Road Trip

Dear UD,

Taking a road trip with you is better than all the travels in the world.

2006, Lexi and Laina, young girls, giggle in the backseat while you drive with me in the passenger seat.

Like the time when you taught 16-year-old me how to drive. Then, my siblings Sonny and Britt and Amanda sat in the backseat with me in the front passenger seat. Both then and now, we ride curves, glide up and down hills, traveling between the Crawford farm nestled in the Bible-belt of the Ozark Mountains and the Cunningham farm or your welcoming house, both near the greater Kansas City area.

Then, you offered driving tips, advice on how to drive, or how NOT to drive, as we later laughed about when, on that road trip, you missed the sharp turn sign indicating a 90 degree turn and plowed the rental car straight onto the gravel road, into the ditch, landing against the barbed wire fence. Luckily, everyone was fine, and we piled back into the car, driving the dented rental all the way.

Then, we talked bookshelves and jungle gyms (you built for the family), Chuckles (the bean bag throw game that Grandpa Bruce made and you delivered), family stories, garden harvest, and driving tips.

Now, we’re in your light blue 2006 Ford Taurus, sailing the curves and hills between family farms. On this road trip, we talk Broadway shows and musicals in between listening to the Wicked and Into the Woods original Broadway cast recordings. After each number, you pause the CD and interpret the lines for us, and we discuss characters and themes. I know in this moment that I will always remember these road trips with you, these discussions with you, these lessons and learning.

Years later, Lexi, Laina, and I saw Wicked off Broadway, and more years later, Pippin on Broadway. Throughout the years, we’ve watched the movie versions of various musicals from Oklahoma, Singing in the Rain, Holiday Inn, White Christmas, and Annie Get Your Gun to Grease, Hairspray, Billy Elliot, The Court Jester, Mamma Mia, Chicago, Jersey Boys, Newsies, Phantom of the Opera, to Lion King, Beauty and the Beast, Mulan, Cinderella, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Aladdin, and Anastasia. And so on. Plus, we’ve attended local productions of shows such as The Man of La Mancha and Fiddler on the Roof.

On December 31^st, 2014, we decided to celebrate Lexi’s 20^th birthday at your house; this time the three of us took another road trip between family farms, and that evening, we went to the movies with you, Britt, and Sean to watch Into the Woods. What a thrill to see the story you shared with us so long before come to life on the big screen! Four months later, you left this world, so that was the last movie we would have a chance to see with you. I wish we could see more, but I’m glad the last one was a Broadway musical. And I’m glad that we played Broadway that night, the board game that you created, another memory, another connection.

Uncle David, without you, I doubt we would have our love of musicals and all things Broadway, and I am so grateful to you for teaching us, through musicals, about life and literature and living and loving.

2018, everyone’s talking about Hamilton, and remembering our road trips, I bought the original Broadway cast recording. It arrived this week and sits, unopened, on my dining room table. I am excited to listen to it and explore the story, and at the same time, I wish you were here to listen to it with me, interpret the lines, and tell me the story.

So many things you taught me, but you did not “Teach me how to say goodbye” (Alexander Hamilton, “The World Was Wide Enough”).

But what you did teach, I promise to pass on. This summer, I will take a road trip, play the Hamilton CD, and share it with someone else.

“Legacy. What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see”- Alexander Hamilton, “The World Was Wide Enough.”

UD, your legacy lives on in the lives of your loved ones, and we are all the richer for it.

Love, Rach

Moored

Dear UD,

So many stories I long to share, to call you up and tell you about. So many brainstorming sessions that I yearn to have with you. So many questions I want to process with you. So many experiences I crave to express to you.

For example, another creative genius died this month. Prince is gone, and it seems like too many greats are being called home, leaving this earth mourning and lost and headed for some sort of apocalypse.

As another illustration, I am reading this book by Brené Brown called Rising Strong about being vulnerable, compassionate, authentic people who set boundaries, and I wish I could talk to you about it.

Plus, she understands love and loss. Brown says, “Yes, I agree with Tennyson, who wrote, “ ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” But heartbreak knocks the wind out of you, and the feelings of loss and longing can make getting out of bed a monumental task. Learning to trust and lean in to love again can feel impossible.” And she writes that “C. S. Lewis captured this so beautifully in one of my favorite quotes of all time: To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” She captures the risk, the reward, and the problems that arise if we don’t take the risk.

In another instance, I want to tell you about Lexi and Laina, about all of the amazing things that they are doing and about the challenges they are facing and about the crazy, fun, couchsurfing adventure we had last week. And about how we all three miss you.

And of course I want to tell you this… I was selected as the Outstanding Adjunct for 2016 for the Eastern Florida State College Palm Bay Campus, and when I told Mom, the first thing she said was that you, Uncle David, would be so proud of me. I know that, and it warms my heart. I still wish I could call and tell you about it. Let you know how you helped me become the best teacher and person that I could be, and I am grateful for every phone call, email, visit, minute that you spent with me, showing me that you valued me, teaching me that my interests and desires are important, shaping my philosophies and morals. There are no words to describe what that means to my life.

Ironically, the ceremony where I will receive my award is on the very day that we lost you last April. Or is it apropos…a way to honor your help on my path to this moment.

The year anniversary of your death is here, and I still miss you so much. As time goes on, it doesn’t get easier, navigating this world without you, missing you, yet the ache of the loss does lessen overall, though sometimes it still strikes as sharp and painful as ever because the hole left in a world without you will never be completely filled.

But, I am mooring, pulling in everything you did for me, everything you taught me, everything beautiful and right and good about you. And I am holding it all inside me, not heavy like the weight of grief but shaped like the feather of an angel or a phoenix, light and loving. Shielding. Freeing.

At your funeral, they played “Wind Beneath My Wings,” and you were that for me and for so many of your family members.

In countless ways, you showed us too much to put into words—how one person can love another, how actions and words can run parallel, how taking time for others matters, how to listen, share, give, how to process this crazy world, how to care for all of God’s creatures, how to be respectful/courteous/kind, how to be centered in the midst of anything.

The grief I ball up like a stone, what’s left of it after all the tears that have bled out of me, and I hold it in my hands. I reach my arm back and launch it forward, away from me, releasing it into the ocean, back into the physical world.

As you would want for me, encourage me to do, I let go and look inside. Draw in courage from all that you shared, from all of the memories. Find hope for the future.

Time to choose, time to decide, time to stand strong.

Belong.

I choose me, I choose life, authenticity.

I am a powerful, passionate, blessed, and beautiful, beloved daughter of God.

UD, I love you so much. And I miss you still. Forever, I carry you in my heart, and with all that you taught me, with God’s help, with trusting and believing in myself, with living my contract, and with the support of family and friends, I mend. We mend each other. Never the same, but new. A new tapestry woven from the past and present, the future up to us. As Ram Dass said, “We're all just walking each other home.”

With the memories and love of you written on our very cells, we merge our old lives and stories into something new that can move us forward into this future without you. While it wouldn’t be what we would choose if given the choice, it is what is, and so we press on.

Moored.

Moored by the foundations laid by past generations, by all I learned from them, from you.

Moored by my faith and belief in God, by my God.

Moored.

We remember the stories of old and carry them with us into the newness of our lives. Now, we have a new story to tell. One that leans on the foundation you helped set. Thank you, UD.

Goodbye, Uncle David. For now. Someday, when we meet again, I will tell you the rest of my story, and I will make you proud. Until then, I hold your love close, smile, and step forward into the future.

Love,

Rach

PS: With this post and the year of letters to you, I commemorate you and your influence on so many lives. We love you. xo

A Year without Words

Dear UD,

April is the month of spring renewal and poetry, a mix of greens/reds/yellows/purples, of budding limbs and of word play. And now also of a sword that strikes suddenly, swirling death into the pretty mixture. Everywhere we turn grief rises up to greet us—suicide bombings in Belgium and Africa, the protagonist of a post-apocalyptic series sacrificed, movie or rock stars like Alan Rickman and David Bowie falling, a supreme court seat emptied in an election year, and on and on it goes.

And you, gone with no goodbyes.

The one-year marker of your death approaches, and I am still numb, hurting. Sad. Tears still fall so often.

Soon it will be…

365 days since a dam broke inside from too much to mourn in too little time (Grandpa, then Dad, then you).

365 days since my body’s visceral keening. All of the pain flowing up and out of my throat, leaving me voiceless, wordless. And now, almost a year later, I am starting this month of April with no voice, literally, from a cold virus.

365 days with no words. Journal pages blank. Empty.

For a year, I’ve written letters to you but nothing else. No diary entries, no stories, no essays, no poems.

Empty pages, empty landscape, empty love tank.

I feel so alone.

Uncle David, I still miss you. I wonder how I will endure this, how the heavy grief that has taken up residence in my body will ever leave.

There are no words.

During this month of spring and poetry, I can only think of elegies I’ve read, so many poems of sorrow, a human experience we all know. These woeful songs of lament and grief leaving me voiceless, wordless.

Bereft.

I am still not ready

to say goodbye.

Love,

Rach

Once Upon a Time

 Last week, I talked about “real change,” and it’s absolutely time for that in my life.  Over the weekend, I made those lists, looked at my calendar/schedule, and had some heart-to-heart conversations with my girls.  

First thing on the list to de-stress my life is finding a home for Thorin, a place where he will be happy, so I emailed the Australian Terrier rescue.  Same as with Sam, we believe his happiness will only be with someone who actively desires his specific breed and will spend time with him and treat him as part of the family.  On the website, I read reassuring words from Darlene Evans, the President of ATR:  “Rescue is done with the heart.  Sometimes in rescue there are difficult decisions that have to be made, but they are offset by the happy look of an Aussie as he is going off to his new and final home. That is what rescue is all about.”  That is what we want for Thorin.  Within two days, a woman from Georgia called to ask about Thorin and passed his info along, cautioning me that it could be difficult to find someone to take a dog so old. 

By Wed, a woman contacted me who wants to adopt Thorin!  She has had Aussies in the past and loves them and now has a tiny Yorkie, so Thorin will have a pal to hang out with.  The dogs are not left alone more than a few hours at a time and even go on vacation with her and her husband.  They live close to Orlando and would be happy to send us updates and photos of a happy Thorin, and we could even visit him.  This weekend, we will take Thorin to their home and see if it works out.

A huge weight of relief fell off of my shoulders after that phone conversation.  Again, we do not have to say a forever goodbye, which is such a blessing, as this decision is difficult to make.  At times, I wonder if we could work it out somehow.  Thorin, such a sweetheart, follows me around like a little shadow, and we have fallen into a semi-workable routine this week.  When we take him on longer walks, he is less likely to mess in the house, and he still adores car rides with us.  However, it is an added expense, an extra responsibility, and it takes so much time from our already over-busy schedule.  Some days, things appear to flow more smoothly, and it works out.  Other days, it is a real struggle to find time to walk Thorin in the morning or rush back to him after church or work.  Bottom line is that it’s too much right now, and it’s not fair to him to be locked up several days a week.   

Yet I am sad to think of saying any sort of goodbye to Thorin this weekend.  He has been part of our family for eleven years, and we are giving him to another family, which hurts.  At the same time, I realized this week that Lexi was right from the very beginning when she said that God was using the situation with the dogs to help us work through and release some things from our past. 

Once upon a time, we were a family of six (two adults, two kids, two dogs).  In the meantime, divorce, life, circumstances changed our family, breaking it into two separate ones.  It has taken time, but those separate families are healing, learning, evolving, and growing stronger.  Seeing the dogs and having them here in our new life where they don’t really fit anymore has helped us accept the past and our new paths.  Being part of their recovery and healing has brought fresh healing for us.  Saying goodbye to our dogs has allowed us to release the past and some of our expectations of the future.  Finding them new homes where they will thrive shows us our chance to thrive.  We are all going in separate, new directions, but it is good.  And they all lived happily ever after with their new families.

Harvest Moon Madness

 

Lexi worked on Saturday morning, while I headed to Wickham Park with Laina and the dogs for social hour at the dog park.  As usual, Sam explored the area and played with the other dogs.  Not feeling his best, Thorin stayed near us, only running around a little, yet still trying to dominate the large dogs.  An hour later, we hosed them down and picked Lexi up.  We spent the afternoon attempting to catch up with homework and grading.

Late that afternoon, we drove to the dog beach for more fun and played with the harvest moon as a backdrop.  The girls took turns running with Sam who still adored the beach.  Thorin still detested the ocean but was content to sit and watch.  Over and over, Sam seized his leash, wanting to lead the way.  Laina kept pulling the leash up, trying to keep him from capturing it.  

Frustrated, Laina plopped onto the sand and pulled, determined to win the tug of war.  Although she won the battle, she lost the war when, five minutes later, Sam snapped the leash in half.  Thankfully, she still held the first handle, and he didn’t get completely loose to chase all of the other dogs at the beach.  Time to leave.

 We stopped by our friend’s house to hose down the dogs before returning home for the evening.

Once more, we stayed home from the morning church service because the girls wanted more time with Sam and were still behind with homework.  We spent the day with the dogs and with work.  

Over the weekend, we mixed rice and hamburger in with their dog food (vet’s recommendation for Thorin’s upset tummy), and Thorin was finally well.

That evening, the girls said, “See ya,” to Sam.  It was important to them that it’s not a forever goodbye.  While sad, they could see for themselves that Sam’s needs are best met with the other family, so they hugged him hard and left for the youth service.   Once again, I found myself envious.  I want to be dropped off for some amusement rather than left alone with all of the responsibilities.  I didn’t realize how much I need a break until I started writing about the weekend.  I didn’t realize how much I miss my friends.  My focus this September has been on the dogs.  While understandable, it’s not healthy.

I clarified with both the girls and later with Tom that we won’t be able to see Sam for a few weeks.  My priority has to be catching up with everything and getting used to our routine again.  Plus, it will help Sam bond with his new family.  In a few weeks, it will be good to go play with Sam again, but for now, we have other priorities to focus on.

I took the dogs to my friend’s backyard to run because I didn’t want to return Sam to Tom with too much excess energy.  Even though Sam had all of that open space, he still whined.  An hour later, I put Sam and Thorin in the car.  Sam whined, and Thorin yelped.  I fed and walked my friends’ dogs before taking Sam back to Tom.

Relief mixed with sadness as I dropped Sam off at his new home.  He loped in like he belonged, welcomed Tom, and appeared content.  With a lump in my throat, I patted Sam’s head for a final time and left.  As I drove off, I saw Tom hold the door open with Sam sitting in the doorway.  His body quivered, but he stayed and waited, listening to Tom.  Once I picked up the girls and arrived home, I sent a text to check on Sam.  No whining, and already no pulling on the leash.  As Tom mentioned, they “will be good” together, and that’s what counts.

As for me, on the car ride home, the girls bickered and badgered.  As words and emotions were volleyed from girl to girl to me, all of the emotions and pressures of the month built up, and I snapped.  While I’m not proud of my outburst, yelling helped relieve the pressure I’ve been under.  In retrospect, three things are essential for me to incorporate into my life on a more consistent basis:  breaks, time with friends, and a physical outlet like swimming, running, or doing P90X.

Last week’s study of Nehemiah started with confession and remembrance of the history of God’s promises and work in our lives, and it ended with breaking the cycle through a plea for help and true change.  If we are not reaping the harvest that God has intended for our lives, then we need to confess, listen, obey, and change something.  Kelly Minter says, “So many times I’ve longed for my circumstances to change while I haven’t been willing to change.”   I don’t know about you, but I, too, am guilty of that.

She continues, “Making changes in our lives can be hard, but it’s our refusal to change the places God is asking us to change that keeps us stuck on the dismal merry-go-round we’re too afraid to jump off yet too sick to stay on.  We hold on tightly only to pass by the same old stuff exactly where it was at the last time we swirled past.”  There are merry-go-rounds that I have jumped off of, and some merry-go-rounds I still need to leave behind.  Letting go is scary yet one of the first steps necessary for real change.  Last week when I read this passage, I wrote in the margin, “God, show me.  I am open.”