I sat in the choir loft, surrounded by nearly a hundred people. Most of them were Rosie's family. Below us, Our Lady of the Most Holy Trinity Chapel was packed, again full of family and friends. I looked around the choir loft. Cousins stood, arms around each other, crying silently. There were no dry eyes, even among students who hadn't known Rosie well - just her presence and influence in the choir and on campus.
It felt like Good Friday.
They carried in the casket. Six strong brothers and brothers-in-law, all bound by grief, but also bound by an even stronger love. Love for each other, love for Rosie.
I held in sobs, knowing that if I lost it, I'd lose it completely. I kept my eyes focused on the crucifix above the baldacchino, willing myself to keep it together. Again, it hit me - it felt like Good Friday. People mourning, people weeping. Solemn music in a familiar church, where I've watched the suffering of Good Friday turn into the joy of Easter Sunday.
My dear, sweet friend was gone. Her body was in that casket. And it was killing me. There was no Easter Sunday in two days.
The words of the first reading echoed through the church:
"The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace."
She is in peace. But why is she gone?
The words of the Psalm, chanted, gave an answer:
Audi filia, et vide, et inclina aurem tuam: quia concupvit Rex speciem tuam.
"Because the king has desired your beauty."
Rosie told her brother that she regretted never having had the chance to marry and raise a family of her own. From that moment, he prayed that she would be granted the grace of Christ coming to her as a bridegroom. That she would feel all of the joys of being loved in an overwhelming, all-consuming manner with Christ, the King, as her lover.
I can't imagine Jesus refusing such a request. I have no doubt that Jesus took His Rose from us with all the tenderness and love that would befit a bridegroom.
I can see him gently carrying her over the threshold of Heaven, just as a groom does his bride, welcoming her home. And just as a man promises his wife the world in their shared home, Christ promises Rosie His Kingdom, where she shall want for nothing. There will be no more pain, no more cancer, no more death.
As I stood at the graveside, facing her family, I saw broken hearts written across faces. Father, mother, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews. All broken. It felt like Good Friday. So much confusion, hurt, sadness...
and faith.
Every one of those heartbroken family members had their faith in Christ shining through their sorrow. They are sad, and some of them may feel a little lost, but they all have faith.
Faith in the Resurrection of the dead. Faith in Rosie's present peace and joy. Faith in their reunion on the other side of the grave. Faith in Easter Sunday.
One of the nieces asked, as they lowered the casket into the ground, "Does Aunt Rosie have a pillow?"
And although I have faith in those same things, that couldn't keep me from weeping. I broke down there, watching her family, watching the casket disappearing. Watching her family cry. My heart aches.
There's a hole in my heart that won't be filled in this life. A place that was filled with Rosie's sweet, but independent, personality. A place filled with Rosie's love for quilting and loyalty to the purity of The Lord of the Rings books. Her half-serious, half-joking reprimands when Augusta and I got too wild. Her laugh as she joined in the fun. Her lovely voice, always leading the sopranos to confidence... except on those new pieces where she and I struggled to sight-sing and sometimes had conflicting interpretations of the intervals. Her constant love for her family and friends. Her joy, especially in her sickness. You had to remind yourself that she was sick because she didn't behave like an invalid. She was truly a faith-filled woman.
Leaning over the side of the grave, staring at the casket, one of her nephews inquired, "How will we get her back up?"
How will we get her back up?
We won't. But Christ will. Christ will raise her up on the last day. In the meantime, we'll miss her physical presence with us, but we will always have her looking down on us from the Heavenly choir. She was constant in her selfless love for those in her life - I can't imagine that's a trait that will disappear in her sainthood.
It felt like Good Friday. One of her brothers voiced the thought that I had kept inside all morning. But he continued the thought, as a good Christian should: "The rest of this life will be like Holy Saturday and we know what happens when Holy Saturday ends."
Yes, we do.
I hugged Mr. Grimm, expressing my condolences as sincerely and deeply as mere words can. I was crying, he was crying. He let me go, held my shoulders, and I whispered, "I hope I can see you again soon on a happier occasion."
He pulled me close, kissed me on top of the head, and held me. "Bridget, this is a happy occasion. Don't forget that."
I hugged Mrs. Grimm, again struggling to express adequate sympathy, and thanking her for welcoming us all into her home. "It's my pleasure, dear. You've always been like a daughter to us - and Rosie would want her family together so they can help each other remember to be happy for her."
Until we meet again, Rosie.
Until that Easter Sunday.
29 September 2013
22 September 2013
Guns Are Bad Distractions. Bad.
One of my dearest friends passed away just three days ago. Naturally, I've been pretty down and sad. Lying in bed yesterday morning, I groaned at the thought of having to go to work on a Saturday. Trying to make the most of it, I tried to give myself a pep talk. "Well, little missy, at least it's a distraction. Take what you can get."
I wasn't really thinking that the distraction would come in the form of me taking on a gun threat. Nothing of that nature crossed my mind. I was thinking it would be more like selling and adjusting glasses. But no. The distraction came in the form of a gun threat.
Seriously. It was such an adrenaline rush. But I was cool. I missed my calling as a cop. Or I have just watched too much Southland. My reactions to dangerous situations have been predetermined by Officers Ben Sherman and Sammy Bryant. (I'll just try to avoid Ben's Nietzsche-like descent into moral ambiguity.)
Don't panic. There wasn't really a gun. I was 100% positive, though, that I should treat the situation as volatile. I'll tell you the story. If you still think I'm overreacting... well, you're wrong. It was pretty darn freaky. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Story time first.
Back story: the gunman in question was a previous employee at our office. He left once because he could not get along with one of his young lady coworkers. After searching for employment elsewhere, and coming up empty, he appealed to the doctor for his job back. He was given a second chance and promptly left again due to issues with a different young lady coworker. Clearly, this guy has issues with women.
He came in over a year ago for an exam and ordered glasses. We've been holding onto the glasses because he hasn't been willing to pay for them. He's tried various conniving ways of trying to get in and (basically) steal them since August of last year. He'd come in over lunch when there was only one employee or he'd come in at 6 am when only our vision therapist was there. His tactic was always the same: "oh, I called them and they said I could have them. They probably just didn't tell you since you aren't as important." Needless to say, he was sent away empty-handed.
Yesterday, I was "in charge" of the office. All of the more experienced employees had the day off so I was the boss. Small gulp. First time calling the shots had me a bit nervous, but I squared my shoulders and charged forward. It went surprisingly well until about 11:30 when the aforementioned man walked in.
I recognized him and decided I should be the one to dispense his glasses. I had heard the back-story, so I was mentally prepared to be tough. Before I could take on this responsibility, however, my super sweet, super timid coworker pulled the chart and headed off to dispense them.
Uh oh.
There was a bright pink note affixed to the front of the chart, reading "Do not dispense until patient pays." I knew she'd see it, so I decided to let it go. She'd see the note, she could handle it. I wasn't going to micromanage. Maybe she would surprise me and hold her ground.
They sat at the dispensing table. He took the glasses out of the case, put them on, stood up, and walked out the door. My coworker watched him walk out and then stared at me, eyes wide in disbelief. "Did he just walk out with his glasses?"
I shrugged. "I doubt it." People don't just walk off with glasses... right?
He came back in a minute later. My coworker made some adjustments and the patient took them back. He again stood up and walked away. She called after him, "Sir, why are you going outside?" She sounded scared and timid and he played the intimidation card. "Stop. You're new. I used to work here. Leave me alone." He walked out.
Shoot. My coworker was totally freaking out because she didn't know what to do. I mouthed "It's ok." at her. If he was going to steal his glasses, fine. I wasn't going to go chase him down. He was clearly crazy, with his wide, staring, bloodshot eyes and bad attitude.
Five minutes later, when I'd given up on him coming back at all, he sauntered in. He tossed his glasses at my coworker. "They're dirty. Clean them."
My coworker quietly picked them up and practically ran to the back. I followed her. "When I go back out there, please come with me. You're so much tougher looking than I am and I need you to make him pay for his glasses."
I looked down at myself. Tough looking? "Ok, no problem. We can do this."
We walked back out. She stood on the side of the dispensing desk that was opposite the patient. I stood next to the patient. She handed him his glasses. "You have a balance of [some amount of dollars]. How would you like to take care of that today?"
"Oh, I'm not paying for these." He began to stand up. My coworker reached out and grabbed the glasses. "Sir, I can't let you leave if you won't pay for them."
I was wide-eyed with disbelief. She was going to have a tug-o-war over a pair of glasses with a clearly crazy man? Geez.
He began shouting. "I will not pay for these, you crazy b****! Let go! I WILL NOT PAY FOR THESE!!!"
What happened next probably took about three seconds, but each second stretched out as I watched and analyzed what to do.
With his left hand he held onto the glasses. With his right hand he reached behind him. That's when I noticed the big, suspicious lump under the back of his shirt. There was something tucked into the back of his pants, that he was reaching for. He was angry and clearly crazy.
A gun. He was going to shoot us.
I stepped closer. My coworker saw his hand and jumped back, threw her hands in the air and started screaming, "Please, sir, don't shoot."
"Sir," I said with a calm and quiet voice that surprised me, "Slowly, very slowly, put your hands where I can see them."
"I'M NOT PAYING FOR THEM!!!" he shouted as he continued to fight to free the suspicious thing from his waistband.
"Sir, I'm going to say this one more time. Put your hands where I can see them."
I was now about a foot away from him, ready to puncture his jugular with the pen I had clasped in my hand.
"Now."
He pulled his hand out and slowly put them both over his head. In his right hand was a wallet.
But I swear, if I had seen anything that looked even remotely like a gun or knife come out from that waistband, that guy would've been on the floor in no time flat. He would've had some serious pain and blood-loss issues. I took a deep breath.
"Of course I'll pay for them. I wouldn't steal from you, " he said, glaring at me.
"Kindly hand my coworker your credit card, sir." I stayed next to him. He was sitting and I was standing, and I had on my best "cop face." He shrugged his shoulders and handed her his card. She took it and ran to the credit card machine, pale as a ghost and clearly freaking out. I followed her, not turning my back on the almost-gunman.
I wasn't scared. I was high on adrenaline. Maybe this is stupid, but it's true.
Once we ran his card and handed him his receipts, he continued to sit there, staring at us. "Golly," I thought, "I'm going to have to kick this guy out."
We were comparable heights and I could probably be scary enough to get him out without actually having to touch him, but that didn't sound like fun. I thought about just taking my coworkers and leaving the building. This guy was seriously nuts. He was sitting there, staring at us with those creepy eyes, and breathing heavy and ragged. He had this little half-smile that you see on serial killers in movies. "No more creepy movies," I told myself.
Just when I had decided that we should all just leave, the doctor came out. Not knowing what had transpired, he greeted the guy in a friendly way. And this guy underwent a total transformation. He suddenly stood, became friendly and deferential toward the doctor, and peaceably left.
And that is what happened. Distraction? Definitely. Bad? Yeppers.
But guys. I could be a cop. I was awesome.
I wasn't really thinking that the distraction would come in the form of me taking on a gun threat. Nothing of that nature crossed my mind. I was thinking it would be more like selling and adjusting glasses. But no. The distraction came in the form of a gun threat.
Seriously. It was such an adrenaline rush. But I was cool. I missed my calling as a cop. Or I have just watched too much Southland. My reactions to dangerous situations have been predetermined by Officers Ben Sherman and Sammy Bryant. (I'll just try to avoid Ben's Nietzsche-like descent into moral ambiguity.)
Don't panic. There wasn't really a gun. I was 100% positive, though, that I should treat the situation as volatile. I'll tell you the story. If you still think I'm overreacting... well, you're wrong. It was pretty darn freaky. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Story time first.
Back story: the gunman in question was a previous employee at our office. He left once because he could not get along with one of his young lady coworkers. After searching for employment elsewhere, and coming up empty, he appealed to the doctor for his job back. He was given a second chance and promptly left again due to issues with a different young lady coworker. Clearly, this guy has issues with women.
He came in over a year ago for an exam and ordered glasses. We've been holding onto the glasses because he hasn't been willing to pay for them. He's tried various conniving ways of trying to get in and (basically) steal them since August of last year. He'd come in over lunch when there was only one employee or he'd come in at 6 am when only our vision therapist was there. His tactic was always the same: "oh, I called them and they said I could have them. They probably just didn't tell you since you aren't as important." Needless to say, he was sent away empty-handed.
Yesterday, I was "in charge" of the office. All of the more experienced employees had the day off so I was the boss. Small gulp. First time calling the shots had me a bit nervous, but I squared my shoulders and charged forward. It went surprisingly well until about 11:30 when the aforementioned man walked in.
I recognized him and decided I should be the one to dispense his glasses. I had heard the back-story, so I was mentally prepared to be tough. Before I could take on this responsibility, however, my super sweet, super timid coworker pulled the chart and headed off to dispense them.
Uh oh.
There was a bright pink note affixed to the front of the chart, reading "Do not dispense until patient pays." I knew she'd see it, so I decided to let it go. She'd see the note, she could handle it. I wasn't going to micromanage. Maybe she would surprise me and hold her ground.
They sat at the dispensing table. He took the glasses out of the case, put them on, stood up, and walked out the door. My coworker watched him walk out and then stared at me, eyes wide in disbelief. "Did he just walk out with his glasses?"
I shrugged. "I doubt it." People don't just walk off with glasses... right?
He came back in a minute later. My coworker made some adjustments and the patient took them back. He again stood up and walked away. She called after him, "Sir, why are you going outside?" She sounded scared and timid and he played the intimidation card. "Stop. You're new. I used to work here. Leave me alone." He walked out.
Shoot. My coworker was totally freaking out because she didn't know what to do. I mouthed "It's ok." at her. If he was going to steal his glasses, fine. I wasn't going to go chase him down. He was clearly crazy, with his wide, staring, bloodshot eyes and bad attitude.
Five minutes later, when I'd given up on him coming back at all, he sauntered in. He tossed his glasses at my coworker. "They're dirty. Clean them."
My coworker quietly picked them up and practically ran to the back. I followed her. "When I go back out there, please come with me. You're so much tougher looking than I am and I need you to make him pay for his glasses."
I looked down at myself. Tough looking? "Ok, no problem. We can do this."
We walked back out. She stood on the side of the dispensing desk that was opposite the patient. I stood next to the patient. She handed him his glasses. "You have a balance of [some amount of dollars]. How would you like to take care of that today?"
"Oh, I'm not paying for these." He began to stand up. My coworker reached out and grabbed the glasses. "Sir, I can't let you leave if you won't pay for them."
I was wide-eyed with disbelief. She was going to have a tug-o-war over a pair of glasses with a clearly crazy man? Geez.
He began shouting. "I will not pay for these, you crazy b****! Let go! I WILL NOT PAY FOR THESE!!!"
What happened next probably took about three seconds, but each second stretched out as I watched and analyzed what to do.
With his left hand he held onto the glasses. With his right hand he reached behind him. That's when I noticed the big, suspicious lump under the back of his shirt. There was something tucked into the back of his pants, that he was reaching for. He was angry and clearly crazy.
A gun. He was going to shoot us.
I stepped closer. My coworker saw his hand and jumped back, threw her hands in the air and started screaming, "Please, sir, don't shoot."
"Sir," I said with a calm and quiet voice that surprised me, "Slowly, very slowly, put your hands where I can see them."
"I'M NOT PAYING FOR THEM!!!" he shouted as he continued to fight to free the suspicious thing from his waistband.
"Sir, I'm going to say this one more time. Put your hands where I can see them."
I was now about a foot away from him, ready to puncture his jugular with the pen I had clasped in my hand.
"Now."
He pulled his hand out and slowly put them both over his head. In his right hand was a wallet.
But I swear, if I had seen anything that looked even remotely like a gun or knife come out from that waistband, that guy would've been on the floor in no time flat. He would've had some serious pain and blood-loss issues. I took a deep breath.
"Of course I'll pay for them. I wouldn't steal from you, " he said, glaring at me.
"Kindly hand my coworker your credit card, sir." I stayed next to him. He was sitting and I was standing, and I had on my best "cop face." He shrugged his shoulders and handed her his card. She took it and ran to the credit card machine, pale as a ghost and clearly freaking out. I followed her, not turning my back on the almost-gunman.
I wasn't scared. I was high on adrenaline. Maybe this is stupid, but it's true.
Once we ran his card and handed him his receipts, he continued to sit there, staring at us. "Golly," I thought, "I'm going to have to kick this guy out."
We were comparable heights and I could probably be scary enough to get him out without actually having to touch him, but that didn't sound like fun. I thought about just taking my coworkers and leaving the building. This guy was seriously nuts. He was sitting there, staring at us with those creepy eyes, and breathing heavy and ragged. He had this little half-smile that you see on serial killers in movies. "No more creepy movies," I told myself.
Just when I had decided that we should all just leave, the doctor came out. Not knowing what had transpired, he greeted the guy in a friendly way. And this guy underwent a total transformation. He suddenly stood, became friendly and deferential toward the doctor, and peaceably left.
And that is what happened. Distraction? Definitely. Bad? Yeppers.
But guys. I could be a cop. I was awesome.
20 September 2013
Rest in Peace, Rosie
Shortly - very shortly - after publishing my last post, I got word that Rosie had gone with God.
She died surrounded by her family, who had just finished saying their family Rosary. Fr. Hildebrand, a Norbertine priest who is currently serving as a chaplain at TAC, said it was the most peaceful and beautiful death he had ever seen.
We love you, beautiful lady.
So. Very. Much.
We will miss you dreadfully. I look forward to joining you in the Heavenly choir, where your lovely voice has been welcomed enthusiastically.
In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.
(in English)
May angels lead you into paradise; upon your arrival, may the martyrs receive you and lead you to the holy city of Jerusalem. May the ranks of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, once a poor man, may you have eternal rest.
She died surrounded by her family, who had just finished saying their family Rosary. Fr. Hildebrand, a Norbertine priest who is currently serving as a chaplain at TAC, said it was the most peaceful and beautiful death he had ever seen.
We love you, beautiful lady.
So. Very. Much.
We will miss you dreadfully. I look forward to joining you in the Heavenly choir, where your lovely voice has been welcomed enthusiastically.
In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.
(in English)
May angels lead you into paradise; upon your arrival, may the martyrs receive you and lead you to the holy city of Jerusalem. May the ranks of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, once a poor man, may you have eternal rest.
19 September 2013
Praying for a Friend
I took this photo nearly a year ago. She was dressed up for a Beer Garden party for her grandparents anniversary. She radiated joy, happiness, and faith.
She was also fighting cancer.
Tonight, we got word that she had been anointed, was barely conscious, and was struggling to breathe.
I ask you to pray for my friend. Pray that, if it be God's will, she be cured. If it's His will to take her from us, I ask you to pray that her death might be peaceful and painless. I ask that you pray for her soul to be united quickly with her Lord.
I ask that you pray for her family, each member being an incredibly example of trust in the Lord and His plan for Rosie.
I ask, finally, that you pray for me and all of her friends, who Rosie has touched with her wonderful smile, beautiful faith, contagious joy, and downright awesome self.
Much love.
Quotes Gone Wilde
"Yes, he's very, very good. Don't let those well meaning prudes tell you otherwise!"
Words from a young gentleman whose opinion I trust on just about everything. The author in question? Oscar Wilde.
Since then, I have fallen in love with this author's writing. It isn't always obviously beautiful, but it's always thought-provoking, in a good way. To celebrate this new-found love, I thought I'd post a few of my favorite quotations from Mr. Wilde. Enjoy.
~How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?~
~Women are made to be loved, not understood.~
~A gentleman is one who never hurts anyone's feelings unintentionally.~
~It is better to be beautiful than to be good. But... it is better to be good than to be ugly. ~
~Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.~
~If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.~
~A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.~
~Who, being loved, is poor?~
~When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.~
~What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.~
~Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.~
~Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.~
Words from a young gentleman whose opinion I trust on just about everything. The author in question? Oscar Wilde.
Since then, I have fallen in love with this author's writing. It isn't always obviously beautiful, but it's always thought-provoking, in a good way. To celebrate this new-found love, I thought I'd post a few of my favorite quotations from Mr. Wilde. Enjoy.
~How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?~
~Women are made to be loved, not understood.~
~A gentleman is one who never hurts anyone's feelings unintentionally.~
~It is better to be beautiful than to be good. But... it is better to be good than to be ugly. ~
~Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.~
~If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.~
~A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.~
~Who, being loved, is poor?~
~When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.~
~What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.~
~Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.~
~Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.~
18 September 2013
What You're Trying To Tell Him When You're Angry
A post by Ann Voskamp from February, 2012 that I LOVE.
~~~
I think we were standing outside the back door, out by the white pickup under the Big Dipper, when I turned and said it.
Said I hated him.
The dark can make you brave.
Or a fool.
But when you’re twenty-two and think you know everything, panic can tear up your chest like this howl that has to rip free.
“I hate it when you stand there all quiet.”
He kicks the ground with the toe of his boot, drives his hands deep into his Wranglers. Does he hear me at all?
“Hate how you just pull away. Hate how you always think I’m the problem and it’s never you. Hate it, hate it — hate y…”
There. There it is, spewn sick over everything. And the moment that ugliness wrenches free, I feel released — and wretched. Ill.
I want to fling that wedding band encircling my finger and everything. And I want to somehow hold on tight.
I want him to hold me tight.
He turns his back.
How in the world did we get here and so fast and isn’t this the mad dance that drives the wedded wild? For the first two years after our vows, it’s the only dance we knew.
I’d thought I’d married the wrong man.
I don’t know how many meals I ate silent, never lifting my eyes from the plate.
I do know how the dance went: a few steps and we’d rub each other the wrong way, irritation building and intimacy falling apart. I’d discuss and he’d distance. I’d rage and he’d disengage. I’d escalate and he’d escape.
Then the icy silence sets in — all this continental distance between us shifting past each other cold in the kitchen.
He’d say he had a migraine and go to bed right after dinner. I’d cry over the sink with the water running. I didn’t know that the first law of love is to listen — listen to the ache under the anger.
No English teacher ever taught me what nearly 18 years of marriage now gives credence to: Anxiety and anger, they come from the same root word.
Anxiety, it can drive anger.
And an angry voice, it can be a cry of fear.
Fears dress up as anger – why didn’t I tell him that sooner?
That’s what I had to tell him is begging behind my angry fronts: all these anxious fears–
“Are you really here for me? Do you really care? Can I really depend on you?”
Under everything, that’s what we’re all terrified of: being left and abandoned. We’re all desperate for connection and God made us for communion, for koinonia.
And whether I’m frustrated that he didn’t take the garbage out or bring the mail in or hang his coat up, whether this is about paying attention or spending money or investing in kids or budgeting time — no matter what words, or volume or tone I use, what my words are stammering to say,
"Can I really count on you? Are we connected? Do I matter to you? Will you love me?"
Please — just hold me tight.
We are always the child.
I didn’t know the research said it, but my heart already knew it: Falling in love again isn’t so much about communicating better, but about connecting deeper.
Poor communication doesn’t disconnect souls — it’s the disconnected souls who poorly communicate. When we’re well attached, we communicate well and when we aren’t fully communicating it’s because we don’t feel connected.
No matter our age, it never stops, this need to feel securely attached, and messy marriages can be because of attachment disorders. That’s what good relationships are: safe havens in the world, this base that makes us brave to venture out into the world — and safe to come home.
That’s what He made love to be: for love to bear all things. “Bears,” it’s stego in the Greek — “a thatch roof.”
Love bears all things — love literally becomes a thatch roof.
That’s what real love always is: I become a roof for you, a wing for you, a shelter in your storm.
Come to me. Count on me to hold you.
I had once choked it out in this wild desperation: “Are women really like ambulances? When we are most in need of tender care, we’re these screaming sirens? And that’s why men pull far away — getting out of the way and off the road?”
He had looked over at me. Looked into me. For a moment, we’d stood there, searching each other — waiting for someone to open a door and be a roof. “Can I count on you? Do I matter to you?”
He’d shook his head, chuckled softly — and reached over, grabbed my hand and pulled me right into him.
“So when you’re angry — it’s really this alarm? That you need care?” He tilts my chin. What if God bound us together — to help us bind up each others wounds?
I nod slowly.
“And what you really need is ER — an emotional response?” He leans his forehead against mine.
I close my eyes.
In this dark, I’m the wild fool who is safe
.And I nod and he holds me tight, his arms enfolding, these trusses all around, and together we stand under this expanse of love, fears flung far away …
~~~
I think we were standing outside the back door, out by the white pickup under the Big Dipper, when I turned and said it.
Said I hated him.
The dark can make you brave.
Or a fool.
But when you’re twenty-two and think you know everything, panic can tear up your chest like this howl that has to rip free.
“I hate it when you stand there all quiet.”
He kicks the ground with the toe of his boot, drives his hands deep into his Wranglers. Does he hear me at all?
“Hate how you just pull away. Hate how you always think I’m the problem and it’s never you. Hate it, hate it — hate y…”
There. There it is, spewn sick over everything. And the moment that ugliness wrenches free, I feel released — and wretched. Ill.
I want to fling that wedding band encircling my finger and everything. And I want to somehow hold on tight.
I want him to hold me tight.
He turns his back.
How in the world did we get here and so fast and isn’t this the mad dance that drives the wedded wild? For the first two years after our vows, it’s the only dance we knew.
I’d thought I’d married the wrong man.
I don’t know how many meals I ate silent, never lifting my eyes from the plate.
I do know how the dance went: a few steps and we’d rub each other the wrong way, irritation building and intimacy falling apart. I’d discuss and he’d distance. I’d rage and he’d disengage. I’d escalate and he’d escape.
Then the icy silence sets in — all this continental distance between us shifting past each other cold in the kitchen.
He’d say he had a migraine and go to bed right after dinner. I’d cry over the sink with the water running. I didn’t know that the first law of love is to listen — listen to the ache under the anger.
No English teacher ever taught me what nearly 18 years of marriage now gives credence to: Anxiety and anger, they come from the same root word.
Anxiety, it can drive anger.
And an angry voice, it can be a cry of fear.
Fears dress up as anger – why didn’t I tell him that sooner?
That’s what I had to tell him is begging behind my angry fronts: all these anxious fears–
“Are you really here for me? Do you really care? Can I really depend on you?”
Under everything, that’s what we’re all terrified of: being left and abandoned. We’re all desperate for connection and God made us for communion, for koinonia.
And whether I’m frustrated that he didn’t take the garbage out or bring the mail in or hang his coat up, whether this is about paying attention or spending money or investing in kids or budgeting time — no matter what words, or volume or tone I use, what my words are stammering to say,
"Can I really count on you? Are we connected? Do I matter to you? Will you love me?"
Please — just hold me tight.
We are always the child.
I didn’t know the research said it, but my heart already knew it: Falling in love again isn’t so much about communicating better, but about connecting deeper.
Poor communication doesn’t disconnect souls — it’s the disconnected souls who poorly communicate. When we’re well attached, we communicate well and when we aren’t fully communicating it’s because we don’t feel connected.
No matter our age, it never stops, this need to feel securely attached, and messy marriages can be because of attachment disorders. That’s what good relationships are: safe havens in the world, this base that makes us brave to venture out into the world — and safe to come home.
That’s what He made love to be: for love to bear all things. “Bears,” it’s stego in the Greek — “a thatch roof.”
Love bears all things — love literally becomes a thatch roof.
That’s what real love always is: I become a roof for you, a wing for you, a shelter in your storm.
Come to me. Count on me to hold you.
I had once choked it out in this wild desperation: “Are women really like ambulances? When we are most in need of tender care, we’re these screaming sirens? And that’s why men pull far away — getting out of the way and off the road?”
He had looked over at me. Looked into me. For a moment, we’d stood there, searching each other — waiting for someone to open a door and be a roof. “Can I count on you? Do I matter to you?”
He’d shook his head, chuckled softly — and reached over, grabbed my hand and pulled me right into him.
“So when you’re angry — it’s really this alarm? That you need care?” He tilts my chin. What if God bound us together — to help us bind up each others wounds?
I nod slowly.
“And what you really need is ER — an emotional response?” He leans his forehead against mine.
I close my eyes.
In this dark, I’m the wild fool who is safe
.And I nod and he holds me tight, his arms enfolding, these trusses all around, and together we stand under this expanse of love, fears flung far away …
17 September 2013
The Common Thievery Known as Valet Parking
Mum and I were approaching the Hotel Shangri-La in Santa Monica. Cruising up Ocean Blvd, we spotted the big white building. On the near side of it was a driveway, attended by three men, all dressed in white shirts, black slacks, black vests, and gray and black ties. They all stood next a booth, which bore a sign reading, "Valet."
Mum and I drove on. Google Maps instructed us to drive around the corner to the other side of the hotel. This only led us to a back alley, which was narrow and intimidating, but didn't give us any indication of where to park our vehicle. I pulled out the reservation as Mum edged the van around a big service truck and called the hotel.
"Thank you for calling Hotel Shangri-La, how might I help you?"
"Uh, hi. I have a reservation for tonight, but I don't know where to park. So, uh, where do I park?"
"Oh, give the car to one our valets. He'll take care of parking it for you. The lot is just south of the hotel."
"Oh. Ok. Thanks."
I hung up and relayed the information to my mother. We pulled into the valet parking lot and were immediately surrounded by eager young men, who opened our doors, unbuckled our seat belts, and grabbed all of our luggage.
Now, this sounds nice in concept. It also looks graceful and sophisticated in old black and white movies. In real life, it is AWKWARD. Let me tell you. You sit there, hands in the air, trying to stay out of the paths of the eager-beaver valet men. You also have to surreptitiously communicate with your mother about where the tip money is and how much to give them... oh, and which of the men to give it to.
Maybe me and mother just have a hard time with people being nice and polite to us, but we had serious issues.
As one of the men drove away with our car, I looked at Mum with my eyebrows raised. "We aren't going to ask for that back... are we?"
She shook her head. "Nope."
We headed into the hotel and did a quick switcheroodle of things before walking - yes, walking - to Mass. It wasn't too far, but I have a feeling we would have walked a considerably greater distance to avoid inconveniencing the valet.
I removed my three inch heels near the beginning of our trek, so as we approached the steps of the church, I stopped to slip them back on, along with a cardigan (leftover TAC shyness about bare shoulders in church). I unwittingly did this in full view of a couple of ushers. When I looked up, they were both staring at me, trying hard not to laugh. Hey, I don't like walking in heels. And I have callouses thicker than cowboy's coffee, so it's not a trial.
Dinner was an either farther walk, which made our total post-dinner, back to the hotel walk nearly three miles. But it was fine. We were in Santa Monica. It was a pretty evening.
When we went to retrieve the car Sunday morning, we forgot to call ahead to let the valet know. He took off running to get our van so we wouldn't have to wait a moment longer than necessary. I called after him to stop running, please stop running!, but he either didn't hear me or he ignored me.
Mum and I had absolutely no control over our vehicle for 18 hours. We acted as though it had been stolen. We walked everywhere. Those valets had stolen our car, as far as we were concerned.
We would be terrible at being rich.
p.s. - on the subject of walking, don't ever trust me to judge the distance between a hotel and the ocean. I thought it was, I dunno, a thousand yards. It was over a freaking mile, people. Over squishy sand, uneven cliff stairs, and a scary overpass thing. Oi. So yeah. Don't trust the girl who lacks depth perception to judge distance, k?
Mum and I drove on. Google Maps instructed us to drive around the corner to the other side of the hotel. This only led us to a back alley, which was narrow and intimidating, but didn't give us any indication of where to park our vehicle. I pulled out the reservation as Mum edged the van around a big service truck and called the hotel.
"Thank you for calling Hotel Shangri-La, how might I help you?"
"Uh, hi. I have a reservation for tonight, but I don't know where to park. So, uh, where do I park?"
"Oh, give the car to one our valets. He'll take care of parking it for you. The lot is just south of the hotel."
"Oh. Ok. Thanks."
I hung up and relayed the information to my mother. We pulled into the valet parking lot and were immediately surrounded by eager young men, who opened our doors, unbuckled our seat belts, and grabbed all of our luggage.
Now, this sounds nice in concept. It also looks graceful and sophisticated in old black and white movies. In real life, it is AWKWARD. Let me tell you. You sit there, hands in the air, trying to stay out of the paths of the eager-beaver valet men. You also have to surreptitiously communicate with your mother about where the tip money is and how much to give them... oh, and which of the men to give it to.
Maybe me and mother just have a hard time with people being nice and polite to us, but we had serious issues.
As one of the men drove away with our car, I looked at Mum with my eyebrows raised. "We aren't going to ask for that back... are we?"
She shook her head. "Nope."
We headed into the hotel and did a quick switcheroodle of things before walking - yes, walking - to Mass. It wasn't too far, but I have a feeling we would have walked a considerably greater distance to avoid inconveniencing the valet.
I removed my three inch heels near the beginning of our trek, so as we approached the steps of the church, I stopped to slip them back on, along with a cardigan (leftover TAC shyness about bare shoulders in church). I unwittingly did this in full view of a couple of ushers. When I looked up, they were both staring at me, trying hard not to laugh. Hey, I don't like walking in heels. And I have callouses thicker than cowboy's coffee, so it's not a trial.
Dinner was an either farther walk, which made our total post-dinner, back to the hotel walk nearly three miles. But it was fine. We were in Santa Monica. It was a pretty evening.
When we went to retrieve the car Sunday morning, we forgot to call ahead to let the valet know. He took off running to get our van so we wouldn't have to wait a moment longer than necessary. I called after him to stop running, please stop running!, but he either didn't hear me or he ignored me.
Mum and I had absolutely no control over our vehicle for 18 hours. We acted as though it had been stolen. We walked everywhere. Those valets had stolen our car, as far as we were concerned.
We would be terrible at being rich.
p.s. - on the subject of walking, don't ever trust me to judge the distance between a hotel and the ocean. I thought it was, I dunno, a thousand yards. It was over a freaking mile, people. Over squishy sand, uneven cliff stairs, and a scary overpass thing. Oi. So yeah. Don't trust the girl who lacks depth perception to judge distance, k?
04 September 2013
The Importance of Being Earnest
Some young actors got into Wilde spirits and put on a marvelous production. Pictures, sadly, cannot capture the magic of a live performance, but I took some anyway. I thought I'd share them with you! :)
Happy Wednesday!!!
Happy Wednesday!!!
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