Edit that line!

One of the greatest pleasures in my life is the ability to read the written word.  It is even a greater pleasure to be able to somewhat write a thought or two in a way that reflects not only the thought but (sometimes) the emotion behind it.

Words are powerful in and of themselves.  If you take one simple word and put it into different context, it changes the whole meaning.  Perhaps this is what makes the English language so complex.

Consider this:

'I love chocolate chip cookies.'

'I love the smell of buring leaves.'

And then, hear in your minds ear,

'I love you'

uttered from the soft, sweet lips of your child or your lover.

The emotion behind that word changes dramatically, and pushes your heart to overflowing.  The previous two statements.....not so much!

Words can endear, encourage and enflame.  They can sooth or smother or smolder your emotions.

I am much more articulate when I write than when I speak.  Writing allows me to edit the words I think prior to hitting the send button to my lips.  I am certain I would have more friends had I been able to measure each word before running my flapping lips!

So, as in all things of this life, choose wisely.  Words left unspoken are sometimes the best.  But words uttered in sincerity and perfectly chosen are not easily forgotten.

What Could Have Been My Last April Fool's Day


I still remember the April Fool's Day when I was almost killed.

My mom and I were in the basement that morning as she insisted that I accompany her to rip a zipper out of an old piece of clothing, hurrying to do so before my school but arrived to cart me away.  (A recycler before it was even fashionable.)  Mom had knife in-hand to accomplish this task.

Knowing how terrified mom was of mice, and being the snotty teen that I was, I became inspired---and excitedly cried out "Mouse!" while immediately jumping up on a nearby, small stool.  My 4'10" mom shoved me off the stool in a nano-second so SHE could get on it, all the while scanning the basement floor frantically for the rodent.  

At that moment, I giddily announced "April Fool's!"

Her head jolted towards me,  black, angry eyes met mine and she shook the HUGE butcher knife right at me and stated that in no uncertain terms I  was NOT in the least bit funny!  She turned on her heel and stomped up the basement steps, steam whistling out her ears!

And there I stood, silently laughing hysterically, lest she hear me and come back to finish the job with that big ol' knife, realizing that I had almost gotten fileted in our cold basement on that April morning!

It was on that fateful morn that I realized that timing is everything!

The Shell that Could Be Me

I unpinned the Christmas letter from mom’s bulletin board, then sat down next to her on the bed.  I pointed out the pictures of her forever-best-friend and watched as she took the letter into her aged, thin, arthriticly twisted hand, scowled, then finally commented that it ‘just doesn’t look like Lorraine.’

I read aloud the words printed in the letter .  Mom asked me to slow down, then stop, as she tried to figure out who these people were, how they played into her prior ninety-five years of life.

Inside the accompanying Christmas card was a note:  “Dear Gert, I know that if mom could have one last wish, she would wish to be with you once again, to laugh and share just a few of the many wonderful memories.”  My throat ached and I blinked back tears.  I set the card down without reading the words aloud to mom.  It would only confuse her, and I could not trust my voice to remain steady.

How could you forget your best friend?  The one that had shared your youth, your secrets, your children, your life, and so many, many laughs.

It got me to thinking of my own mortality and the realization that someday the shell of a woman on the bed might be me. 

Of course I hope it never happens.  I hope that many years from now, I can slip quietly from this world into the next.  But life doesn’t always play fair.

I came to realize that I wished the same for me as what I wished upon reading the Christmas card for my own mother.  I wish that when the day comes that familiar faces begin to look like strangers, my best friend is in the room with me.  We have shared our youth, our secrets, our children, our lives, and many, many laughs.  It only seems right that we would once again be roommates, sharing silence or perhaps a few words, but certainly memories, even if only internal.  Flashes of comprehension.  A smile, and a hand held when needed.  The same hand that had intertwined mine many times before.

If I could give my mother one thing, this sweetness is what I would give her.  Realistically I know it will never happen.  Still……

It is the end we should all be lucky and honored enough to have.  Our best friend, holding our hand right up to the gate.

Different Ends of the Same Road

With a shout and wave, my son bound out the door to go see his girlfriend.  He fired up his car, backed it carefully from the garage stall, and drove off into the winter darkness with no cares in the world and lightness in his heart.

It is the simplest of actions, and yet the normalcy of it all brings a sad, wistful smile to my face, and a lump in my throat.

Fifteen hundred miles away, parents’ hearts are broken, filleted wide open with wounds that will never heal.  The Christmas lights, unhung, blackened, will never burn brightly again for them.  Instead, they are burying their beautiful, sweet, angelic children in a frozen, hardened ground.

Where is the Christmas in that?

A madman has stolen away the joy and innocence.  Because of him, because of his sickened mind, those parents will never see their son or daughter have a first love, a first car, or even challenges of teen years.  No dances, no walk down the aisle, nor grandchildren who will steal their hearts. 

About the madness, people ask ‘what are we to do?”

 

There are no quick answers.  Nothing that can make a difference to those babes already gone.  We can only dry the tears of those left behind and say meaningless phrases like “God must have needed more angels.” 

All words fall flat.

Fifteen hundred miles away I can only try to understand the grief.  It is incomprehensible.  If I think too hard about it, I could become hardened to the world.  Never trust.  Carry the burden with a grimaced face.  Close my own world to what is safe.  Then I ask myself to define safe---if not a kindergarten room in a school, then where?

My eyes watered as my son left the driveway.  The lights from our Christmas tree shone in reflection in a window.

We must never, ever forget.  We need to hug each other a little tighter and flourish the “I love you’s” more frequently.  In the end, it is all that matters.  On either end of the road.

Sunglints off Snow

Sixteen months ago today I lost my husband, after his valiant fight with cancer.   In some ways it feels like just a moment ago.  In others, a whole lifetime.

 The healing process has been a bit like tending a bleeding, gaping wound.  The edges have healed and the depth is not quite as vast.  But the wound is definitely there, and easily bleeds.

 The three boys have dealt with it in varying ways and degrees.  I continue to wade through life and all it’s events as a single person.   Not so easy after twenty-some years of being a couple.

I watch the passing of seasons with renewed eyes.  We are heading into the bleakest of seasons…winter.   But even in the gray and cold and intense Minnesota deepfreeze, there is a beauty that cannot be denied.  The glint of sun on snow is blinding at times, yet I force myself to gaze at it with eyes wide open.  This season of winter holds a promise of what is to come…..the awakening of all that is around us with the hope of spring and summer beyond.  New life.  Renewed life.

Much like myself. 

I send prayers on wings of hope, that my husband can still hear my words, my cries.  That God hears them doubly.

 And when my heart is ready, that He send someone to walk this path with me,  so neither of us will walk alone.

Glimmers of hope

There are moments in life that make you believe in yourself. We collect them and tightly hold on to them so that when we are confronted by lack of confidence we can dig deep and quietly remind ourselves, "Yes, I can."

And that, in itself, is enough to keep us moving forward.