-natured bantering flying between us all.  These people, this place, they are home to my heart.  I am still the girl who prefers to be neat and clean.  I am also the saw dust covered girl who loves nothing more than the high pitched squeal of a saw and a pile of lumber waiting to become something new.  I suppose, more than the saw itself I love the men who are content to let me run that old saw and the woman at their side who first brought me home.

And Papa - I don’t think we’ll finish that barn anytime soon.  Your girl likes running the power saw way too much!

Posted in Projects, Family | No Comments »

July 19, 2009 by admin.

Sometimes it is only when truth is spoken out-loud that it is finally understood.

It had been a few too many days since we were side by side.  Too many events were transpiring, we all felt the need for home.  We gathered in the Nut House walls, and as the food was prepared the fast paced words laced with alternating frantic-ness and love passed between us too.  Patient men simply wait in silence for the torrential words to fade, for the silence to linger, before a broader conversation can begin. They are loving men who understand the nature of sisters, they love us enough to wait.

Sisters.

These are the moments I know more fully that we are indeed sister-hearts.  Our parents are not the same, our DNA is not shared, but in these moments we are sisters just as surely as those that share the aforementioned DNA.

Then the words struck.

She was sharing with me the burden of one we love so dearly.  She said “I told him this story, and how even with that it hurts you that your father is not around”.

The words between us continued but those stayed sheltered in my core.  I knew they would come out later, they were too big to simply slip into the abyss.

Her words rang truth through my core even as I turned, my eyes seeking his.  The man my father does not even know exists.  The one whom my father will likely never meet. This man who loves me well despite the holes my own father left, despite the wounds that were inflicted and the scars that still affect.  A smile passes between us, a gentle understanding flows.  My heart aches for the price he pays for those old wounds.  He assures me that the price is one he willing accepts, but that does not negate the ache.

I turned back to her, my sister-heart.  In a whisper I asked which stories I need to share with this one we love, this hurting soul.  Our eyes locked and the truth passed between us as only sisterhearts allow for.  Some things can not be said in the language of words, they must be spoken in the underneath layers.  The ones of hearts and souls.   The ones of old wounds and new healing.

When the words were done I slipped in next to him as he played with my nephew.  He has eased into this family in such a simple manner I have no doubt it is meant to be this way in this time.  He slipped a kiss across my forehead, his head resting against mine for just a moment.  I ask if it’s okay, if the words can be given in his presence.  What I really want to know is if it will hurt him.  His gentle whisper comes “It is always okay, it is the story of you”.  The underneath layers are soothed once again by this sweet one.  He turns back to the child’s game.  I return to the kitchen counter where hearts are so often shared.

Plans were made, dinner was prepared and consumed, words flowed, teasing ensued.  Underneath it all lay the simple truth.

I still miss not having a daddy.

Posted in Childhood, Perspective | No Comments »

July 17, 2009 by admin.

I noticed last night the state of my hands.  I noticed the skin peeling back from nails, and the fractured cracks at nails bed edge.  Tomorrow, I reasoned, I will fix my hands.

I set about the day, leaving my rings on the counter at home.  If I put them on, I would never remove them for the application of lotion.  I sat at my desk, opened the programs, arranged the keyboard, and set lotion at it’s side.  Determined, I file down the cracked skin, push back the cuticles and reach for that creamy hand lotion.

All day long, every time I wash my hands, I reach for that tube.

By the end of the work day smooth finger tips glide over clicking keys.  I have, thoughtfully and carefully, restored my hands to a more acceptable state.

Despite their smoothness I stare at them in sadness.  When was the last time I spent such time and focus filling my heart’s calloused cracks?  When did I last exert the effort to reach for The Good Book and fill my weary soul?  When I did last beseech Him in prayer, allowing His love to file away the wounds the world has imparted?

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July 17, 2009 by admin.

She walks through my office door, her small pale hand hidden in her father’s weathered one.

She asks “Where’s Allison” long before she looks up and makes eye contact.  I wave at her, wondering why this child knows my name.  In moments I learn, it is because her name is Alison too.  One L not two.  Her father has business to conduct so this child of five and half years comes to my side.  She works with me, learning the functions of each machine. The printers, the fax, the scanner, the postage meter.  Her joy fills the room as she completes what I view as mundane tasks.  I smile at her exuberance and wonder when I lost mine.

Climbing into my office chair she spins in circles, smile of glee upon her face.  I remember so well the hours I spent doing the same in my own father’s office.  The hours we spent playing hide and go seek, or school, or ancient computer games on his old Unix machines.  It was a lifetime ago, but as her hair spun behind her I could nearly feel the breeze across my face.  I told her how when I used to spin I would read my books.  She said “Like this” and held her hands as if the pages of a book graced that space.  I smiled, and she smiled back.  A connection between her and the realization that I was once a child too.  It is so easy to forget sometimes, yet it comes back in a flash.

The tasks completed, the spinning done, her busy mind still needs occupied. I pulled up photos on my computer screen.  I watched her awe at the flashes of color.  Then the questions began.  “Who is she”.  She learns the names “Sister”, “Brother”, “Nephew”, “Mom”, “Dad”.  For her I keep the family line simple, I do not differentiate adoption from DNA.  Those were easy questions.  The next perplexes me.  “But WHY did you take a pictures of a bee?”.  I stare at her, bewildered.  Rather than answer I change photos again.  She is not close enough to suit her so I pull her onto my lap.  This child with her slightly curled pony tail who smells as all children do in summer of salty sweat and cherry icee, sits on my knee.  I gaze at her as the questions continue to circle inside of me, all the while narrating the photos flipping past on the screen.  I tell her where the photos were taken, and general information that she seems to find pertinent.  Again she asks “But why did you take the picture”. I shrug as she says “it looks like a haunted tree”.  I nod as if this is the answer to her question, knowing that the answer is so much more complex.  “But WHY did you take a picture of the sun?”.  “But WHY did you take a picture of the flower this way AND that way?”

I stare at her a moment, not wanting to blow off her heart felt yearning to learn and yet baffled because to me the answer is so simple it’s undefinable.

I ask her “Doesn’t it look good?”

She nods.

“That’s why” I reply.

She raises her eyebrow in clear mocking of my answer.

It has been hours since that child climbed off my lap, took one last spin in my office chair, and scampered to her father’s side.  Still I wonder “Why do I do what I do?”.  It has been so clear to me for awhile now, yet I have no words to define the “why”.  “Because I have no other option” is the only answer that springs forth.  “Because I have to”.  “Because I saw it”.  “Because God made it”.  None of those answers will satisfy a five and half year old child.  I am not certain they should satisfy me but they are the only explanation I have.

Because I am alive.  That is why I take photos.  For the very simple reason that I am alive.

Posted in Perspective, Photography | No Comments »