Grief and Revelation at the USPS

The beach was lovely.

In every way.  (Proof above.)

We are home.  Unpacked.  Laundered.  And trying desperately to ignore the calendar.

My new neighbor came over yesterday and told me about all the school supplies she bought and how organized she is and how ready and prepared she is and asked have I checked on this or bought that or signed up for this.  Welcome to the neighborhood.  I gave her a half smile and a nervous laugh and told her about my plan to pretend school wasn't starting.  She looked at me blankly.  Not funny.  And then I got slightly nauseated.  (Fear will do that.)  Because out here, away from all that is familiar, I don't even know what time school starts.  I have been carefully avoiding anything in my mind past July.  See how that works?  Last night, in a moment of pure panic, I asked David if we could please move back home...where everything is known and sure and easy.  He just smiled.  And then told me about his own terrors.

Today I went to the post office.  And when I was walking in, I overheard two men talking outside in the shade.  The dark haired man was saying, "...but there were 300 applicants, so I don't know."  The other man was looking at him shaking his head.  One of them sighed.  I recognized the casual clothes, the tense set of the shoulders, the lost eyes, the worried fists shoved into pockets.  I looked away, not wanting to intrude, or more likely, rip open my own wounds too soon.  It's still much too soon.  I had to suck my breath in hard as it was.  As I walked past, I thought about giving him a hug, or at least putting my hand on his arm, and telling him that things get better, telling him that things will work out, telling him that things will be hard, and then harder, and then hardest of all, but then better.

But as I stood there in line, I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that I'm still waiting for "better" myself.  Don't get me wrong.  Things are good.  Having a job is good.  Paying our bills is good.  Food on the table is good.  Roof over our heads is good.  Watching David leave the house in a shirt and tie and a smile is good.  

But it's still not better.

It's not even close to better.

And here I am about to send my kids into the great unknown, where I don't even know when school starts or if there is a bus or when recess is or if they will make friends or if their teachers will be good and kind and brilliant or if we've done the right thing by moving them clear out here where everything is unknown and most likely not better.  And every uncertainty and fear and dread I have about the enormous and looming unknown started to wrap itself into a giant maelstrom inside my chest.  I left my place in line and fled.

And by the time I got back to the car, I was coming undone.

Huge, racking sobs right there in the parking lot.

Snot and spit and tears and keening, regardless of who was watching.

And then, as I sat sobbing in my car outside an unfamiliar post office, terror and fear raging their way through my mind and heart, I remembered this quote given by the marvelous James E. Talmage, about the apostles as they faced the storm on Galilee.   

"Into every adult human life come experiences like unto the battling of the storm-tossed voyagers with contrary winds and threatening seas; ofttimes the night of struggle and danger is far advanced before succor appears; and then, too frequently the saving aid is mistaken for a greater terror. But, as came unto these disciples in the midst of the turbulent waters, so comes to all who toil in faith, the voice of the Deliverer--"It is I; be not afraid."

The emphasis is mine of course.  Because those are the words that burned their way through the haze of grief and anxiety, leaving me calmed and surprised.  Because it seems that I am making this mistake all the time these days.  Greater terror, everywhere.  When it's actually saving aid.

Oh.

And then those six words at the end of the story.  It is I; Be not afraid.  

I sat there quiet and stunned as heaven then asked me a gentle question: Who else would it be? 

Oh.

And for one beautiful, blinding moment I felt better.

For good measure, Matthew's account adds the command to be of good cheer as well.

Hear that?  Chin up.  Who else would it be?

The World Can Wait

The last two days we traded the lazy days of summer for a little bit of industry.

We washed the sheets and beach towels and cleaned out the fridge.

We spent a good thirty minutes standing in front of the game cupboard, carefully picking out the best games for life at the beach.  (The selection committee takes their job seriously.)

Savannah made four kinds of cookies and bars.  They are sitting on the counter, ziplocked and waiting for their big adventure.

Ethan and I went on a Target run for sand toys and wheat thins and sunscreen.

Caleb found the boogie boards and the beach umbrella.  (Check that big box in the corner, son.  The one labelled "salvation.")

We packed light.  Swimsuits and jackets only.  Oh, and books.  A few bags of books and we'll tie the bicycles on the back. 

In a few weeks, we will be back to rising early and kissing goodbye.  We will be back to packing lunches and practicing spelling words and reading only what they're assigned.  Add to that the anticipated pain of looking around the bus stop and classroom and the lunchroom and not knowing a single soul...and I almost can't breathe.

With the calendar looming, David and I lay in the dark discussing our options.  We listed the pros (salvation) and cons (money).  We discussed directions (north, east, west) and locations (the beach or the mountains).  We tried to figure out how capable and brave I am (on my own) or am not (as the case may be).  In the end, the choice was easy.  My children need a few days of glee, a few days of freedom, a few days of salty air and icy waves, a few days of bliss, to store away and keep for the days that are coming.

And so, I am taking my children to the beach where I intend to make the most of these summer days of mothering, when they are mine, and the world and its sorrows are very, very, very far away. 

A Retraction of Sorts

Wow.  I don't know if you read that last post, but I just did and boy, I have to say that it may have bordered on whiny (gasp!) and also it's possible that it came pretty close to bratty (who me?).  My apologies...my editor is on summer vacation.  (Clearly.  I mean, did you see that last sentence?  Three punctuation marks in a row.  Ahem.)

Speaking of which (bad editors and bad writing), I joined the Relief Society book club.  I won't tell you the name of the book I was supposed to read for this month, but I will share this sentence with you:

There weren't any washcloths smeared with makeup left behind, no sounds of water running hollowly through the pipes from upstairs while Josey and her mother and Helena sat in the sitting room downstairs and watched television.

I nearly killed myself after that one.

It was on page twenty-eight.  I had been bullying myself through it up to that point, talking myself down from every bad simile and heavy-handed adverb, but I could not read past this sentence.  You only live once.

I told David, "I just can't.  The writing is so bad."

Caleb overheard us and said, "Don't all of your book clubs end like this?"

Touche.

You know what this means don't you?  I may be a brat and a snob.  Sobering news.

On a positive note, The Closer started up again this week.  Thank heavens.  Last night when we went to Lowe's for a gallon of paint, David asked me for the synopsis.  I gave him my best Brenda Lee impression.  (He was not very impressed.)  Well.  It sounded better in my head. 

Then again, most things do.

And on an even more positive note, did you see the great shot of my cleavage in the picture above?  (You can't have too many of those.)  In a few days, my darlings and I are headed back to the beach.  We almost cancelled because I forgot that I was supposed to be enjoying my life.  David reminded me just in time.  Good thing, too, because my favorite things in life are sunscreen and sand and salt water and little pools of drool under my children's sunburned cheeks.  Oh baby.

I Might Have a Problem

Our parade of Target shopping carts a few weeks ago.  I love parades.

This is the last time I'm going to talk about this.

I promise.

(Let's be honest, I am probably not going to keep that promise.  Ask me if I care.)

Today I got a notice from paypal that said I didn't have enough money in my account to pay for those new drapes I just ordered.  (I thought you were my pal, paypal.  What gives?)  And that is when it hit me that I may have a problem.

I am so good at spending money.  (That is not the problem.)  Over the last month I have been trying to get this place to feel like home.  And houses need all kinds of things like towels and wastebaskets and floral arrangements and ceramic pots that remind me of Jacob's well.  Houses need pictures and mattress pads and shelves and tablecloths and baskets to store the tablecloths in.  They need paint and pillows and fans and about four thousand 3M command strips.  They need chairs and rugs and curtains and refrigerator doors full of soy sauce and ketchup and salad dressing.  In the last month I have done what I could to generously provide.  (I am good at spending money, remember?)

David, for his part, has generously tried to look the other way.  Except when I am showing him paint samples, and then he tries to look supportive rather than alarmed.  (No one said marriage was easy.)

But today when I read that paypal was more interested in the pay part than the pal part, I realized that my problem may be trying to fill a hole that cannot be filled with all this decorating and organizing and beautifying.  A hole that cannot be filled because the hole is not in the house, but in me.

Because today it occurred to me that I am homesick.

The Fourth Day of July

At my house,

on the fourth day of July,

we will light the barbecue and the sparklers and the roman candles.

At my house,

on the fourth day of July,

we will swim and sun and read and nap.

At my house,

on the fourth day of July,

we will eat ribs and corn and homemade apple pie.

At my house,

on the fourth day of July,

we will remember and pray and give thanks to our God.

At my house,

on the fourth day of July,

we will climb in bed full of sunshine and ice cream and when we close our eyes we will still see exploding red and white stars behind our eyelids.

And at my house,

(because we are still hurting and smarting and aching from all the upheaval, I'll be honest)

on the fourth day of July,

we will remember that 1776 was among the darkest years of American history,

that good things come even in the darkest of times,

and above all,

that miracles happen.

Happy Independence Day.