Kitchen Cleaning Thoughts

 It's been a very long time since I put my thoughts here. A lot has been happening and a lot will continue to happen because that's how life works, right? 

I was cleaning up the kitchen tonight and wiping down counters while bopping along to my music. I have two little girls who are waiting for snuggles and a happy boy who picked Mary Poppins to watch for our family movie time. The new to us $15 dishwasher is running, the dishes are all done, the living tidied. Its quiet. I have happy tired kiddos. Our bills are paid. We are loved. 

While puttering about in my kitchen tonight I was wiping down the kitchen island we have. And thinking about the amazing couple who gifted it to us. There are already scratched on the top where I have cut things when I shouldn't have. The handle at the end in missing as well, too many kids hung off it before it finally broke. We've made pasta at that island, served dinner to others, its seen a lot of pizza there as well. Every time I wipe it down, I think of our Tyler's. I smile. I pray over them. I thank the Lord for them. 

I put up some important tax papers I found today. I forgot I stashed them somewhere and I knew I needed to put them away or I would be mad I lost them later. I have a cool way to store important documents now, because my biggest brother said to me once, "It doesn't matter HOW you stay organized so long as it makes sense to you and Blair." He was right. We've gotten much better about that because of him. When I put things away now, I always think of him now. I did today. I smiled. I prayed over him and his family. I thank the Lord for them. 

There are drying flowers in my kitchen. I moved some down to my desk, and put some of the roses I got Blair for Valentines Day up to dry. I love seeing those bundles and remembering why they were given and when. The bundle from when we were all sick and friends brought soup and flowers. The flowers sent to my mom this December for her and my Dads anniversary. I dry my flowers because Blairs younger sister does. She has these bundles all over her room. When I see these bundles, I smile. I pray over her. I thank the Lord that I love my sister in law. 

I look around my kitchen and I see and feel the influence of so many lovely people. People who have shaped and changed me for the better. Wanting a stand mixer because of Chelsea, loading my dishwasher the way Carly does, the supplements I take because of Megan, the magnetic picture frames on my fridge from Michelle. The sign Danielle sent in the thick of Deans treatment, the utensil holder from Katharine, the magnets from Mimi, not to mention that post cards! So many wonderful post cards from so many wonderful people! There's so many people I could name. Each one so special to me. Each one making me stop and smile. Each thing reminding me to pray for these people I love so deeply. 

I love seeing it all. Tonight it made cleaning the kitchen feel like being with friends, hearing their conversation and laughter in our little house. Marveling at where we were and where we are now. How perfection has taken a backseat to life, how messy it can be, but how fulfilling and loving. 

We are made up of all the people we love. 

I don't think I will ever be over the community that has become family that I have worked so hard for. All the ways I have absorbed their influences, and how deeply I feel humbled by that kind of love. 

Shields and Warriors

 I'm not at all sure when Anxiety became part of my every day life. I would love to say it was when Dean was little and we faced such big struggles with him. I would love to pin point and say "this was the moment it all changed for me." 

I can't though. It drives me nuts if I can be honest. 

Today, friends asked if we wanted to meet up at the Library, about 25 minutes away, a place we have been so many times, a place I used to work at. I could tell you how to get there. I love that Library. Today is also Monday and for the month of May you can get free coffee from Dunkin on Mondays (you're welcome for that one). It took forever, but we finally loaded up and got everyone in the car and I headed to get my free coffee before taking everyone to the Library. While on the way there, the temperature gauge on the van steadily crept higher and higher. 

All of a sudden it felt hard to breathe and I was having a hard time focusing. My leg started to do that leg jiggle thing it does when I get anxious. And all I could think was "I know I said I would meet friends at the Library, but I want to go home. I want to go home I want to go home." 

So we did. 

I pulled into the driveway with the kids and explained I wanted Daddy to look at the van before we did anything, that I just felt anxious. That sometimes we do hard things (even if seems simple to others) but sometimes we don't have to push ourselves and do hard things. We talked about how my body was scared and I didn't want to spend our time at the Library feeling that way. My wonderful kids climbed out of the van and act snacks on the front lawn in the sun while I texted my friends. I texted Blair. Any time the van acts off in any way, even if I know what to do, it makes my whole body feel off. It makes me panic. 

There are some things that struck me about this whole thing today though. 

One, I love my people. I love my friends, so much. I love that while I struggle with these every day simple things they have never once made me feel bad about it. They have all been amazing and supportive and honestly, I don't know how other people do their lives alone. I also appreciate that my friends, while they respect what happens in my head and what it looks like for my life, they challenge it. Sometimes it IS time to do the hard things and suck it up. I love that they can tell when those times are and when its ok to let me have those moments. "Come anyways, you need to", or "Well fine then, I'm showing up at your house" or "Hey friend, we understand, it's ok"...I can't believe these are my friends...

Two, I get frustrated with myself. I am simultaneously so happy we are home and so disappointed in myself...I don't want my life or my kids lives ruled by Anxiety. My own or their own. It doesn't get to win. And today it feels like it won. I have worked very hard for over a year to get a handle on some of these bigger feelings. I have been in therapy and I am unashamedly on anti-anxiety medications. I am openly talking about it when I can. And I am not glossing over the fact that this a war waged with the ruler of this world. Between me, Jesus, and the medicines and knowledge we have been given, I am fighting this. So the days when it feels like I'm not winning? I just want to sit and cry for a little while. 

Three, one of the best things about homeschooling my kids is that we have a lot of freedom. Field trips and day trips and whatever else we want, we can do it. I want to have adventures with my kids. I want to feel brave again. I don't though. I don't feel brave. I feel like the only reason I do take my kids places is because of those aforementioned friends. Driving any where over an hour from my house feels...impossible. The people who pay the price of this more often than not, are my own kids. This seems very unfair to them...

On these bad days I try to think about when this really started. This Anxiety that I held to my chest and begged God to take. I remember the summer when Dean was a baby and how scared I was that one mistake would kill him. I remember the injections and medication schedules. The immense pressure I felt as a mother to a small baby with a heart condition. Not to mention a not even two yet toddler. I remember those long days and the friends even then who showed up. For play dates, for support, to help me. I remember calling a friend for help during a panic attack, she showed up and gave me Rescue Remedies and helped me calm down so I could take care of my kids. I remember calling my mother...multiple times asking for her help. I remember the first family vacation we took and having a panic attack from one place to another because I was overwhelmed by how many people we were around. 

I wish I had gotten help then. I wish I had started therapy then. I should have. 

The course of my life has shifted and moved. We learn and adapt, we try new things and handle the next thing. This is just another part of my story. Just one more thing I am working through. Even if I have a hard time accepting that its ok. It's ok to need space, ok to need a moment, ok that some days I don't push myself to do the hard things. It's never been an excuse to me though, and I am more thankful for the people who don't let it become an excuse. 

I never in my wildest dreams as a teen thought that I would label myself as an anxious person. I never thought I would have panic attacks and I find it ironic that in my twenties I was put in places where I walked other people through theirs. I hate how out of control it makes me feel. How off my entire body feels during and after one. I hate the...triggers. I am starting to be able to pin point them and work to combat them, but some days they still get to me. 

It will not always be this way in my head. It will NOT. 

Above my sink, every day while I'm doing dishes, I see the verse 2 Chronicles 20:15 on a tin sign that my best friend sent to me when Dean was a baby. "The Battle is not yours, but God's."

I am, beyond grateful, for God who is in my corner, helping me battle this, and the friends He sends along as shields and warriors on the days I feel beaten by it. 

Anxiety can feel so stupidly isolating. 

But here is the truth, I am not alone in the war I'm waging on my own thought processes. 

And I find immense comfort in that...

The Gift of Authenticity

 I came down to my desk today while Daisy was napping to get some work done on some commission pieces. But I remembered I needed to send an email and then I remembered I had a blog in my head and now I want to write. 

Lately I have felt a stirring in my heart and soul. Something coming up, something mixing around in there. A call to be more involved, to be studying, to be reading. A shift in what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. Not only to disciple myself, but my children. I am not satisfied with Sunday Morning mediocrity right now. If my Bible isn't open in the days between Church, I just don't feel like I'm doing it right. 

I want more. For me, and for our kids. 

As I think more and more about what I want for my kids and for us as a family, I can't help but think about my own parents, my mom and my dad. 

Both would admit to not having all the answers, both would admit to being sinners in need of Jesus, just like me. Recently some conversations about authenticity have come up in my life. What does it look like? Who are the authentic people in your life and what characteristics do they have? What makes you want to be around those people? Would you consider yourself to be an authentic person? Would you consider me to be authentic? 

When I think about my parents and the faith that they each showed me, I would consider both of them to be authentic people. I'm not sure I appreciated it as much as I should have when I was younger. In my skewed sense and own misperceptions I'm sure I felt they were "hypocritical" at times. But then, I think I threw that term around like confetti at a party without really taking to heart what I was saying. My parents were the same person at church on Sunday as they were on a Thursday night. If you came to our house and Mama was mad? She was still mad. She didn't stop being mad because someone else was there and might see her be mad. My Dad was still the grouchy looking guy on Sunday morning that he was on a Friday night. I saw them be mad, I saw them cry with people who held grief, I saw them fight for people who needed someone to fight for them. I saw them pray. Deep heartfelt prayers to an audience of one. It didn't matter if we were praying before dinner or together in the living room, they were talking to Jesus, and I knew that. 

I don't know if my siblings feel the same way I do. They all have their own perceptions, opinions, and life experiences that I may not have. The parents that had my oldest brother are vastly different than the parents who had me or my youngest sister. Their ideas changed and they grew with each of us. Of that, I think all of my siblings can agree. 

Now I have kids of my own. And this has changed so much about me...but in all the best ways. I have benefitted so much from the way motherhood has shaped me. The mom I was when I had Ellie is different than the mom I am now with older kids who are able to do things on their own, but who still has two little toddler girls who require much of me, still. 

As Ellie gets older I am starting to think about who I want to be when she is  32 years old and thinking about her own childhood and her own memories. 

I want my kids to see me as the same person Sunday morning as the person I am on a Wednesday afternoon, or a Thursday night when I'm exhausted. I never want my kids to feel like I put on an act in Church on a Sunday morning. I long for and seek out authenticity. 

I want to pray over and out loud with my kids as much as I do my friends. I want to talk about the Bible with them, share what I've been reading and the way it shapes me. I want to make sure they know the deep truths of the Word, the way Jesus loves them. I can teach them math, and history, science and geography, how to read and write, but if I'm not teaching them about theology, and Jesus...am I really doing my job? Am I really being authentic? 

I am not perfect, nor do I want to be, the last guy who was, know what they did to Him? No thanks man. But I do want to be as like Him as I can get. He is good and kind and patient and gentle and had so much self-control. I want to be so rooted into Jesus that the fruits of that spill out of my life in the most beautiful ways, starting here in my home, with my kids. I won't do it right. That's not self-deprecating, its just the truth. 

I feel like there are all these things we try to do to give our kids a good future as well as a good childhood. There are plenty of things I do differently than my parents. I am not my mother, nor am I my father, but. I am thankful for the people that they were and are. For the way they taught me to be part of a community, to love, to feed, to welcome people in my house. For being the same person on a Sunday morning when they were annoyed with us all for making them late, to a Tuesday night when my Dad called us all into the living room to pray out loud with one another. For my moms tenderness, for my Dads strength of conviction. For both of them admitting when they were wrong and trying to learn better ways. For the laughter and the worship. 

I am thankful for the authenticity my parents gave us, gave me. And my prayer is that I can give that same authenticity to my children. In all my sin and mistakes and issues, I know that I can admit, ask forgiveness and move forward.    

My mom was here with us in March and something has stuck with my since she's gone back home. She came to our co-op one day, helped watch the babies, was there when we sang our songs, read our devotional, corralled children. She pulled me aside and told me "Your Daddy would have loved this, he'd be so proud." I felt disorganized and loud and silly and she'd seen me holler at my kids, and here was, telling me how proud she was, how proud he would be. That day, there didn't feel like there was anything for her or for him to be proud of. I was simply living my life...

Yet there is something precious about letting people get a glimpse into your life in a beautiful and real way. No changing. No pretending. No acting like I have it together when I for sure do not. 

So come on over, any day of the week. If there are crumbs from cracker packets on the floor so be it. If there are dishes in the sink, so be it. The person I am on a Sunday morning is the person I am here in my home, loud and joyful and silly and compassionate. When I raise my hands in worship on Sunday, I raise them in my kitchen too. When I pull you into a hug to pray for you at Church, I do the same for my kids in our living room. 

I decided I want my kids to see me live a life of authenticity, I have to be willing to be vulnerable enough to be that way. It's not easy. The desire to hide the messy is always there. Heaven forbid you know I'm grumpy at my husband (which happens y'all, I love him, but he's a man. And men are sometimes....well. They're just men!), or that I haven't folded the laundry, or I left dishes in the sink, or that I narrowly avoided a panic attack right before you showed up (that actually happened this weekend when a friend asked if she could come by!), or there is cracker crumbs literally all over my living room. It all gets cleaned, I promise. This is not me advocating a house that is falling apart on you, but for allowing the small bits that don't matter, to be that: small things, that don't matter. 

People won't remember the laundry or the messes. They'll remember being welcomed. They'll remember being fed. They'll remember being loved. The same way everyday, no matter where I am, or what I'm doing. 

I don't remember all the times my parents messed up. I know they did. I know sometimes they yelled and it was loud and people got upset. But I remember that there was never any pretense. We didn't actually have to pretend. 

That's what I want for our kids. A life of authenticity, where they don't have to hide how they feel, not even from me. Because when they learn to be authentic with me, they will learn to be authentic with their Savior. 

And I can think of no sweeter gift to give them. 

                                 

Grace Valley

 It's pretty amazing to me how long this blog has lasted. It's also interesting to see the way my life has ebbed and flowed, the years when I wrote all the time and the years that it was slower. 

Every now and again I go back and re-read some of these. That can be both good and bad. Memories are so incredibly powerful, our stories and our lives are shaped by the way they are carved into our hearts. 

Right now I wonder what I should even be writing about. What do I even have to offer?                 

My days are filled with mothering. There are still diapers to wipe, toilets to clean, there is always dishes and I don't understand why or how there is so much laundry. We still have a strict nap time, I'm still convincing my kids we have to bathe every now and again, and don't even get me started on the dinner time struggles I encounter. 

Nothing about being a mother is what I thought it would be like. The daily struggles, the worries, the issues and behaviors I am up against. Seeing too frequently an older generation that glorifies and romanticizes a time  that is past. Feeling so inadequate in the face of technology, emotional needs, and the constant unrelenting feeling that I am not measuring up. 

Also, I'm homeschooling, so if my kids are dumb, that's on me now too. 

As I talk with more and more friends, as we build our community I am in awe of how much I need real life friendships and face to face connections. The internet is not and never has been, enough. 

There is a comfort in Friday night pizza nights. With kids running everywhere, a hot stove, extra salad, and finding ways to love one another in hard seasons. The routines keep me looking forward, not just to the next week, but the next few years. I know that the friendships my kids make will be good and helpful, the same goes for me. When I am connected to these friendships I tap into the parts of Maddie who was Maddie before she was a mother. That part of me still exists, these friendships solidify that one day, when my kids move on from me, I will still know how to make and keep, friends.

Every week we meet on Thursdays for a co-op full of women and families that only God could bring together. There is joy and discipline. There is teaching and learning and stretching. Grace Valley is not just a place, it is a mindset, a comfort, a blanket of security and joy in a world that is shoving information down my throat. I find so much peace there amongst my friends. They help me to be a better mother in all aspects. I bake more, play outside more, pray more, and get down on my kids levels because of these women. Because of the strength and community I find there. 

There is a comfort in knowing that any of them are a phone call away. In knowing they showed up to an art show for me, in knowing I would do my best to show up for them. They make these hard days of mothering less lonely. Five women with such different parenting styles, homeschooling styles, and even life styles and we still make time to hang out together. 

This is not something I stumbled into either. I worked for it. I think I worked hard for it. As often as I have asked for help I try to extend a hand to any of them. As often as I have asked for prayer from them, I have been willing to offer up my prayers for them. 

People like to bring up how "it takes a village" and its true, I believe that. I also think we don't acknowledge how hard it is to find and make that community. How many tries it takes. How vulnerable you have to be. How you have to be willing to show up, on both sides, the giving and taking part of things. No one knows you need help unless you ask. No one will ask unless you show a willingness to help.  

As I went back today and looked at some old blog posts, I found a comment on one of them from my Dad. He said something he said a lot to us kids during his life...that Relationships are what are truly important. 

He was a smart man my Daddy. Because the relationships with my Grace Valley moms? Those are ones I'm taking to Heaven with me. And I couldn't imagine my life without them...

The One and Only JLC

When Mawmaw was here she wondered about Heaven. She always wondered if those who were with Jesus could see us here on Earth. Some questions we will never know the answers to, and I just always said “I think the people in Heaven are to excited about being with Jesus.”

Then you died John Lee Cunningham, and I changed my mind. 

I changed my mind because it was abrupt and awful and shattered us and the community and it shattered your wife. I have watched the things you’ve missed this year and I find myself wondering, often, is there a window from Heaven where you get to see? 

Do you get to see your wife? Do you know the depth of her strength and vulnerability? Have you watched her endure day in and day out as she learns to navigate this life without you? I remember a year ago the phone calls, multiple, vividly. I remembering screaming in my van and telling the person who told me that it was a sick joke and I was mad as hell she would joke like that. I remember the look on my two oldest kids faces. 

I remember the Cicadas all over everyone outside of your house John as we stood in stunned silence. Your widow looked at me and “I’m so sorry your kids have to go through this again.” 

Did you watch those things, or was Heaven just too glorious and blinding? 

Did you know that the next month was a blur and my life was, once again, put on pause? All the times I was at your house unsure of what to say or do, knowing my words were empty when put up against the pain and grief my friend felt. 

Do you know I gave part of your name to Daisy? Daisy Lee. Daisy Rebekah Lee. She’s a comfort to us, and you would have LOVED her, like you loved all my kids. God gave us her sweet smile and personality after the tremendous grief that shook through our lives as we learned to move forward, just a little, each day. 

In your life I knew you loved your wife deeply, and I knew how immensely proud you were of her. I wonder if that continues over in Heaven. I imagine you talking with Jesus after a day of watching her and how the two of you high five at her victories and hurt when she hurts. Maybe you can’t hurt in Heaven…maybe you don’t know. 

All of me wants to think that you know John. 

Did you watch your godson struggle with his grief? Did you see the way he insisted on being rough and punching all the men in his life in the belly, because that’s what he did with you? He clings to that memory of the day you and Kackie took him to ice cream and the thrift store. He says he wants to name his son John. He can think of no higher calling than to be someone’s Dad, and to “play like Uncle John.” 

Your death ripped through us all like the worst Earthquake any of us have ever endured and the entire community suffered aftershocks. 

Yet still…I know Heaven is better.  I know you’re  whole and complete and spending every day of eternity with the Savior you love. We all somehow managed to survive the year without even though every single one of us woke up remembering you were gone. 

I’m thankful John Lee Cunningham, for the time I had you in my life. For the memories you gave my kids, for the way you encouraged my husband, for the way you teased and made fun of me. I’m thankful for your story about Tuesdays, and how you broke into our room to save the stupid cat when Dean locked the door. I’m thankful for you unwavering determination to make sure my van didn’t blow up. 

I don’t know what you can see from Heaven, but I hope sometimes you see the strength and resilience we’ve used to navigate this life without you…

I hope you can see your wife sometimes…because John…she’s the most amazing person I know. She didn’t have to forgive that man who made that choice that led to your death. But she did. She didn’t have to wake up every day and still chose to love the Lord and carry your legacy. But she does. 

We miss you a ton John.  We really do.  But I know Heaven is better.  I really do. 

See ya there one day Buddy….

31 Year Old Me

 Today it is snowing and wet and gray. It is also Monday. Monday are my best school days with the kids, we seem to get the most done on Mondays. We woke up today, made my bed, all had an easy light breakfast, and I put Daisy down for her morning nap, all the regular things. Dean and Ellie did their school work on my bed with me while I hollered at Ana to leave them alone for five seconds. 

Thankfully today the kids gave me a moment of quiet time, it doesn’t always happen, so I was extra thankful for it today. This afternoon I looked down and realized I’m wearing my most comfy black sweatpants. On the right leg there are, as with most of my clothing, some paint stains. 

Man people have given me a hard time for the paint on my clothes since…since before I can truly remember. There always seems to be something on me somewhere. It’s just a Maddie Fact. 

Here is something that many people do not know though: I remember many of those paint stains. 

The black pants and the paint there, a lot of that was from the night my Dad died. My mom called me, I told Blair, I wept bitterly while also rejoicing his pain was gone. I couldn’t go back to sleep though. I went down to my art desk in the same black pants I’m wearing today. The white circle of paint on my pants is from that night. I painted and painted and wrote and prayed and cried the night my Daddy died. 

The purple shirt I’m wearing, towards the top, there’s some white paint. It’s from only two weekends ago when I painted the cabinets and yelled at John for not being here to see how awesome it looks. I have a shirt that says Addystrong. There’s red paint on it from when I painted beautiful red tulips for my friends mom. She supports my art in crazy wonderful ways which include asking me to make art for her family. She is one of my favorite patrons. I think of her every time I see that red mark on that shirt, which is often, because I love that shirt. 

I have a maroon sweatshirt that is baggy and worn and pre-loved. A gift from my best friend. There are turquoise splatters on it now from nights spent with another good friend at my desk doing art and life together. Their memories and faces are a blue now in my mind when I see those turquoise spots. 

The older I get the more secure I become in who I am as a person. I will never love wearing high heels and I don’t do my make up often. I go through periods where I like making my bed, but to be honest, most of the time I don’t bother. I don’t care if my kids never make their beds and I don’t fight them on it. I don’t match socks. I just don’t care if socks match. 

I have paint on my clothes. Often. Usually. It’s more rare to see me without paint on my clothes. You can tell too which clothes I like the most, they will have the most paint on them. I love my flip flops, my water bottle has a bajillion stickers on it. I get really loud and really animated when I am passionate about something. My heart and emotions are worn on my sleeve and sometimes I make people uncomfortable with how much about my life I am willing to share. I can’t decorate well at all and my house will always look eclectic. I hate driving in the snow and I am in therapy consistently for the first time in my life. Worship songs bring me to tears and I cry when we sing of how Christ has conquered the grave. 

Hello. My name is Maddie and the paint on my clothes tell stories. 

I am settling into this part of my life. The 30 something’s where I have kids and a house and my bones are settling into a routine. Where I am not only not ashamed of the paint clothes, but finally feel I can embrace them wholeheartedly. I can embrace my loud emotions, my vulnerability, my need for space and unashamedly stepping back when I need to, or saying no when I need to. 

31 year old Maddie is a vastly different person than 21 year old Maddie. 

And I like this version and stage of my life very much, even with the heartache I’ve endured. 

My Grief Has No Eloquence

About a year ago, when I was decently pregnant with Daisy, I begged Blair to help me make better shelves in our pantry. The house had all these awful wire shelves that didn’t feel sturdy and didn’t hold enough for my liking. They annoyed me. In my pregnant induced condition I demanded something be done. Blair took out the wire shelves and gave me wonderful sturdy wooden shelves that could hold all the canned things ever. 

The wire shelves left some bigger holes in the walls inside the cabinet though and I knew they needed to be fixed. So, because I couldn’t text my Dad, I shot a text real quick to my best friends husband and The Godfather to my three and a half kids. 

I asked John if he had an drywall repair, when he said he didn’t, he told me what I should buy and also asked if I wanted him to pick me up some from the hardware store. I told him no, I’d grab some. A little while later when I finally did get some and work on the holes in the walls, I sent him another text that I had worked on the pantry and I was pleased with myself. In true John fashion he said “Pics or it didn’t happen”. I told him I didn’t want to send pictures until I had sanded down and painted the spots I had fixed. 

He told me he would be waiting. 

And I pushed back sanding and painting. 

And then John died., 

That morning on my way to Church I remember thinking about the way Daddy died…and how I remember every single detail about that night and the following day. At church I remember seeing John walk past us in the back and how Dean wanted to go say hello. I didn’t let him, I told him he would be able to after church. 

I regret that nearly every day. 

It has felt…hard to write about John. His widow and my best friend and godmother to my children does an excellent job sharing her grief journey and she’s so much articulate than I am. I have a hard time formulating my thoughts and ideas into something that makes sense. And I have had a hard time owning up to the grief I have felt about Johns death. 

John was larger than life. He had the biggest heart and the biggest laugh and he was hysterical. And he loved my kids. He deeply and wonderfully loved my kids. He spent TIME with my kids. He MADE time for my kids. He helped raise Ellie while we tended to Dean in the hospital. John showed up to see Dean in the CICU and he came with Katharine the day that my Dad had the tumor removed from his brain. 

John showed up. 

And I feel the hole he left in my life, my kids lives, and in my husbands life. 

Today I was able to stop at the Dollar Store and buy some cheap bins for my pantry. When I got home I started to take everything out of the pantry. Then I realized I should really take the time to sand, paint, and organize this pantry. Finally. 

The kitchen looks like a bomb blew up in there. The entire contents of my pantry are strewn about the kitchen, the baby cried, I frustrated Blair, and I ended up asking for pizza tonight because I want to see this project get finished and I am determined. 

But the whole time I was sanding, painting, and working I was just…mad. 

Mad that I can’t text John to tell him I’m finally getting things done. Mad that I can’t send him this picture of the little girl he didn’t get to meet who shares a middle name with him. 

I was mad that I was painting again too. After we moved in with my parents and we helped them fix their house to sell, I never wanted to touch a paint roller ever again. I would never trade that time with them, and I knew helping them was the right thing to do, however, it was a lot. It was a lot for my kids, a lot for my mom, a lot for my dad, a lot for my siblings. It. Was. A lot. We painted all the walls, fixed all the things, and my parents house looked beautiful. But by the end of it, I was sick of painting walls. 

When we moved into our house here in Strasburg, I had no desire to paint any of the walls. I just didn’t think I had it in me anymore. So today while I painted, I marveled over the way sanding and painting my pantry made me miss two of some of the best men I’ve ever known. 

My grief holds no eloquence. I can’t make it make sense. There are no patterns to it. I let it come and go as it pleases, and ride the waves as they come. It never ceases to amaze me that the weirdest things at the weirdest moments hit me like a force of nature. 

I am not knocked over by it. It doesn’t force me under, it doesn’t drown me, its just there while I tread water. 

Before my Mawmaw died, she always used to wonder if those in Heaven could see or hear what what happening here on Earth. I always maintained that Heaven would be the best thing because Jesus was there and I just wasn’t sure we would WANT to see what was happening here on Earth. 

Today though, today I hope people can see small glimpses of what’s happening here. 

I hope John sees my stupid pantry, all sanded and painted and awesome. 

I hope he sees his daughter and that he marvels how he is part of her life even now. 

I hope he sees his amazing, beautiful, courageous wife. How she carries his legacy and dreams with her, how she honors him so well while still loving God. 

I hope he flies kites with Jesus. 

I was honored to be part of his life, I was honored to have my kids be part of his life, and I am thankful that my sweet Daisy Rebekah Lee shares a middle name with them. 

I hope that however bumbled my words are they convey the way grief has played a part in my life. 

I hope it encourages those in the thick of things that ebb and flow eventually helps lull you to sleep, instead of pulling you further out to sea.