Dear UD,
Five years from last
weekend I was sitting at a local theater production in Willow Springs, Missouri
to watch Laina perform in The Little Mermaid musical. Mom attended with me
as did some siblings and nieces and nephews. Mom treated us to dinner
afterwards as we celebrated the success of the play and performance. We were so
happy that night. Together and secure in one of those moments of 
Alaina and I were in
Missouri then because that semester, I was sheltering on the family farm,
living in the upstairs section of my childhood home. I had returned home in
time to have a couple of weeks of quality time with Dad after he went on
hospice, and I had stayed to help Mom with all the small details that come when
someone leaves this earth. I remember phone arguments with cable companies refusing
to close his account, boxes and boxes of Dad’s extensive collections of CDs and
DVDs that I shipped off, a red cattle trailer filled with Dad’s eclectic
collection of books, a thorough cleaning and painting of Dad’s room, and a
shopping trip for furniture to remake the space into a bedroom for me. A mere eight
months before we lost Dad, Grandpa died. Born in April of 1918 (during the
first year of the Spanish Flu), he lived for 96 years. A three-time war
veteran, he was a Naval officer for 30 years before retiring to work the
century family beef farm for the next thirty plus years. Grandpa was a constant
and comfort all of our lives, and suddenly he was gone. And not even a year
later, Dad was gone too. 
Those two deaths
heralded the beginning of a new normal for me and my family.
Uncle David, I remember
you and I talking about how the death of a parent would bring new roles and
expectations within the family system. After losing your mom, Grandma Bonnie,
when you were in your twenties, you understood all the dynamics. We discussed
how the death of a parent not only changes the family dynamics, roles, and
standings, but also changes the way we see ourselves and the way we experience
the world. The way our shelters become unhinged. The way our moorings begin to
loosen. A new normal. My God, how I
hated the idea of that. Unfortunately, it was only the cusp of “new normals” one
after another after another that we would soon face.
Earlier that April, I remember
celebrating spring with Mom, Laina, Jill, Sarah, and various nieces and nephews
as we went on a mushroom hunt one stormy April day. We walked down the gravel
road to Possum Creek before hiking into the woods. We spied a turtle just out
of hibernation, still covered in mud, and spring buds and wildflowers. A garter
snake slithered by, scaring us for a moment. Not finding any morels, we walked back
home and past mom’s gardens (both the vegetable garden we’d helped plant and
the flower garden full of spring flowers from seeds and bulbs you sent her) and
into a field on the family farm, then down to the river behind the house. For
hours, we hunted and laughed and searched and teased. For hours, we spied signs
of spring but no mushrooms. The storm hit, and the rain drenched us as thunder
boomed and lightning struck. In the end, we found morel mushrooms growing right
by Grandpa’s old house, now Sonny’s place, and next door to Mom’s. How you
loved that story. I can still hear echoes of your infectious and hearty chuckle.
But that afternoon was another moment of sanctuary where we were safe and
together.
On a Tuesday, a few
weeks after the mushroom hunt and a couple of days after the performance, I
called to talk to you, UD. I remember sitting in the new La-Z-Boy chair in
Dad’s old room, my new abode, and chatting about my lesson plans and your dogs
and asparagus shoots. The family was still getting used to the new normal after
losing Dad and Grandpa, but I found shelter in my conversation with you and in
our connection. You weren’t feeling your best, so we didn’t talk long. I told
you to get some rest, and as per usual, we both said, “I love you.” Those were
the last words I would ever hear from you, say to you. I love you.
Two days later, on
April 28, 2015, I was grading papers at home when Mom called to tell me you
died. I will never forget that gut-wrenching moment when I found out that we all
lost another anchor in our lives, another shelter, another piece of our hearts.
You loved us and guided us and taught us, and I didn’t know how we would move
on without you. Another new normal already, only four months later, and I
honestly just wanted to punch anyone who talked about getting used to that.
Nothing can replace someone special in our lives. Nothing can replace the love,
the connection, all the parts of the relationship that help make us who we are.
There are no words to describe the deep loss and hole that blossomed into our
lives that April day.
Within the next two
years, so much changed as we adjusted to the losses and the grief. In the end,
I had a full-time job and was back in Florida while Mom moved into a smaller place
on the family farm and gave Ben our childhood home. At her new location, Mom
worked to create another flower garden with bulbs from you and planted asparagus
which takes two years to start producing. As much as we could, we had adjusted
to this new normal, but our hearts would never be the same. Our lives would
never be the same. We would never be the same.
Then, in November of
2018, Mom was diagnosed, suddenly and horrifically, of stage-four cancer.
Within six weeks, we lost her. Again, our hearts shattered, our lives changed,
and we had to start a new normal as orphans. Again, but even more severely, I
went through it all—shock, horror, denial, fear, anger (lots of anger), anxiety
with sleeplessness and panic attacks. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I
couldn’t settle. I wasn’t okay at all, but I was going through the motions day
by day. I didn’t settle into a “new normal,” but I threw myself into my work
and sought out adventures with siblings and friends.
“Really it was her mother
she’d wanted to call right after the bad news, or in the middle of it... First
thing in the morning, last thing at night, whenever a fight with [her daughter]
left her in pieces, it had been her mother who put Willa back together. When
someone mattered like that, you didn’t lose her at death. You lost her as you
kept living.” Barbara Kingsolver, Unsheltered
Four months after
losing Mom, my youngest daughter moved out unexpectedly, leaving me dealing
with the empty nest on top of the still-raw grief of losing Mom. Another new
normal in such a short time. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t
settle. I couldn’t even see the point of living anymore. I don’t mean that I
was suicidal because I wanted to live, but I couldn’t see hope or purpose or
meaning in any of it. All I could see was deep pain. A pain that didn’t stop,
never healed, and continued with loss and loneliness.
UD, I don’t even have a
new normal from all of that yet. I have tried some different things like
hosting an Italian student for the school year and visiting my family in
Missouri more, but now, I don’t even know what to think.
It’s a hundred years
since the birth of Grandpa during the Spanish Flu Pandemic, and now we are in
the middle of the Covid-19 Flu Pandemic. The world is shut down, and we are
under a shelter in place mandate.
Now everyone has a new
normal. Everyone is dealing with a public and collective grief and new normal,
and it is bizarre and surreal.
I fluctuate between
these—1. missing you and Mom even more, wishing I could talk to you both about
this and feel that sense of security that came from having you both in my life.
2. not even thinking about my personal grief as much. Not because it is gone or
because I have healed but because I am in survival mode and just trying to cope
with too much uncertainty and loss.
Collectively as a
nation, as a world, we’re sheltering in place, but we have no mooring, no guarantees,
no sanctuary. We are, in a sense, “unsheltered.” Everything is changing for
everyone all around the globe, and we don’t know when or how things will
settle. We don’t know who will survive or what the world will look like when
this pandemic is over. We don’t know exactly how it is impacting countries and
people individually or what the end of it will bring for each country and person. As one character living during contemporary
times reveals in Barbara Kingsolver’s new novel, Unsheltered, “…taking
all the right turns had led her family to the wrong place, moneyless and a few
storms away from homelessness.” With too many Americans living paycheck to
paycheck like this, what is going to happen to them in the next few months, in
the next couple of years?
As another character from
Unsheltered says, this one living during the 1870s, “We are given to
live in a remarkable time. When the nuisance of old mythologies falls away from
us, we may see with new eyes. … Without shelter, we stand in daylight.”
UD, sheltering in place
is hard. Living without shelter is also difficult. Doing either without the sanctuary
from you, from Mom is agonizing and challenging. As I pondered on everything
that I wanted to tell you, two Bible verses came to mind, thanks to the strong
example and foundation from Mom during my childhood, and these verses brought
some comfort. Psalm 28:7 states, “The Lord is my strength and my
shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for
joy, and with my song I praise him.” The other is one of Mom’s favorite
chapters in the Bible: Psalms 91.
Psalm 91: Safety of Abiding in the Presence of God
91 He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High
Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
2 I will say of the Lord, “He is my
refuge and my fortress;
My God, in Him I will trust.”
3 Surely He shall deliver you from the
snare of the fowler
And from the perilous pestilence.
4 He shall cover you with His feathers,
And under His wings you shall take refuge;
His truth shall be your shield and buckler.
5 You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor of the arrow that flies by day,
6 Nor of the pestilence that walks
in darkness,
Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
And ten thousand at your right hand;
But it shall not come near you.
8 Only with your eyes shall you look,
And see the reward of the wicked.
9 Because you have made the Lord, who
is my refuge,
Even the Most High, your dwelling place,
10 No evil shall befall you,
Nor shall any plague come near your dwelling;
11 For He shall give His angels charge over you,
To keep you in all your ways.
12 In their hands they shall bear
you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone.
13 You shall tread upon the lion and the cobra,
The young lion and the serpent you shall trample underfoot.
14 “Because he has set his love upon Me,
therefore I will deliver him;
I will set him on high, because he has known My name.
15 He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble;
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him,
And show him My salvation.”
UD, I don’t know what
will happen, but I realized that, as distressing and difficult as this all is,
I can stand strong in the foundation that you and Mom provided. The love and
conversations and guidance from you still sustain me. The love and time
together and everything Mom taught me still nurture me. And all of it shelters
me.
Love, Rach
