Today I attended the funeral service of a childhood friend's husband. I remember when I met her. It was fourth grade. We became friends, spent time at each other's houses, played sports together, laughed, shared secrets, went on bike rides. We grew up together. Over time, we drifted apart and only saw each other once in a while and then not for years. Today, I attended her husband's funeral service.
Live Little
We kept contact through the years with annual Christmas cards, often containing a picture of the kids - first one child, then two, and then a third was added from our end. After Facebook came into play, we could keep up to date a little through the pictures we posted online. Not the same as sitting down and chatting face-to-face, but still connected.
Live Little
Last night I thought about meeting her husband. We were around each other a handful of times. I cannot, however, tell you where we were or what we did. What I can do, though, is tell you the impression I had of him. Because, you see, he did make an impression. He was kind. He was thoughtful. He cared. It isn't anything big I remember about him. It is the small, sweet things that resonate with me.
Live Little
Driving home from the service I couldn't help but to think about life. What is important to us? Why is it important? What brings us true joy? How is our time and energy misspent? Does the size of our houses matter? Do we care what kind of car we drive? Are we focused on money or monetary things? Are we truly present with those around us? Are we too distracted with our noses in our phones? When we look at people, do we really SEE them?
Live Little
Live little. I dare you. Live little. Focus on the moments - the smiles - the hellos - the hugs. Ask someone about their day and really listen to their answer. Take a walk. Eat dinner together. Look around. Wave to a neighbor. Play a board game. Things don't have to be BIG to make life good. I daresay that it is the smaller things in life that really make our hearts sing.
Live Little
When my mom passed away, my friend and her husband came to the visitation. All the years vanished and there we were connected again. How comforting to have a friend who knew me as a child to share in my adult sorrow. She gave me some of her time and that meant the world to me.
Live Little
We're told to dream big and reach high. There isn't necessarily anything wrong with that, but I encourage you to live little. There is beauty and purpose and meaning in the moments. Maybe reach out to your fourth grade friend you have lost touch with, maybe send a note to a high school buddy, maybe play some cards with your spouse, maybe ask your child about their day and keep asking until they actually tell you about it, maybe hug someone just because.
Live Little
So, I say again, live little. I dare you. Live little, because that's where the big things happen.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
Saturday, March 24, 2018
The First Year
When you have a baby, the first year is filled with all kinds of firsts. The first look. The first smile. The first coo. The first giggle. The first full night of sleep (or even a solid 4 hours!).The first roll over. The first crawl. The first wave. The first word. The first step. So many firsts that all bring smiles and laughter and joy. Pure excitement.
Then there is another year of firsts. Some of them are the same for everyone. Some of them are different. They don't generally bring smiles and laughter and joy. At least they didn't for me.
It's the first year after someone passes away.
The "first" was St. Patrick's Day. My momma was 100% Irish. How she loved St. Patrick's Day. One of my sisters usually has a St. Patrick's Day party where we laugh and talk and eat and sing - or at least try to sing. We wear green and drink and talk and laugh and eat some more. But, she wasn't there.
Then my husband and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. Every year, I would talk to my mom on my wedding anniversary and she would reminisce with me. She'd talk about how happy she was the day I got married - the ceremony, the music, the dancing, the people. She was so happy for Jerry and me not only on that day, but for the days and years after, too. I know that she would have been so excited to talk to me on such a special milestone in our lives. But, she wasn't there.
Easter. On Good Friday I sat in church remembering Good Friday of 2016. We venerated the cross and I went back to my pew to pray. I could see Mom talking to my dad and he went up to the girl holding the crucifix and spoke to her. The girl walked over to my mom. My mom stood and so lovingly touched Jesus' feet and kissed them. But not 2017. She wasn't there.
My daughter's birthday. My dad's birthday. Mother's Day. Oh, Mother's Day. At Mass, my youngest sang solos during the song before Mass, the responsorial psalm, and the communion hymn. A couple of the girls sang "Blessings" before Mass began. How fitting that during M's solo she sang, "When friends betray us, when darkness seems to win, we know that pain reminds this heart that this is not, this is not our home. It's not our home." My mom always loved to hear the kids sing at Mass. But, she wasn't there.
Sibling's birthdays, my 50th birthday, my son's birthday, her birthday. My mom was all about the birthday celebrations and cards and making people feel special. But, she wasn't there.
Thanksgiving. Christmas. Her apple pie. Her decorations. Her laughter. Her love of family. The joy she would have watching us open our gifts. Oh, how she made the holiday season feel extra special and festive. But, she wasn't there.
Surprisingly to me, New Year's Eve was one of the toughest firsts that year. At midnight, we kissed and hugged and rang in the New Year and it struck me. It struck me that 2018 would be the first year that didn't know my mom, that didn't feel her touch, that didn't hear her laughter or her voice. 2017 slipped away and 2018 came bursting forth. But, she wasn't there.
As it came closer to the year anniversary of her passing, I found myself looking back. What was I doing last year on this day? What was I doing when I didn't know I was experiencing all of my "lasts" with her? Reliving those last days. Reliving the moments.
On the anniversary of her passing I went to Mass with my dad and my two eldest kiddos. We prayed. The day went on. My eldest and I went to clean at my dad's. One year to the day, we had cleaned as well. I thought of that as I cleaned this day. But, she wasn't there.
As the day progressed, I tried to take stock of how I was feeling. When I thought about it, I realized I felt like I had finally exhaled. It was as if I had been holding my breath for a year, even though I didn't feel like I had, and I slowly let it out. A weight had been lifted from my chest. I could get a full breath in.
Someone asked me if it was easier now that the first year was behind me. It's just different. My grief isn't over. It is something that I know will always be with me. Sometimes it will wash over me and sometimes it will just be resting deep within my soul. But, it will always be with me.
First years can be filled with much joy or much sorrow. First years can be filled with memories in the making or memories of times gone by. Sometimes, the first years can be a mixture of both sides of that swinging pendulum. Whichever way, first years should be embraced. First years are a blessing. They mark special moments of the people whom we love. And that, my friends, is always a good thing to live through and remember.
"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven"
Ecclesiastes 3:1
Then there is another year of firsts. Some of them are the same for everyone. Some of them are different. They don't generally bring smiles and laughter and joy. At least they didn't for me.
It's the first year after someone passes away.
The "first" was St. Patrick's Day. My momma was 100% Irish. How she loved St. Patrick's Day. One of my sisters usually has a St. Patrick's Day party where we laugh and talk and eat and sing - or at least try to sing. We wear green and drink and talk and laugh and eat some more. But, she wasn't there.
Then my husband and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. Every year, I would talk to my mom on my wedding anniversary and she would reminisce with me. She'd talk about how happy she was the day I got married - the ceremony, the music, the dancing, the people. She was so happy for Jerry and me not only on that day, but for the days and years after, too. I know that she would have been so excited to talk to me on such a special milestone in our lives. But, she wasn't there.
Easter. On Good Friday I sat in church remembering Good Friday of 2016. We venerated the cross and I went back to my pew to pray. I could see Mom talking to my dad and he went up to the girl holding the crucifix and spoke to her. The girl walked over to my mom. My mom stood and so lovingly touched Jesus' feet and kissed them. But not 2017. She wasn't there.
My daughter's birthday. My dad's birthday. Mother's Day. Oh, Mother's Day. At Mass, my youngest sang solos during the song before Mass, the responsorial psalm, and the communion hymn. A couple of the girls sang "Blessings" before Mass began. How fitting that during M's solo she sang, "When friends betray us, when darkness seems to win, we know that pain reminds this heart that this is not, this is not our home. It's not our home." My mom always loved to hear the kids sing at Mass. But, she wasn't there.
Sibling's birthdays, my 50th birthday, my son's birthday, her birthday. My mom was all about the birthday celebrations and cards and making people feel special. But, she wasn't there.
Thanksgiving. Christmas. Her apple pie. Her decorations. Her laughter. Her love of family. The joy she would have watching us open our gifts. Oh, how she made the holiday season feel extra special and festive. But, she wasn't there.
Surprisingly to me, New Year's Eve was one of the toughest firsts that year. At midnight, we kissed and hugged and rang in the New Year and it struck me. It struck me that 2018 would be the first year that didn't know my mom, that didn't feel her touch, that didn't hear her laughter or her voice. 2017 slipped away and 2018 came bursting forth. But, she wasn't there.
As it came closer to the year anniversary of her passing, I found myself looking back. What was I doing last year on this day? What was I doing when I didn't know I was experiencing all of my "lasts" with her? Reliving those last days. Reliving the moments.
On the anniversary of her passing I went to Mass with my dad and my two eldest kiddos. We prayed. The day went on. My eldest and I went to clean at my dad's. One year to the day, we had cleaned as well. I thought of that as I cleaned this day. But, she wasn't there.
As the day progressed, I tried to take stock of how I was feeling. When I thought about it, I realized I felt like I had finally exhaled. It was as if I had been holding my breath for a year, even though I didn't feel like I had, and I slowly let it out. A weight had been lifted from my chest. I could get a full breath in.
Someone asked me if it was easier now that the first year was behind me. It's just different. My grief isn't over. It is something that I know will always be with me. Sometimes it will wash over me and sometimes it will just be resting deep within my soul. But, it will always be with me.
First years can be filled with much joy or much sorrow. First years can be filled with memories in the making or memories of times gone by. Sometimes, the first years can be a mixture of both sides of that swinging pendulum. Whichever way, first years should be embraced. First years are a blessing. They mark special moments of the people whom we love. And that, my friends, is always a good thing to live through and remember.
"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven"
Ecclesiastes 3:1
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
I Can't Hear You Anymore
It was a morning like any other morning. I was up, dressed, and getting the water started for my morning tea. My mom had been on my mind, so I started talking to her. Unlike other times I've chatted with my mom, I was overwhelmed with emotion and broke down. "I know you can hear me, Momma, but I can't hear you anymore. I miss talking to you. Really talking to you. You feel so far away."
I finished making my cup of tea and headed over to my morning prayer spot. I tucked my sad body into the chair and Gordie snuggled in with me. Although I felt distracted, I settled in and did my morning prayers as I sipped my cup of tea.
When I finished my prayers and tea I got up and started getting myself ready for the day. I had about 10 minutes before I needed to get M. to school. What should I do with 10 minutes? I was going to start on some chores and then I thought of the file folder. Hmm. I could go through some of the file folder.
The last time I was cleaning at my dad's he mentioned that he had been going through some of my mom's things. He found a file folder for each of the kids with some of the cards we had sent them through the years. "No one will want old cards," my dad said. "I think I'll just recycle them." I suggested that he give the file folders to each of the kids and let them do what they wanted with them. I figured I'd get a kick out of looking over the cards and then I'd probably recycle them myself.
I opened the file folder and looked at the first couple of cards. They made me wonder how my mom chose which cards to keep. These obviously weren't all the cards I'd given through the years. Maybe this one made her laugh. Maybe that one touched her heart. I was enjoying this journey. Then I opened the third card and I stopped short.
There was my mom's handwriting.
She had written back to my family and me in most of the cards she saved. On a day I was feeling so very far away from my mom, missing her voice, aching to be able to hear her -- on THAT very day God gave me a little push to open the file folder. And there she was, waiting patiently. Suddenly I could hear her. She was talking to me. Really talking to me. And I could feel her right with me.
Needless to say, these cards aren't going to find themselves in the recycling bin anytime soon. I don't know what made my mom think to write us notes in cards we sent her. Maybe part of her knew that someday we would be missing her and needing to hear her speaking to us once again.
What began as a morning like any other morning ended as a morning unlike any other morning. I was reminded how God cares for what is on our hearts - the big things and the little things. I was reminded how my mom always hears me and that she will always find a way for me to hear her, too. I was reminded that a simple note can be just what an aching soul needs.
In my distress I called out: Lord!
I cried out to my God.
From his temple he heard my voice;
my cry to him reached his ears.
Psalm 18:7
I finished making my cup of tea and headed over to my morning prayer spot. I tucked my sad body into the chair and Gordie snuggled in with me. Although I felt distracted, I settled in and did my morning prayers as I sipped my cup of tea.
When I finished my prayers and tea I got up and started getting myself ready for the day. I had about 10 minutes before I needed to get M. to school. What should I do with 10 minutes? I was going to start on some chores and then I thought of the file folder. Hmm. I could go through some of the file folder.
The last time I was cleaning at my dad's he mentioned that he had been going through some of my mom's things. He found a file folder for each of the kids with some of the cards we had sent them through the years. "No one will want old cards," my dad said. "I think I'll just recycle them." I suggested that he give the file folders to each of the kids and let them do what they wanted with them. I figured I'd get a kick out of looking over the cards and then I'd probably recycle them myself.
I opened the file folder and looked at the first couple of cards. They made me wonder how my mom chose which cards to keep. These obviously weren't all the cards I'd given through the years. Maybe this one made her laugh. Maybe that one touched her heart. I was enjoying this journey. Then I opened the third card and I stopped short.
There was my mom's handwriting.
She had written back to my family and me in most of the cards she saved. On a day I was feeling so very far away from my mom, missing her voice, aching to be able to hear her -- on THAT very day God gave me a little push to open the file folder. And there she was, waiting patiently. Suddenly I could hear her. She was talking to me. Really talking to me. And I could feel her right with me.
Needless to say, these cards aren't going to find themselves in the recycling bin anytime soon. I don't know what made my mom think to write us notes in cards we sent her. Maybe part of her knew that someday we would be missing her and needing to hear her speaking to us once again.
What began as a morning like any other morning ended as a morning unlike any other morning. I was reminded how God cares for what is on our hearts - the big things and the little things. I was reminded how my mom always hears me and that she will always find a way for me to hear her, too. I was reminded that a simple note can be just what an aching soul needs.
In my distress I called out: Lord!
I cried out to my God.
From his temple he heard my voice;
my cry to him reached his ears.
Psalm 18:7
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