I watched my grandmother slowly disappear over the last six months and yet the moment of passing was so full of shock, I still feel as if I’m reeling. I’m still quite sure that if I drive up her quiet neighborhood street, she’ll be there in her garden. Tending to tomatoes, okra, zucchini, cucumbers, peppers, maybe even carrots.
She was always tending.
Tending to me and to others, in a way that a substantial loss such as this leaves me feeling sick to my stomach, empty, and angry. I once wrote about her here not knowing how deeply my own words might comfort me one day. Because those words are true, and I miss every quirky and perfect thing about her.
As my husband and I drove to my grandparents’ house the evening of her passing, I told him how much I wanted to be like her when I grow up. The words spilled out in a soft and silly way, an attempt to bring a smile to my own dismayed face. She was faithful to the life God gave her. She loved her husband well and gave fully to her family, her grandchildren, her friends. And she could befriend just about anyone. I can’t count the number of times that I warned my friends, “My grandmother will hug you when she meets you.” She rode bumper cars and roller coasters with us every year at Dollywood. She helped me grow my first garden. She was my and my brothers’ own personal nurse, with the dining room as her exam room. She was always one of the first people in the stands at my basketball games or track meets, walked miles on end to support my brother in golf tournaments, and adamantly sat in the front row to hear my oldest brother speak at church. She sought simplicity by nature, never fooled by the bright lights of this world. She showed up when it mattered because it always mattered to her; I knew I could count on her.
But with so much sadness comes an abundance of gratitude for having this woman in my life who cared so deeply. She was full of life and love and joy. Her hugs were full of energy. How proud she was of all her grandchildren and me is humbling. Having known her gives me confidence. The world would be a stronger, more forgiving and encouraging place if we all had one like her who fully believed in us. My heart hurts this week but in the best of ways, for my grandmother was a good one.
A spunky, beautiful, loving good one.
Be kind to one another, for those great burdens that weigh heavy on your mind and are carried through your days look quite similar to the burdens of your neighbor. Perhaps not. Perhaps yours are more complicated or more contained, larger than your arms can hold or stuffed into a backpack for long-term travel. Maybe your burdens are new or old, hairy or smelly or itchy or odd. But look next door and you’ll see that they’re the same, if you’ll let yourself believe that, if you’ll do yourself the favor (and your neighbor too).
I let myself cry today because the air felt safe and appropriate and true. Water spilled over the edge of my face mask in a hospital room that has grown too familiar; with a hidden smile, my eyes reveal all. I felt thankful for the kindness those around me offered, to allow the mystery of tears, to even share in it. My burdens seem so big to me; I know yours do as well to you. And they are. And I see that. So I plead with you to be kind to one another. For the world needs a ballooning of grace and joy and kindness to glide through the sky and overcome temporary, sorrowful burdens below.
For every bullet point on my gratitude list, I feel as if three more arise to oppose. On tough days, I’m too tired to bother. But kindness pulls me through. It can pull us through together if we’ll let it.
It feels like tears welling when I think too much and when I think too little. It feels like closing the door to keep it all, everything, out there and simultaneously yearning for someone to open the door, all the while knowing that if they do I don’t have the words to explain why I closed the door in the first place. It feels like being the outsider even though my name entitles me to this home, even though this home has felt to be just that for years before. It feels like a buzzing in my ears instead of the clear articulations spoken by the ones in front of me. What did you say again? It feels like trying to refocus again and again and again. It feels like forgotten prayers or even prayers that never come, like words that sit heavily on my eyelids, coaxing me to sleep, and then waking in the morning with hopes that God is a mind or dream-reader, surely he has known all along. It feels like going to bed too early and rising too late, with muscles that ache from the exercise I never got, with doughy guilt sitting in my gut expanding more and more. It feels like a silent house is yelling at me. It feels like Fear and Anxiety are my best friends, more loyal than I can comprehend. It feels like fingers crossed that I will not be noticed or addressed directly. It’s a discomfort that I want to describe to you, but as soon as my voice leaves my tongue, that sing-song speech well-practiced and fine-tuned, to meet your eyes, I know you have misunderstood. My depths are not your depths. I’ve confused you with my disguises so I leave it be again.
If money were no object, I would be nonstop on the move. (you too, right?) There is an uneasiness that lives deep within me, an ever-present itch to plan, move, travel, and see. It took mere days after our California adventure (enough sleep to overcome the redeye headed east and enough organized thought to throw our photos together in an album) for me to start the imaginative process again: what next? I would like to chop it up to wanderlust, to attribute this constant motion to a sundress on a sunny afternoon, carefree kind-of attitude. But most days it feels more like a fear of missing out, discontentment with the ordinary, oversized sense of pressure. This feeling that tells me if I’m not constantly pressing harder, working harder, trying harder, I must be failing. The one that tells me that back porch sitting is time poorly wasted, that nearby cafes and first-name-basis baristas are overrated, that walking to the neighborhood playground is mundane, that being born and raised and still anywhere is boring. Y’all, I am so wrong.
Today my husband text me I want to live everywhere, and I smiled because I know he said it for me. He said it because I have a heart bursting with dreams, driven by goals, yearning for simplicity while fighting off the enemy of wanting more. My prayers sound like a mind game. Please help me find contentment. Please help me to want to find contentment.
Weddings feel like goodbyes. Let me say from the beginning that I do not disapprove of weddings, for I am secretly one of the Emotional Ones, the ones who will feel all the feels, both joy and sorrow, while hiding my teary eyes with sunglasses and a smile. Though my natural pull may be more inclined to notice the sorrowful, weddings are certainly some of the most joy-filled days in our lives, and my heart is so grateful for what the covenant of marriage means. The sacrifice of self and the promise of overflowing love point us to the beautiful and bigger love of Jesus. And I will say it a million times over: that marriage, though challenging and soul-struggling at times, gives me a small glimpse into that beautiful and bigger love, that hope for eternity. My heart is full of gratitude for the opportunity to watch my brother take that leap of faith over the weekend. But even with so much goodness, weddings still feel like saying goodbye. Goodbye to yesterday, to the person you were. Goodbye to roommates and twin beds, to a family of five, four, three, or two; so long to simplicity of holiday scheduling. To an identity you’ve clung to or maybe despised. Maybe it’s goodbye to dreams that dissolved into greater desires. To putting your own self first. To the luxury of disregarding your own messes. It’s goodbye to two people who will surely come back different and changed, beneath the surface, in ways even they cannot be sure of just yet. Some goodbyes can be so enriching, so life changing, so good deep down. Weddings feel like goodbyes because the event marks another milestone, acts as a reminder of this trip of a lifetime continuing to carry us forward at what feels like light speed, into unknowns and new identities.
. . . . .
His bride was walking down the aisle, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I watched as he and our other brother stood at the altar, both with teary eyes, reminding me that being one of the Emotional Ones is more than okay, too worthy to say goodbye to.
I’m sitting at the public library trying to work but mostly listening to Good Ol’ Country Boy talk Librarian’s ear off. She responds to his long trivial sentences with one word, sometimes no word at all but only a hmmm of acknowledgement. She sounds beyond bored. I myself have looked over at him at least four times, as if to say this is a library and you’re speaking too loudly. He doesn’t catch on. Did you hear about all the trees down after the storm out on Henderson road? Did you know that he and Jimmy can never act serious together, that it’s just not possible? Did you hear that Bertie has cancer again, this time worse than the first? I cringe at Librarian’s disinterest, ashamed at my own annoyance. I feel her pain, her inability to hand this unwelcome conversationalist off to another person. I, too, am Librarian.
I write out a text supposing that perhaps stronger friendships may relieve some of my ongoing feelings of anxiety.
I see you Good Ol’ Country Boy. I am you too.
We finished your blackberry freezer jam today. I stood at the kitchen window, in our new home, no longer the one that your family dug deep roots in for decades, but I can still feel your presence. I sometimes still find your grandson with tears streaming down, missing his grandparents. I still imagine you at your own kitchen window, the center of a room where you spent hours preparing meals for your family, meals I know we all wish could be eaten one more time. I still remember you later sitting in your daughter’s kitchen, those big hugs you offered, those jokes you would crack, those smiles you shared. It’s been two years, and we just now finished your jam, still so sweet and fresh, like memories. We found it tucked away in your chest freezer, along with other frozen goodies, excitement in our eyes, anticipation for such a yummy treat. You have fed us over and over again for the past two years. I like to think you knew the importance of taking care of your family, even from afar. A simple gift with such big meaning. We finished your blackberry freezer jam today, and though the jar may be empty, our bellies and hearts are so full.