Small Things.

There are some small things that have become big places in my heart. The student who gave me a basket filled with grieving medallions, books, the smell of lavender, and the softest purple blankets that makes me feel soothed all over... The high school teacher who is a long time family friend who stops by every day to minister to my heart, hearing my tears and knowing what is said and unsaid... The friends who flew in to merely be able to converse for ten minutes, but give me years of knowing their support... The students who have dropped by from years past, extending a hug or a note or a gift after school... And the students who showed up at the funeral home, both from this year, past years. Their support overwhelming to me, my mind imprinted with their faces and their looks of care. Some shown through hugs, awkward glances, ties worn, a circled gift of jewelry, or a note scrawled so personally that I cling to it... The friends who have sent texts, e-mails, and phone calls every day since the night I heard... Those who offer me their schedule and planners through the summer, and understand still when I can't commit... The roommate who made me a personal photo video, and left me a package with all my favorites... The aunts who call me nearly every day just to check on me and touch base... The parents who are teary eyed in the hallways, just wishing to hug and let me know their heart... The friend who chauffeured me to my errands... The teacher who showed up with two bags of groceries and a magazine just for me... The cards scrawled with student names or people from everywhere around the globe... The two friends who I haven't talked to since college, but showed up without my knowing, leaving even their husbands having no clue that they just highwayed to a different state to be a friend in a time of need... The cousin, who in her pain, captured all the memories and photos for us during the week of unreality and non-days... The friend who sat with me and held my hand, and laid with me in the morning in my silent tears... The aunts who cleaned my dad's house, every piece, with sweat on their brow... The coffee pot received, and the many cups it has brewed for comfort... The friend huddled with me in a corner of Barnes and Noble... The family dinners and meals gathered to simply be, together... The powerade given, in my laughter, to follow the craving at the funeral home, ice included... The prayers offered at my church in my duress, and the many hugs received by my body of Christ... Everything, all these little things, are healing pieces. Are mementos of remembrance, of reminders. Of God's goodness, of his people's providing, of my heart. They beautify me and bring a pleasant softness to my moments of need. They are the faces I will not forget, the gifts I will carry forever, the pieces of love given to me.

On Wearing Black.

I was reading a book from a student; one paragraph caught my attention more than any other. Ever since, it has caused me to pause, ponder, and receive comfort that acknowledgement was given. It was the book Grieving the Loss of Someone You Love, by Raymond Mitsch and Lynn Brookside, where in the introduction, they discuss the process of grieving. I write the paragraph below:

There was a time, not so many generations ago, when people routinely expected a family to "go into mourning" for a year or more after the death of someone close. It was tradition for people to wear black for an entire year following the death of a loved one. Wearing black was more than just a formality. It was a way of reminding themselves and those around them that they were still in a fragile state and needed to be treated with special regard.

This paragraph has soothed me and offered me a place to lay my burdens. It has allowed me to acknowledge my hurt, feel the space, and be okay with letting that rest.

It also burrows in me and furrows my brow... because of the needing of people to care, to be there, to not forget. The need for people to come beside, to do something, even if they don't know what to do. To simply not slide away or let me dangle. It is this which causes me to come to this writing, this cry, this statement on wearing black.

So into my mourning, my fragile state, my wearing black. My mother hated black. We had actually just talked about it the week before her death, how we both hate it. We both love color, a sign of life. So on the day of her funeral, us three girls were decked in brights -- whites, pinks, oranges, and an array of bursts even from the boy's shirts. We celebrated life, her life and the life given to us by the cross.

But as I read this paragraph from the book, it made me want to creep back into my closet and clothe myself in black. Not because I like the color, but because I need people to know and accept the fact that I am hurting.

I will continue to do my job. I will offer laughter where needed. I will feel joy where given. I will hug my nephew, swim in the sea, and sing with the chorus. I will not choose sorrow. But I will let it be. I will let it take me at times. I will let myself pause in the push of this world.

We offer 3 days (in American society) for the loss of a loved one. I was offered only until the Wednesday off. I took until Monday. I will continue to do so, to guard myself against this world that expects me to just man-up and robot myself back into function.

There is a pain. There is hurt. But there is joy, and there is laughter. What I need to know is that these are all okay... but that others still understand that, even when I am feeling fine and doing well, right now I am fragile. And wearing black.

My Legs.

In January, I fell during a downhill ski trip. Since then, my leg/hip has hurt. Bruised, swollen, numb, tingly, and tough. But definitely walkable and bothering me little until about two weeks ago. By last Wednesday, I finally went to the doctor. He suggested an injection and physical therapy. I walked out like, "ah, whatever, its not a big deal" but by Friday could hardly walk from my classroom. Then, with 'this whole ordeal' I couldn't hardly stand on Saturday. My uncle (a doctor) sat with me in the back room while the family mingled, examining and talking me through it -- and lots more -- and then we walked out. From that time Saturday night until Tuesday afternoon, my legs were numb. No pain.

When people say they are praying for my family, this is the most tangible story I have to offer. Yes, people are praying. Keep praying. Because somebody prayed for my legs.

His Hand.

People often tell me "God has his hand on your life." To which I agree. I know there is a different, specific calling that God beckons within me. Its something unlike many other people, and I feel him in unique and sometimes tangible ways. Within this realm, the distinct collection of giftings he has given me are profound and sacred in their own ways.

But as I drove home under the April solace last night, after much laughter and sharing with my church's community group -- has anyone seen a fifty year old engineer dance?! it's amazing! -- a new revelation dawned on me. God has his hand on all of us.

No one is more unique in this.

Instead, I think perhaps, it's about whether we are able and willing to submit to the leading of his hand and be softened by his touch and grasp.

Kind of like a child under the parent hand - some fight and wither, some stand in submissive sigh, and others respond to the gentle and yielding touch -- turning and responding, looking to the face of the father and listening for guidance, then taking in the words and tone to follow his leading.

I think we are all like this child. We all are under the hand of the Father. We all respond in different ways, in different times, in different tones. But nonetheless, it is our choice to how we respond to his hand. Will we yield to it, submit to his gentle touch? Will we turn around and look up into his face, acknowledging him as the leader of our lives? Will we allow ourselves to be soothed and guided under the tender touch? Will we let him be the leader of our lives?

His hand is on all of us. None more unique. Just more profound in our response.

~~~
Its a day later than I wrote this post, and I have been thinking and wondering on it... does God call us all the same? Or does he still work like the Old Testament where he specifically called and gifted prophets? Or is the New Testament and more based on our response to him, like the disciples being ordinary men?