Spring Fever 2021

Dear UD,

I miss spring in Missouri—smiling daffodils, green green grass, tiny buds on limbs, morel mushrooms hunts, crocuses popping up out of the ground even with a light dusting of snow, earthworms wiggling away from hungry robins and blue jays, bird nests speckled with tiny eggs, chick hatchlings chirping, box turtles just out of hibernation, freshly tilled gardens planted with rows of spinach and green onions and carrots, quick spring showers that leave mud and puddles, asparagus sprigs standing proudly ready to pick and eat....the beauty of spring teeming with life, yes, I miss it so.

 

                But more than anything, I miss Mom, miss Dad, miss you, miss the me I was then, miss the family unity, miss what passed for normal just six years ago.

 

                Grief changes us. It rips us apart and puts us back together like a Humpty Dumpty that could never be put right again.

 

                Uncle David, I don’t know how you did it—you, mom, and Uncle Bob. You were all in your late twenties when you lost your mom, and then in your forties when you lost your dad. I remember your lament of “we’re orphans now. We’re orphans now” at Grandpa Bruce’s funeral. I didn’t understand anything then. Not at all. No one can at all…until it happens. But now. Now, I need your guidance and wisdom. How did you do it? How did you all process and handle that grief and still move forward with life and love and living? How did you all still keep the family together and make it seem so easy? I don’t know how we’re supposed to do it without you and mom. Or is that your secret? That you had each other? The three of you together could face anything. Well, the three of you and God. Having a relationship with God—is that your secret?

I have siblings I love and am close to. I have God. We still even have Uncle Bob (Thank God). But nothing’s the same now. Nothing is okay without you all. Nothing. It’s been six years since we lost you and Dad and two years since we lost mom, and it still hurts so much. I still reach for the phone all the time to call mom, call you. I still ache to hear mom’s voice, your voice, again. I still have a hole in my heart where I am missing mom.

 

America gives us three days to grieve. What a joke. Grief is a never-ending monster of heavy aches and overwhelming sadness. After three days, people tell us to move on, stay busy, get back to life and living. After a year or two, they tell us to let go of the old or previous pain, that it has nothing to do with anything happening in life now. What they don’t realize is that we ARE moving on, staying busy, living, and even moving forward because there’s no other choice; however, the pain is ever present, ever there, ever impacting everything everything everything that happens in life from that moment on. Yes, the pain ebbs and flows. The wound scars over. The bruise fades. Time dulls the ache, and memories, old and new, fill the hole in our hearts to a certain extent. However, the pain NEVER goes completely away, and there’s not a second when we don’t see and feel that grief. Because moving forward means a new normal, a new life, a new self. It means living in the shadow of what used to be and will never be again, not on this earth.

 

There are times when living is lighter again, fun again, happy again, and there are still times, will always be times, when the grief encompasses us and all we do. Today is your special day, UD, and so I feel both happy and sad. Happy that we had you in our lives, happy for all the memories and all that we learned from you, happy that you lived and loved once upon a time on this earth and we got to share part of that journey with you. At the same time, I am still so sad without you here with us.

 

Moving forward also means remembering and honoring what was and the people who were such a vital part of our story. Filling our hearts and lives with reminiscent moments. Like seeing a full moon and knowing mom is looking down and smiling. Or searching for signs of spring just like mom and you, UD. Or celebrating birthdays with traditions and recipes passed on from generation to generation.

 

Which brings us back to you. Happy birthday, Uncle David. Thank you for all that you were and are in our lives.

 

Love, Rach

It's April

Dear UD,

It’s April, the month of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”

It’s April, the month we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her. She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby brother. She was starting over.

It’s April, and Mom’s asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat, enjoy.

But she’s not here.

It doesn’t make sense, UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad, difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.

I hate it.

For the first time in my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the family vacant.

Empty, barren, useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.

In her voice, I hear the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.

UD, it’s April, and the world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.

On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.

On April 15, Notre Dame burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad and Mom.

Notre Dame burned, and that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”

When I talked to Alyssa last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.

It’s been three months since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.

Without you, without Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family stay connected?

The journalist also shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the effort.”

Likewise, all we can do now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you, from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations that come after.

It’s April, UD, and we miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.

Love, Rach

Note: It’s April, and my sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.

The World Is Too Much With Us

Dear UD,

Around 1802, William Wordsworth wrote “the world is too much with us” partly to express how overwhelming everything feels sometimes and partly in criticism of how the Industrial Revolution led people towards a life consumed with material things and work and away from nature and the spiritual life. How little could anyone imagine back then how he got it so right.

In the past couple of weeks, the Eastern Puma has become extinct, and the last Northern White male Rhino has died while giraffes have gone on the endangered species list. I can't imagine a world without these creatures in it.

On another level, in meetings and emails and news headlines and social media posts, I see hatred and violence and tyranny working its way through our country. It angers and frightens me.

Also, I keep reading or hearing about too many people dying suddenly for no reason too young. That is sad and scary.

And I'm grading research papers where too many college students do not know how to write a clear sentence or how to follow directions or how to think critically enough to write a focused thesis statement or how to slow down for a moment to get it right. It worries me for the next generation—not only the world we leave them but the lack of skills we leave them with.

Uncle David, it's your birthday month and almost exactly one month from the day I received the call three years ago, the call that you were gone from this world, the call that shattered my world. Three years and I still miss you so much. Sometimes the ache of the loss is too much. But that's personal. And selfish. Because I wouldn't want you to see this horrible world right now. But I still want you here, and I still need you and still miss you. Three years ago, yet in this moment the loss feels too fresh all over again.

So I start a letter because I want to tell you all about it. Because I know you were so full of love that you would still see some good in the world right now.

It's spring, and I remember that you would be outside hunting for buds and feeding birds and walking your dogs and delighting in spring bulbs and flowers.

I have a 12-hour day of classes and grading. But tomorrow, I promise to go outside and sit in nature for a little while. And I will gaze in wonder at the beauty around me. Let it fill me up so that I might go out with kindness and some joy and be a blessing to others, like you were to so many.

Love, Rach

How Do I Miss Thee, Let Me Count the Ways

Dear UD,

This month, everything reminds me of you, and every day feels like a countdown to the day my foundation was shaken.

For instance, Facebook reminded me that one year ago, I tagged you in a photo of Mom’s flower garden, the one that you helped her create by buying her so many bulbs over the years. Yellow daffodils, pretty tulips, purple irises, and so many more.

One year ago today, you were on this earth, and I could tag you in a photo that you would see.

One year ago today, you were at home where I could call and talk to you almost any time of day.

Tonight, I’m drinking tea that I finally dug out of the cabinets, an herbal brand that I took from your home on the day of your funeral. You had so many boxes that you would never have a chance to use so I took one. I didn’t drink any tea for almost a year; opening the box was an acknowledgement that you were gone, but when I came down with a bad cold this spring, I remembered the box of tea, and now I sip the minty brew and think of you. When I drink tea, I will always think of you.

One year ago today, you were drinking iced tea, and I had the hope of another family meal at your place.

This month is a minefield and every day a reminder that the day the earthquake struck is approaching. I take a step to the right, and I remember an email conversation last April where you helped me revise a prompt for my Creative Writing class. I asked how you were, if you were writing, what you thought of the prompt, and if it made sense, and you replied:

               Hey, Rach,

               1)      Okay, not great. 

               2)      Not really. 

               3)      I think it is clear but a bit overwhelming. 

               4)      Yes, it makes sense.

          Grammar—parallel tense:  How did what you learn in Creative Writing . . .

          I would consider selecting 6 to 8 quotes for the assignment and then giving out the rest of them as an appendix for             further consideration.

          Love, UD

I love how you always, always started with a salutation and ended with love. What I would give for another email conversation with you.

A step to the left, and I think about how you coached and supported Lexi as she developed as a performer. Now, she has her first professional dance job, and I am so proud of her. We always thought you would be here to see her blossoming into an adult and professional dancer, and we want to call and tell you all about it. But we're grateful that Lexi had that chance to learn from you on her journey here.

A step to back, and I remember the day before, the day when I talked to you on the phone and wrote my last journal entry. I talked to you about wanting to visit in May, and I said that I loved you. I’m so grateful that I spoke to you that day, but I wish so much that I could talk to you again. That night, I wrote in my journal about my day, and then I ended it with a positive narrative about what my ideal life would be, something I’d wanted to do for years. The next day, I lost you, and I haven’t journaled since.

UD, a friend recently told me that I’d been searching for something outside myself. At one time, yes. Sometimes, yes. I am human, fallible, imperfect, yearning for love and belonging.

If I try to search for answers outside myself, that’s not good. If I’m looking for someone or something to make me okay or to fix or save me, that won’t work.

However, all humans need positive male role models in their lives.

Someone remarked that I am different, unique because of how deeply the loss of an uncle has impacted me, but it’s not just me who is feeling so unmoored in our extended family. Plus, you were one of those special people who impacted so many around you. Not to mention the fact that your loss was near the end of a long, hard set of traumas dealt all within a fairly short amount of time, and like a domino effect, one by one, they crashed down, leaving a scattered mess in my life.

And grief is the same yet different for everyone….it’s the same because, whether we’ve lost a beloved aunt/uncle, parent, grandparent, child, sibling, friend, there is now a hole in our heart, and our life will never be the same; we will never again be the same. Yet, it’s different because those relationships are different and because we are all different people with different personalities, needs, desires. Ultimately, loss is difficult, demanding, arduous, and the grief that follows is something that can take time because it shakes us up and spits us out alone and altered.  

And the thing is…you were one of the very few people on this earth with whom I felt completely safe. One of the few people who saw and accepted all of me. Nothing can replace that.

Safe….I realized recently, that there are only a handful of people I feel completely emotionally safe with and that I do not speak up as much as I need to around those I don’t feel emotionally safe with. It’s time to change that. Though difficult, it’s healthiest for me as well as those around me. I wish I could talk to you about this and process it, but I know you would be proud of me. I hold onto that as I attempt to navigate a new way of interacting and of being true to myself and others.

I feel like I am waking up from a long, hard nightmare…so much to handle in the past few years that I have been overwhelmed, numb, depressed, anxious. January 2013, the girls’ dad dropped a bomb in our lives that we are still processing. October 2013, Lexi moved to NYC for performing arts school, and, while natural and normal for her to go off to college, I grieved. May 2014, Grandpa Crawford died, and a few months later, Dad was diagnosed with cancer and put on hospice. December 2014, Laina and I sold what we could, packed what we could, gave away the rest, and moved back to the farm to be with my Dad and help the family. January 2015, he died. April 2015, you, Uncle David, died suddenly. May 2015, we moved back to Florida so Laina could go to high school with her friends. December 2015, we lost Charlie from Florida (my writing friend and the reason we moved to this area near the ocean), and I fell and broke my right wrist in three places. January 2016, I had surgery on my arm and was virtually helpless for a couple of months. Too much in too short of time, too difficult to process all of this, especially without you.

But this month, this month, every day, I remember you…

Love, Rach