Now, more so than ever before in my lifetime, I am beyond, blessed with female friendships. In my younger years, the loss of my mother at such a young age made bonding with other women difficult and tenuous at best.
Today, my women friends mean the world to me. My sister-in-law and my nieces, a beautifully renewed and blessedly restored relationship with my step-mother, and the addition of my son’s fiancé and her female family members have all been most welcome injections of estrogen-based love in my life.
I’ve written before about how important these connections are to me, how hard I’ve worked to cultivate these friendships with these amazing, empowered, resilient women and at my husband’s urging no less with those fateful words, “Now, Malia, you’re going to have to make some friends.” So, now. Now, I have these friendships, these bonds, where expression of emotion is valued, where it actually contributes to the health of the relationship. Wow! That has blown my hair back!
And, then, there are the men in my life. For many, many years, I was the rare girl surrounded by a family full of males in various stages of maturity; my dad and his lifelong friends, my uncles on all sides, my brother and all of his friends, my husband, his brothers, my father-in-law, my son and his passel of friends. I fondly call it boy-world, and I am a card-carrying, lifetime member of the boy-mom club.
Before we go any further, I want to make it clear that this is not some sort of treatise on the differences between men and women, if such a thing even exists. I am strictly sharing my experience. Period.
So, let me explain. Living in boy-world and becoming a boy-mom, I found that I had to be a little tougher. My skin had to be a little thicker. Open, emotional expression just didn’t carry weight in that world. Please don’t get me wrong. We certainly had two-way communication where we shared how we felt about subjects, but the men in my life just didn’t commonly use the language of emotion that is so skillfully wielded by the women I know and love. It’s not at all that I couldn’t or wasn’t allowed to be emotionally expressive. It’s just that I found that it wasn’t productive. It didn’t move conversations or situations forward. So, I adapted. I adapted my style of communication, the way I expressed what I was feeling.
Honestly, I used to love it when Paul or our son would complain about me (yes, really!), would shoot each other knowing looks when they were using an extra measure of patience with one of my big ideas, or would lovingly joke about my little eccentricities or quirks. To me, it meant they loved me fully, me and all my imperfections. It was a great comfort for me, a bit of a perfectionist, to know that I didn’t have to be perfect in order for them to fully love me. They got me. They completely accepted me, and took joy in me.
All of this to say, I am so thankful for all of these men in my life, too.
I love that my son now offers me wise counsel. I have sought his input on numerous occasions in the last two years since his father passed away. He never flinches. He never fails to tell it like it is and protect my best interest.
And so, so many other men in my circle of family, friends, neighbors, church family, and colleagues have stepped in and stepped up to help me over and over again. It feels good to seek and receive their assistance and guidance when needed; like when the hot water heater quit working, when the garage door broke, when the dryer vent needed replacing, when a hurricane blew out the porch screens, when I needed advice on how to handle situations. And, then, too, when my emotions were too high, and I needed an objective point of view to help me sort things out, or when I needed protection from others who were trying to take advantage.
I value their honest feedback (you know who you are!), their words of encouragement (you know who you are!!), the challenges they’ve presented me with (yes, you!), and even their gentle correction when my perception was in error or I was just plain wrong (thank you, that would have been a huge mistake!).
I.am.thankful.
I can certainly, absolutely take care of myself. I know that now, but thankfully, I don’t have to. Not all of the time anyway.
For
536 days, a figurative storm of grief has raged inside of me. Today, a literal
storm is raging outside as Hurricane Dorian takes its best shot at the east
coast.
My son and my in-laws are with me, safety in numbers. My father-in-law is sitting at our piano playing tenderly; old gospel favorites like Amazing Grace, How Great Thou Art, A Mighty Fortress is Our God, and so many more. He’s never had a lesson, not a single one. He plays by ear in a very old fashioned way, constantly improvising as he goes with lots of trills and warbles and using the sustaining, or damper, pedal all the while. Each hand toggles rapidly holding notes in a rich, sweet melodramatic vibrato. I’ve heard him play these same songs maybe hundreds of times over the years but never the same way twice. It’s always new. Always new. Now, isn’t that rare and beautiful!
The
wind is really howling now, gusting up to 80 miles per hour. The house creaks
and groans but remains steadfast. Trees and limbs are down and smaller debris
is everywhere. Even the tallest, strongest trees are being tossed about like
waves on a turbulent ocean. They billow, flap, and snap like sheets hung on a
line near some windswept prairie. Fascinating, really. Frighteningly beautiful
and captivating to watch. Warning: This
post may be a bit of a rambler as my thoughts and emotions today are equally
tossed by the wind. It’s also a little lengthier, too. Apparently, we’re having
a deluge of water and words!
There are two groups of people in my world now. People who know Paul died, and people who don’t. However, there is a challenge that’s the same within both of these groups. In the first group, there are many people who know how grateful I am for the time Paul and I had, for the support that I have received and for the way I have grown through my experiences, but there are some who just feel sorry for me and not in a good way. I am uncomfortable with the way some people pity me. With the latter group, it’s a look of pity on their face the first time they learn about my husband’s passing. It’s a look I know all too well, and it nearly always transports me to that other period of grieving in my life when my mother died.
The day my mother died was a normal day. It was a Wednesday. It was March; St. Patrick’s Day, in fact. My father was away, out of town on his annual fishing trip. My mother woke me up to get ready for school. There’s nothing really significant or extraordinary to remember about that morning because it was just like any other morning in our household. That part actually amazes me. It amazes me that the day your life will change forever can just start like that, like it’s just an ordinary day.
I am aware that a child’s memories are often perforated with gaps and oddly pieced together like a misshapen quilt, but I do remember that I was wearing a green, button-down shirt of my mother’s. The style of it was very on trend for the time, 1983. It was a Ralph Lauren mens’ style, button-down dress shirt; light seagrass-green cotton, crisply ironed with starch. Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, a fresh pair of Sperry Topsiders, and an Aigner purse completed the look. I remember feeling very grown that I could share clothes with my mom. I was twelve.
I left the house and
walked toward the bus stop that was located on the street behind our house. I
went out the front door and circled back cutting through a neighbor’s yard. My
mother was always waiting at a back window for one final wave goodbye. For the
life of me, I can’t actually remember the moment that she waved to me that day.
I can only assume she did because it was our ritual.
My mother worked as the bookkeeper at my grandmother’s shop. Every day, she left for work after I left for school. It was an exciting day at school that day because we were having a science fair. The projects were lined up on tables in the gym at a neighboring school. One of my friends had her project set up on the next row over from mine. She and I along with other students, teachers, and a handful of parents were milling around, chatting and looking at the displays, anxiously waiting to see the ribbons that would be pinned to the winning projects. My friend and I knew each other from dance, tennis, and girl scouts as well as school. We went on beach vacations together, camping trips, and were regulars on the weekend sleep-over circuit. Our parents were friends, too. We are, in fact, still friends today, and I am so grateful for that sustaining friendship.
Suddenly, my friend’s mother, who was also my mother’s friend, arrived. She was stopping in to see how we were doing. I remember her looking a little wind-blown, wearing a rain coat and carrying an umbrella. The weather that day was early-spring squally, stormy with heavy rain (cats and dogs as we say in the south), lightning and thunder. Unknown to any of us at the time, my mother, driving to work in the storm, had hydro-planed on standing water in the road. She lost control of the car, crashed, and died. She was not wearing her seat belt. My father told me that she was killed instantly, that she did not suffer. I wouldn’t say that I didn’t believe him, but I needed proof. So, one day when I was home alone after school, I snuck into a box of legal documents and found her death certificate. It verified what my father had told me.
I remained at school all day. Remember, my father was out of town. My extended family needed time to notify him and time for him to travel home. I rode the bus home as always. I got off the bus and was making my way to the cut-through by the neighbor’s house. I heard a sound, in the background, but kept walking only mildly aware of the noise. Then, I heard it again, more insistent this time, a car horn. It got my attention. I turned to see my father’s car. I ran to it and hopped in. I don’t envy what my father had to do that day, to tell his only daughter that her beloved mother was dead. In fact, what I saw and experienced in that moment has won him an extraordinary amount of grace in the years hence, but that, my friends, is for another post. There was someone else there; someone who opened the car door and tried to help comfort me, contain me really, but that would be like trying to contain an atom bomb. I was an emotional mushroom cloud. I can still hear myself screaming. I can still see my contorted face. I can still feel the strength of my father’s arms, elbows and shoulders, holding me not to comfort but to keep me from exploding through the roof of the car.
***
We made our way home and arrived to a house full of people, relatives and neighbors, where every adult was wearing the same look on their faces when they saw me. In my whole life, no one had ever looked at me that way because they never had cause or reason to. By all accounts, I had lived a charmed childhood with very little disruption or strife, a much doted on only child. The look on their faces is seared in my memory. The glassy, knowing eyes, up-turned cheeks, the down-turned corners of their mouths, lips pressed together, full of sadness and love. Poor little girl. I had the distinct impression that my sadness was making their sadness worse. For many of them, it seemed the mere sight of me, the thought of what I had lost was more than they could bear so they just looked away, looked down, averted their gaze, or looked right through me. My perception was that they thought of me as weak, helpless, to be pitied. The poor-little-girl look on their faces incensed me, made me want to punch them in the nose. Later on, I was whisked away from the television as the local, evening news told the tragic story of my mother’s death, her devastated family, and the twelve year old daughter she left behind.
Tragic. Tragedy. Over the next few
weeks and months, I heard those words over and over, usually whispered between
adults who thought I was out of ear shot. My mother was the oldest child with
three siblings. She was well-loved by our family, friends, and neighbors, and
her family was well-known in the area. And, truly, I am only now beginning to
understand the full impact on those adults as I am now an adult struggling with
loss myself. They lost a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a neighbor, a
friend. They were all grieving in different ways, and I was internalizing all
of it. I didn’t feel like a participant in the grief. I was an observer, a
witness. Looking back on it now though, I have such compassion for all of them.
The spitting anger and indignation has been replaced with empathy. It was awful
for all of them, and many of them are still dealing with the emotional
aftermath to this day. I am so very sorry
for their loss. I truly am.
As I grew older, I met new people who didn’t
know my mother died. In order to avoid the
look, I simply would not offer that information about myself to anyone
because my perception was that it completely changed the way they thought of
me. So, sometimes I am also uncomfortable with those that don’t know that Paul
died. Truthfully, my discomfort is with myself because even though I am spared the look, it is bothersome to me that
they don’t know something so fundamental about me and my life to the point that
it feels dishonest for me to keep that part of myself hidden. It feels
disingenuous, unauthentic, not my true self. I don’t like the mask anymore, and
yet, I still have a tendency to want to guard that part of myself in an effort
to control people’s perception of me. It’s quite the internal wrestling match
these days as I have moved to a new job, and there are a lot of new people in
my life that I am just getting to know. I have to do better. I want to do better by sharing myself
fully.
Ok, so here it is. Here’s the big moment that all this rambling is leading up to. The nitty-gritty as it were. Sharing my weakness, making myself vulnerable to people’s perception and even their unwanted pity is an opportunity to share the power of God’s love and the saving Grace that is the personhood of Jesus. His perfect love and strength are revealed fully in my weakness. Earlier in my life, I might have missed, no, I know I missed opportunities to share my faith because I was selfish and wanted to control how others saw me. No more. People, God has worked a miracle in my life! He has used my pain and suffering, my tragedy, to speak to me, and, hopefully, to speak to you. He has transmuted my sadness into gratitude, growth, healing, and joy. He can do that for you, too!
Check this out from Psalm 84:6, “Who passing through the vale of tears, makes it a well.” A vale is a valley; a valley of tears. I have cried that many tears and more for my mother and for Paul, and it makes me think back to the Camino when I was walking in the rain for hours. That’s what a valley of tears must be like. Tears falling like a never-ending, drenching rain; a soaked-to-the-bone, clothes-sticking-to-you, pouring-water-out-your-shoes, shriveled-skin-on-hands-and-feet rain of tears! At the time, I didn’t understand. I just did it. I just kept walking. But now, I know what that valley of tears feels like in my heart and on my skin. Because of that experience, I can really connect with what God is saying to me. And, get this, I misread the next part! At first, I read “…makes it well” as in makes it all better. Gee, thanks God! That’s what we want him to do, right? Make it all better! But that’s not how God works (at least not in my life!) and thank goodness for that. Upon rereading, I realized that this is what the verse actually says, “….makes it a well.” A well as in a source of water, life-giving water, a fountain of joy! The New Living Translation states it like this, “When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs. The autumn rains will clothe it with blessings.” And commentators agree that it speaks to our loving God’s power to turn adversity itself into a blessing. Showers in the desert can turn a barren landscape into a garden. So, too, resolve and faith together commute disadvantage, disaster even, to benefit.
The
full verse contains even more riches, “How lovely is your dwelling place, O
Lord of Hosts! My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart
and flesh sing for joy to the living God. Even the sparrow finds a home, and
the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, O
Lord of hosts, my King and my God. Blessed are those who dwell in your house,
ever singing your praise! Blessed are those whose strength is in you, in whose
heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca they make
it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from
strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion. O Lord God of hosts,
hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob! Behold our shield, O God; look on the
face of your anointed! For a day in your courts is better than a thousand
elsewhere. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in
the tents of wickedness. For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord bestows
favor and honor. No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!”
Now, doesn’t that just blow you away?! I don’t know about you, but today I know for certain that the mighty rushing wind of God’s Word blowing through my soul is stronger than any hurricane raging outside my window.
Today, was much better. My friends from the Dominican Republic , Ada and Jesus, reached out to me this morning wanting me to walk with them today. I gladly agreed, and we met on the Camino after breakfast. Ahhhh, the joy of friendship and connection with others! It is, indeed, a gift from our maker that we are designed to be social in whatever style suits our individual personalities.
I spent much of the day, too, thinking about my precious friends and family back at home, thanking God for the gift of them in my life. Before I left, they gave me a little remembrance book to bring with me. It is filled with their pictures, thoughts, and best wishes for my trip. I am so grateful for the way they love me!
The weather was so much better today, a little cooler, but plenty of sunshine for walking through undulating, wooded hillsides and river valleys.
It was also the shortest day, only 13 km. We arrived in the next city in the early afternoon with enough time for a long lunch of hot, fresh paella, local wine, and the best yogurt parfait I’ve ever had. This region is known for its dairy products. In addition, for the first time since arriving, I experienced the Siesta. In the middle of the day, most shops close. People go home for lunch and a nap. I indulged. I slept an hour and a half. I woke at about 5:30 and went straight to the pharmacy for more foot repair. Then, I enjoyed a nice stroll around the city center where I met and talked with a lovely couple from England. We chatted over gelato, sharing our Camino stories and said we hoped to see each other again on the way.
I was reminded today that God designed us to be social, but he also designed us for rest and to enjoy His creation, food, people, and places.
Two more walking days, and one travel day to go. Both walking days will be about 20 km each day. I’ll arrive at Santiago de Compostela on Thursday, and visit the tomb of Saint James. It’s also Maundy Thursday, the day in Holy Week that we recall Jesus’ washing of the disciples feet. That Jesus would humble himself in that manner was incomprehensible, but it is the ultimate model for friendship. The disciples were his followers, his companions, his friends. He loved them and wanted to show them what true love looks like in action. He was setting an example for both our actions and our attitude toward one another. Be tender. Be humble. Take care of your friends. Speak, Lord. I’m listening.
I have written a lot about the importance of connections.
Connecting with others has perhaps been the area of greatest personal growth
for me during the grieving process. Paul knew it would be. The title of this
post is literally one of the last coherent thoughts he was able to share with
me. He knew my ability to “make some friends” would be critical. It’s not that
I was completely friendless, but for me, my family was not just enough, they were my everything, my all-in-all. I didn’t
feel like I needed more.
I.was.wrong.
I have worked hard to deepen current friendships and
cultivate new connections, and it has made all the difference. Cultivate is exactly
the right word here. Like a gardener cultivates flowers, growing a friendship
takes time, work, attention, and the nourishment of emotional sunshine. I am
learning how to do that because my connections, my friends, are teaching me. I
have the most amazing group of what I call support sisters. They have
taught me and are still teaching me how to be a friend. They show me every day
with love, support, laughter, and tears, the sad kind and the happy kind. They
are the real-deal steel magnolias. Here’s what I’ve learned so far about
making and keeping friends.
Reach out
Ask for and offer help. Easier said than done. I know. I am
the queen of “I can do it faster and better if I just do it myself.” Not true. What people really mean when
they say something like this is that it takes less of their own energy to
engage others in the completion of a task. And while that part may be true, it
is, at the same time, a loss. The contributions of others have enormous value
both to the outcome and the emotional well-being of those engaged in the
process.
Be present
If you are invited, go. It doesn’t matter whether or not it
is something that necessarily appeals to you personally. That’s not the point.
Go, and enjoy being together.
Support their efforts
Whatever they are into, support it with time, energy, and
positive contributions. Be their cheerleader!
Use multiple ways to communicate
Social media has many drawbacks, but it can be really useful
for staying in touch. If you are an introvert (like me) and there is a limit on
the number of face-to-face conversations you can have each day, use other ways
to reach out, communicate, and support. Phone calls, Facebook, texting, Marco
Polo, Instagram, Snapchat….the list goes on and on. Snapchat’s tag line is, “The
fastest way to share a moment!” It’s pure marketing genius because it’s true. Making
and maintaining connections is as much about sharing the little moments as it
is about being there for the big ones.
Because a picture is worth a thousand words, the rest of this post will
be worth a million.
The women in these photos have been my rock. They have cried with me and laughed with me. They have been with me to mourn and to celebrate. I could not get through this journey without them, and I am so grateful! I am still learning about friendship. I am sure there are lots of ways that I fall short, but I am growing. Thanks to them. They are still teaching me every day. My hope and prayer is that I am able to return even a small portion of what they have given me.
Party of One, or Life after Death 