Five Years

The Pastor said we can't hide from the Spirit. She also said the Spirit will blow however and wherever it chooses. But, I've heard this all before, of course. 

Five years ago was the last Pentecost that Rod preached. Just a few weeks later all hell broke loose in the Presbytery and our congregation. Four years ago his call had been ended and we were packing up to leave Utah. Three years ago we attended 1st Baptist and they don't really celebrate Pentecost. Two years ago he was too sick to attend church. Last year I might have gone to 1st Baptist, but I really don't remember.

This year, though, I wore my red shirt and prepared to celebrate Pentecost like we used to with beautiful banners, stoles, and hearing scripture in different languages at the local Presbyterian church. The difference, of course, is that I drove to church alone and sat alone. Rod wasn't the Pastor up front declaring the birth of the church by the giving of the Spirit. Rod wasn't the Pastor up front celebrating Communion, either. But, I was one of the many people in the pew. Some of the songs I hadn't sung since our last Pentecost in 2012. Absolutely beautiful songs that took me back to so many services, so many Pentecost Sundays. This morning was very emotional, but I was determined to see it through. 

The liturgy, the call and response of the people, the confession of sin, the ritual of forgiveness, the ebb and flow of sound and silence, words and reflection. Regardless of all the pain and terrible upheaval and injustices that happened in 2012 and 2013, this liturgy still speaks Christ to me and still draws me to God. It all speaks to me and calls me home. The institution itself is deeply flawed, but when its worship is strong and Christ-centered it feeds my soul and gives me strength. And within this experience I have found there must be forgiveness. There must be forgiveness.

The Pastor was pretty clear this morning that the Spirit will do whatever it wants with whomever it wants whenever it wants. In other words, when God's Spirit is moving there is nothing we can do to stop it. If we could impact it, we humans would have ended the Church an awfully long time ago. It's a wild testament to the power of the Spirit that the Church is still here, still thriving. 

As I sat in the pew this morning I asked God to simply tell me what to do. This is my heart, my soul, my faith, my connection with God and it has been so dismantled by the Utah experience and by Rod's death. So dismantled. But, in this pew, for the past few months, a relative calm has settled in my heart. I say relative because I'm wrestling with it like Jacob wrestled with the angel.  I feel so loyal, still so committed to supporting Rod and all the terrible angst he experienced. Am I condoning those who waged war on us in Utah by sitting amongst those with the same affiliation in Oregon? Does love and commitment require me to carry that pain and those injustices the rest of my life? What about Rod's statement to me on July 17th two years ago: "Don't let the past negatively influence your future"?  If he is with Christ, and he is, then all that he endured has been swept clean, made new, and redeemed. I am free to worship and follow Christ as best I can without him. In my dreams, he comes wearing bright shirts and always looks so happy and well. He no longer carries the weights or scars of his ministry. He gave his all. He definitely fulfilled his ordination vows.

On my studio white board I've written the last clear thing he said two days before he died: "I have so much left to say." I will wrestle with his last words for the rest of my life. This morning I thought of them in the context of ministry. We both had so much left to say in our ministry. We weren't ready for it to end. We weren't done yet. We still had a lot of ministry left in us. And therein lies my quandary. How do I carry our ministry on? Do I carry it on? What is my part in it now? 

To follow these questions I know well enough that the grounding and base of my experience has to be supported by that liturgy, this communion, those songs, and these prayers that held me through the ups and downs of our 20+ years of ministry. The calling of the Spirit was overwhelmingly clear this morning.  I found myself standing in a circle after worship with one Pastor, two Elders, one clerk, and one other new person expressing the desire to unite with this congregation. I met a few weeks ago with the clergy couple pastors so they know my full story. I told Pastor David this morning, "This is my home. Even though it drives me crazy, this is my home." He understands.

And so, the wrestling will continue, but I took a huge step today. I arrived at church as a "frequent visitor" and left as a member by re-affirmation of faith. I never thought I'd do this. I never thought I'd be led this way or have the strength for it. But, the Spirit moves as it wills and once in awhile I can stay out of the way. 

Five years is a long time. I can finally say tonight that chapter has been closed. I've taken a step of faith with a big helping of forgiveness. And, I'm sure Rod is OK with it. I'm very sure. 

Westminster Presbyterian Church

Eugene, Oregon

June 4, 2017

The Kind that Last

I was waiting for you, but you didn't come. Where have you been? We were supposed to meet with the guy about my application, she announced as she barged out of the bathroom shortly after I arrived.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mom, I've been at work all day. I didn't know we had an appointment. What guy were we supposed to meet?"

Never mind. I'm going to lay down in the bed. 

There was no guy. There was no application.

Silence... minutes pass like hours.... then she suddenly asks,

Can you tell me what happened to George? Where did he go?

Did she mean when he died?
Did she mean he was just here and now he's left the room?
It was really hard to tell.

I sure wish George could come see me.

"Oh, I know you do. Maybe he can come in your dreams."

What? What are you saying? I can't understand you! I can't hear you!

I bring up Mark's impending move from Montana to Oregon. It's as if she's never heard about it.

Why do you say he's leaving Montana when he lives in Nebraska?

Rod and I lived in Nebraska 25 years ago, but I don't try to explain this. Thankfully, this visit, she hasn't asked where Rod is and why doesn't he come to see her.

More silence ...... more minutes pass like hours ....

It's beautiful outside, but she refuses to walk ten feet to the patio. I feel guilty for feeling so stuck. One day I'll wish for these minutes again, these very same ones that are so brazenly taking her one brain cell, one memory, one interaction at a time away from me.

These minutes tease with flashes of the real person she once was even while they're constructed of long segments of the shadow she has become.

"I'll bring you fresh flowers on Sunday."
Oh, that's good.
"What kind do you want?"
The kind that last.

Yes, those are the best kind.

"I need to stop by the store to pick up dinner for myself," as I rise from her walker seat to leave.
I should go the dining room.
I help her get her shoes on while she protests I can't see them. I can't do it.

"I'll see you on Sunday and we'll call Mark."
OK, thank-you for coming, Sherry, thank-you for coming.

The tenderness and poignancy of hearing her say my name is never lost on me. Never.

And as I leave I wonder if Dad is really coming to see her.
Maybe he is.
Maybe they've been talking.
Maybe he was here right before I arrived today.

When the lines between past and present,
between reality and fiction,
are well on their way to being erased,
it doesn't matter anymore how the love comes.

All that matters is that it does come ~
From those who always carried it for us
Within the chambers of their hearts
That have never stopped beating.

For they have been and always will be
The kind that last.

By the River with a Stranger

Of course, I knew today was coming, but I reasoned that if I didn't think about it, then it wouldn't bother me. Nonetheless, my heart made other plans without telling me. I could feel the tension rising the past few days and know enough about grief to understand I was anticipating today, but again, I thought my brain had it covered and the weekend would go fine. Remember what I said about my heart?

I tried to get up on time this morning, but failed and was moving at a snail's pace. I was dressed for church when I conceded I was going to be 15 minutes late. And, with that acknowledgement, all I could do was to sit down and cry. Not a small cry, but a really big cry. OK, I relented, so the day is harder than I was going to allow it to be. I'll finish crying and then see Mom for our weekly call with my brother, I planned. But, it was another tough visit in that she can't see, she can't hear, she doesn't remember anything, and I was in tears, again, before I was out the door.

What was going on with me?  I kept repeating my morning prayer, "Lord, circle me with love. Keep light near and darkness afar" over and over and over. I knew I couldn't spend the beautiful Sunday afternoon in the house with so much angst so I loaded Tahoe into the car and off we went. The water was calling me, just as it had a year ago today in Sausalito. The hour was approaching when I'd let go of Rod for the very last time on the choppy Bay. Like I said, my heart had other plans for today.

As we walked the path at Clearwater Park the singing birds, the light through the trees, and the very full river were all so soothing. I told Tahoe we'd walk to the bench where we like to sit and look at the river. But, when we got there it was already in use. An elderly man was sitting there with a beer and some nuts with his bike next to him. Surprising myself, I asked if Tahoe and I could stand there and look at the river. Instead, he offered the other end of the bench. So we sat, and we talked, and we stayed, and we shared, and we learned. After an hour with Tom I knew more than when I first sat down. He's a very in-shape 82 year old retired military man who just spent a whole lot of money on a German e-bike, i.e., one with a battery to help you go farther and better.  Today's ride was only 10 miles. I found myself talking about where I'd lived through the years and somehow used the phrase, "When I was married..." which horrified me. It sounded like I'd been divorced so I had to correct it. I explained that my husband had died almost 2 years ago and I'm young to be a widow. I didn't mention that today is the first anniversary of placing Rod's ashes in the Bay.

Tom's story included several marriages along the way, with one referenced as "my last divorce," but I think he must have had a wife die, too, because at one point in the conversation he simply said, "It's hard to be a widow, isn't it?" "Yes, it is. It really is. But, I guess we just keep going," I replied. He agreed that's what we have to do.

He talked about swimming in the warm Mediterranean waters when he was in the service and being fined $25.00 by the military each time he walked out of a building next to his African American friend. He is the same age as my Mom, but worlds apart in his health and capacities.

When I rose to leave he stood and shook my hand. Gentlemen of his era are, well, gentlemen. I thanked him for his time and we started back down the path to the car. The hour of placing Rod's ashes into the Bay had passed. My nerves had calmed down. A perfect stranger had said the words I most needed to hear today, "It's hard to be a widow, isn't it?" Yes, it really, really is.

Once again (and why do I ever doubt this will happen?) the Lord circled me with love and kept the light near with the darkness very far away.

The Fifth Sunday of Lent

An auspicious date for hardly anyone, I'm sure, but for me the fifth Sunday of Lent will always be a very significant day. "Last Sunday in Brigham City" reads the note in my devotional book. This morning I read it quickly as I rushed to worship in of all places ... a Presbyterian church. Four years have passed since that note, since that last Sunday with Rod in the pulpit and me waiting for him when it ended. When it all ended. The moment of exit left our spirits lingering at the door for years. In the last months of his life he told me he was still there on the steps leaving the building. His heart and soul couldn't get across the parking lot. He was suspended there in a state of confusion and pain. Of course, our bodies had moved to a new house, a new life, a new city and state. At the very end he said he forgave all of them. The courage and clarity this took was amazing to me. It was stunning and compelling towards deeper faith. After all he had been put through, he was able to forgive them.

Since his death, I've had a greater struggle to forgive. But, something started stirring a month ago. Odd thoughts of attending a Presbyterian service entered my heart. My mind was quick to shut them down, but the heart can be so persistent. Maybe, I reasoned with my mind, if I go then I can finally make peace with that horrible institution. Maybe.

So, I went once. Then I went again. Today was my third visit. The liturgy, the reformed theology, the order of worship, the songs all spoke to me in a deep, aching place. The people all looked familiar even though I had never seen any of them. I knew how to Pass the Peace and participate in the responsive readings. The form and content were familiar and surprisingly comforting. If I could, even for a minute, let go of the bitterness and anger, then maybe I could hear God again in worship. Maybe I could reconvene my soul in worship.

As usual, I was late this morning and swung into the parking lot to find that same open space. Weird - it was open like this the last time, but the stranger part was the car parked next to it. A blue four-door Yaris was there the last time and this morning welcomed me again. You see, since I had to sell Rod's Yaris I've had several intriguing encounters with Yaris's. He loved his little white two door car with the center console. Flying around town in it was so much fun for him. It's not a very common car and I rarely see them around here, but the morning I pulled onto I-5 South, last May, to take his ashes to the Bay Area his exact car pulled in front of me on the freeway. We traveled together for many miles. Then, another one showed up the day before the service as I drove around Marin. My own personal escort, it seemed. When I went to see Mrs. G at her apartment in Walnut Creek I parked as she directed and, well, there was another one parked right in front of me. The next day on my way north to return home, another one showed up in front of me, showing me the way again. All of them were the exact model and year of his car and white. I took them as a sign that he was with me. And now, when I think it's important to see if the Presbyterian church holds anything for me, I end up parking next to another one. Although this one isn't white, the blue is beautiful. When I pulled in this morning, I just laughed, "Oh, you're here, again. Well, let's go see what we can figure out."

The text was about the raising of Lazarus and the affirmation of faith was taken from the Southern Presbyterian Church's "Declaration of Faith." Death often seems to prove that life is not worth living, but Christ has been raised from the dead. In his resurrection is the promise of ours. We are convinced the life God wills for each of us is stronger than the death that destroys us. In the face of death we grieve. Yet, in hope we celebrate life. No life ends so tragically that its meaning and value are destroyed. Nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.

Death. Lazarus. Grief. Resurrection. This being the weekend of Rod's birthday, I wasn't sure I could handle all of this, but I stayed. I stayed to see how Communion would go. It would be the biggest test for me. Could I enter into Communion with a Presbyterian clergy, who wasn't Rod, reciting the prayers, holding up the bread and breaking it, holding up the cup and pouring it, and inviting the people forward? I really didn't know, but I knew I had to once again meet the Christ in the bread and in the cup as I had for decades. Forward I went, in line with people I don't know, until I reached the elder serving the bread. As I took a piece from the center of the loaf the very kind man saw my tears and said, "The Body of Christ broken for you." In my tearful fog I stepped to the cup to dip my morsel while absorbing, "The cup of the new covenant poured out for you." "Amen" with the Sign of the Cross as I returned to my seat.

Memories of the fifth Sunday of Lent four years ago washed over me as I was stricken by the enormity of what had just happened. The last Presbyterian services we attended were Palm Sunday and Easter in 2013. That was it. The institution had beaten us up very, very badly. We felt thrown out and discarded. We worked hard to heal, and for him, his final healing came in forgiveness and believing that Nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord.

For me, it has taken 1,460 days to walk those 100 steps off the church property in Brigham City. The people who perpetrated the injustices in Utah weren't there today, but the same Christ who was present in the bread and the cup, when Rod presided, was very present today. I caught a glimpse of the eternal truth of Christ's presence and love. The Body of Christ broken for you... the cup of the new covenant poured out for you... The same words, the same truth, different place, someone else wearing the robe and stole. My soul had been reconvened in worship. Perhaps deep and lasting forgiveness isn't too far behind.

As I was leaving a few minutes later, still with big tears and trying to keep myself together, I told the blue Yaris, "It was powerful. It was really powerful. Thanks for being here for me."

No Lesson, Only Experience

Overwhelming green and lush roadside grasses welcomed me back.
Flying down the road, feeling strong and independent
Believing I could handle anything that came, albeit a snow plow, a flatbed of hay,
Eating alone in a dive restaurant.
Yes, I could do it.

I needed this trip to tell me I could still do it.
I needed it to tell me Health and Vitality will return.

The green told me it was all true.
The social setting said none of it was true.

Someone I had not seen for decades asked,
"What's the one big thing you've learned since Rod died?"
His emotionless question shot directly to the top of my list:
"Worst things to say to a grieving person."
While I maintained the expected, social composure required of educated adults
My brain, heart, soul, and spirit spun out of control.

Wanting to say,
             "What an idiot you are to ask such an academic research question!
               Clearly, you know nothing of death, nothing of loss, nothing of grief!"
Instead, I took the hook that always gets me -- if I can explain it well enough then the other person will understand and have empathy.

Always a lofty intellectual goal, but not realistic in the ever deep minefield of grief.
Heard myself getting lost in this example and that example,
With emotions building deep inside with literally nowhere for them to go,
Fiddling with the half eaten piece of pie on my plate,
Wishing for a quick escape.

One man lingers at the church door with tears in his eyes,
Another tells an old classmate to back off because he's still raw with loss,
She lives now in a small apartment without her lifelong love,
His young frame is bent with pain while his cane matches Grandma's,
She puts on a brave face knowing she's the only widow in her peer group ~
                                                                                                         They all know grief.

I wish I'd had the courage to tell the man there is no lesson, only experience.
There is no biggest or smallest thing from the past twenty months, only experience.
It's impossible to explain, for you to know, until it is your experience.

I can say, though, that those who grieve are the toughest people on the planet.
Resiliency becomes the only outfit we wear, day in and day out.
The ever present, low hum of life itching for another chance propels our steps.
Exhaustion may greet us every night as we fall into the bed that used to be full of love,
   but somehow we get up every morning and do what we have to do.

For some it's faith, for some it's deeply grooved habit, for some it's blind willpower.

I wish I'd had the eloquence to tell the man about the beauty in the midst of pain,
About the dreams where Rod looks so good,
is clearly not part of this world,
And always, always, always standing by a door.

Grief winnows the heart and soul like no other tool on earth.
We take the moments of resilience along with the hours of pain and confusion,
Trusting that soon life will morph into
Hours of resilience and only moments of pain.

The trip told me I can still do it - fly down the highway independent and strong.
It broke the news that Health and Vitality will return.

In the midst of my brokenness
Wearing my widow label
I am more resilient than I knew.
With the Lord's help, I am stronger and more faithful than I thought possible 20 months ago.

Next time he comes in a dream looking younger, healthy, smiling at me, full of love and
Standing by a door
He'll know, too.

And, as he always was, he'll be proud of me.
I can do this.
I can do this, even with tears in my eyes and forever in my heart,
I can do this.

Rod's Name

After almost 20 months, he still gets mail. It's not important stuff, but enough to set me back every time I pick up the mail. Cabela's and Sweetwater Music are just a couple. The trash bill still carries his name after multiple requests to change the account. Many junk mail outlets have gleaned his name from who knows what lists. I can't possibly contact all of them. What am I supposed to do with this stuff several times a week? This is the kind of grief detail that people rarely hear about. I don't want his name and our address in the recycling bin so I tear the labels off before throwing it in there. But, then his name stares at me from the counter. Before I throw the remaining label pieces away I tear them up and doing this several times a week is sadly exhausting. It just seems wrong to tear up his name, but letting it pile up on the counter would be crazy.

Two weeks ago I made a home visit with a newly grieving widow. When she looked at my business card she asked the question I've heard for decades, "Castro? What kind of name is that?" Overlooking her obviously racist tone I explained, "Oh, it's Spanish. In the 1700's my husband's family received California land grants from the King of Spain. In fact, they owned much of the Monterey coast." She backed off.

Last week I met some friends after work at a restaurant near the University of Oregon. One of them was trying to remember the name of a small brewery north of Eugene. She asked, "What's the name of that place you went to with so and so when your husband was still alive?" Really? I was dumbfounded. First, of course we went when Rod was still alive. Second, she could have used his name. Third, there was no need to remind me that I was the only widow in our small group of seven.

Less than a week ago I pulled together Mom's tax material to send to her accountant in Montana. I went to my desk to get a 9x12 envelope and randomly pulled one from the middle of the stack. That was it. I was taken out. In Rod's handwriting, the return address started with Rev. Rod Castro and continued with our/my current address. He obviously changed his mind about using it and put it back in the drawer. What was I supposed to do with it? In no way could I tear it up like the junk mail labels. It's in his hand. I couldn't put it back in the drawer, either. With conflicting emotions of dread and courage, I stuck it on my studio bulletin board. It graphically reminds me, in his own hand, that he was here. His name is good. He was very much alive and had plans for the future.

Rod's name. It's precious to me and 20 months into this I struggle greatly when it's trivialized by junk mail and insensitive comments. I thrive, though, when I hear it in loving conversations, "How did Rod serve communion?" "I remember when you and Rod did......"  "Rod would have..."

Yes, the names of the dead are precious and holy. Those who remain on this side of eternity need to hear them in this frame, in this space.

The Kink and The Graces

We've always been on great terms, my two kidneys and I, over the past almost-six decades. In fact, I thought we were the best of friends...... until a few weeks ago when Ms Left decided to announce herself with pain. The very bad pain earned me a trip to the emergency department, CT scans, the urology clinic, the nuclear medicine suite, and back to the clinic.  Whoever wants to go to such places? Anyway, I'd become quite familiar with the urology clinic and last week I became incredibly familiar with its outpatient surgical center. The tests and my new doctor all said something is partially obstructing the ureter/tube between Ms Left Kidney and Ms Bladder. Apparently, this is not good and swollen kidneys should be avoided. He said a stent needed to be placed in the ureter to drain the kidney and maybe he could fix the obstruction at the same time.

Mark came from Missoula to help me and we were even early for my 11AM check-in. "Mam, did they talk to you about the balance due after your insurance pays?" asked the very nice clinic clerk. I handed over my credit card and just as she placed it in the reader the power went out! Well, they all said, this had never happened before. She wasn't sure my card had gone through. "Are the generators working in the surgical suite?" was the primary question as important looking people swarmed in and out of the waiting room. I was already nervous about the surgery and this situation didn't help at all. They asked us to wait for an hour before leaving in hopes the power would return.  So, I picked up stressful political magazines that Mark said I should put away. I needed to stay stress free, he counseled. He was right. Instead, I scoured my phone for Springfield Utility Board reports about the outage. Nothing there. Nothing on the news. So, we sat. And sat. And sat. Suddenly, at 11:55 AM, everything came back on and within minutes my escort arrived to take me back for surgery. Now, they were in a rush to get my procedure moving.

I was already overwhelmed by the whole thing and halfway hoping it'd be cancelled. But, before I knew it I was changing into the completely unflattering surgical gown that she said I didn't need to bother tying in the back. Right. The doctor came in and wrote "L" on my left wrist with a purple marker. Good, let's make sure you work on the left side, I thought.

The calm anesthesiologist came to prep me. She had questions, checked my lungs, more questions, and then said, "You're really nervous." That's all it took. With tears welling up I said, "This is the first medical crisis since my husband died." I was petrified because Rod wasn't in the waiting room and wouldn't be there when I woke up. She was very kind and just as she started to give me something in the IV to calm me down, an anxious office person showed up saying, "Your card didn't go through! Can we run it now?" Really? I told her my brother had it in the waiting room. "Is he on the account? Can he sign it?" "Well, no, he can't." The anesthesiologist stepped aside until the office person came back with the fresh receipt on her clipboard. I signed, she was happy, I got my drugs.

I woke up in recovery and was told the stent was placed, but, unfortunately the obstruction couldn't be fixed with this procedure and I'll need another surgery. It seems I was born with a kink. A kink? A kink in the left ureter leading from my kidney? It's been there all this time and just now presenting itself?

There's ample bereavement evidence that widowed individuals frequently experience medical crises after the death of their spouse. I know this. I talk to clients all the time about the physical manifestations of grief. But, I thought I'd escaped anything huge following Rod's death eighteen months ago. Not so fast, sister. Not so fast. Seems my system has an eighteen month grief clock. Eighteen months after my Dad's death I'd gone by ambulance to the hospital for several days in Tacoma back in 2003.

This kink has been here my whole life, the doctor says. Maybe the grief really tightened it up? Certainly possible, but hard to know for sure. Unexpected kinks come in many forms throughout life, don't they? And their counterparts, called graces, also come in beautiful ways. Rod couldn't be in the waiting room last Wednesday or with me when I woke up. However, his love has flowed through graces named Mark, Tahoe, Sue, Gail, Terie, Fran, Cynthia, Tressa, Joanne, Fran, Denise, Athena, Lori, Victoria, Krista, Nate, Julie, Dan, Larry, Tara,  Bryan, Eddie, Jim, Sandy, Fred, Connie, and Diane. These graces, amongst others, are lovingly supporting me through this time.

Even with a kink, a stent, and another surgery on the horizon, I'm awed and deeply grateful for so many loving friends near and far. Maybe I was wrong last Wednesday. Maybe Rod was in that waiting room, holding my hand during surgery, and with me when my eyes opened. I think that's right. He just looks different now. He looks like all the beautiful graces carrying me through this otherwise scary experience.

Just 18" from the Edge

The process of installing new flooring through the house began in December. A little less than half of my studio remains to be done and Mark will be here in a couple of weeks to finish it. Today's the first time I've sat in here since it's been under construction. I'm struck by the metaphor spread out before me. I'm literally sitting 18 inches from the edge of the floor. Tahoe is strewn out across it with his towel. This side of the room is clean, comfortable, welcoming, and warm. At the edge, though, it all changes. Boxes of flooring sit open and not yet open. A lone dining chair searches for its mates. Rod's favorite chair sits in the corner. The hamper from my Mom's previous apartment is sitting on top of my road atlas on the seat. Will his chair go back to the living room? Does it need to leave the house to make space for the future? My recently installed bulletin and erasable boards hang on the wall. The window is opaque with morning light. 

My prayer journal calls out, "Show me the way I should go, Lord." The edge is definitely close enough to see, stumble over, and the expanse it borders is chaotic, unknown, and yet familiar. So very much like the world I inhabit, that we all inhabit. The small portion that is known and ordered provides stability that is fleeting and almost laughs at me as it flows across the edge. 

Mark will return to fix this mess. A choice will be made about Rod's chair.  Cleanliness, comfort, welcome, and warmth will then fill the entire room. The edge will be hidden beneath the floorboards, but it will still be there. It will remain all around me and often much closer than 18". 

Seeing the edge, intentionally stepping towards it, crossing it, and being safe in the unknown expanse is the work of grief, the work of life. Sometimes it's best to just take a seat and let the view sink in.

The Prayer Cloth

Over the past 17+ months I've done many things to help my heart understand and adapt to the reality that Rod won't come home again. The past six weeks have been involved with new flooring, removal of a wall unit, new paint, and overall redecorating of my living  space. While being housebound by snow and ice today I opened the old wicker picnic basket we had when I was a child. Inside I found a plastic bag with a tightly folded cloth with rainbow edges. The prayer cloth! I hadn't looked at it for ten years. Rod and I had draped it over our dining room table in Tacoma, 2006, when we were seeking a new call. On it we wrote the names of places with churches eager to talk with Rod. As the Lord's leading became clear, one by one they were each crossed off until Brigham City, Utah emerged on December 3, 2006. 

At the beginning of the search, we started with specific verses at the top and bottom in the rainbow with the question in the middle, "Where to, Lord?" Rod's prayer is at the top ~

Today the creased cloth flooded my heart with memories of our hope to follow God's leading and our dream of future adventures. My eyes were totally surprised to see one specific place written and then crossed off: Eugene, Oregon. A church here matched with him and they talked, but it wasn't God's call. It wasn't the right place. It wasn't the right time. 

Now, it is the right place and the right time. Rod made sure we got here for my work. And, the scripture from Mark, written on the cloth in 2006, speaks deeply to me tonight.

As Jesus was getting into the boat,the demon-delivered man begged

him to go along, but he wouldn't let him.

Jesus said,

"Go home to your own people.

Tell them your story,

what the Master did,

how he had mercy on you."

Through this time, Lord, give me imagination,faith, and hope to be here now, to tell my story of the great, great mercy You have shown me. Great mercy, indeed.

Hesitant to Return - 8 January 2017

The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.

My mirror and backbone have vanished.

I've been very hesitant to return to this page.

The man who used to come through the door at the end of day to joke about fruit in my cooking is no longer alive.

Volumes of journals rest next to my bed as my intimate companions of these past almost 18 months.

The river of healing I wrote about in August 2014 still flows and holds more value and preciousness than I could have imagined when we were joined there in our service of healing and forgiveness.

The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.

Ice surrounds my trees and bushes right now, but warmer air is moving in. The dripping has begun, with potential for flooding.

Could warmer air be coming to me, too?

Could the ice containing my existence, protecting me from further harm, soon start to drip, to wane, to vanish away?

Could flooding call me back to my life? Back to my heart? Back to my creativity?

I don't know.

All I know is that I returned to this page today trying to continue my stories -

First time since the immediate ravages of Rod's death.

There, I typed it.

I don't think anyone reads this blog.

There's something quite weird about putting my thoughts out there online for anyone to see. 

There's also something that hints of life, life taking an itsy bitsy chance at creating again.

His life force flew out the window with such certainty and focus that it took my breath away, too.

But, I need it back.

I really need it back.

The universe has shifted in ways I would have never predicted.