Easter Saturday at Melbourne Beach

After an entire week at home, I went for a walk at the beach today. A friend allowed me to park on her property so that I could safely, following social distancing rules, spend some time in nature, take a walk on the beach. Words cannot express how much I needed the time outside. Time to feel the sun on my skin, breathe in the salty air, hear the waves crashing against the shore. Time to take in nature.  

In the past few weeks, we’ve seen headlines about a global pandemic, about requirements to shelter at home throughout the United States, about quarantines and lockdowns throughout the world. And at the beginning of this month, Florida’s governor enacted a stay at home law, and last week, the White House Covid-19 Coordinator advised the nation to even avoid the grocery stores if possible. Such a strange world we've stumbled upon. Between the headlines and posts on social media, like many others, I am feeling scared. I spent the past week at home alone where I only left the house for a quick walk around the lake. A week at home where I had groceries delivered. A week at home with only my cats and an occasional visit from Alaina.

The only thing that has kept me sane during this whole ordeal and this past week of even stricter seclusion is the kindness of others, and I am so grateful for it.

I am grateful for my friend who invited me to park on her property so that I could take a walk on the beach today and who dropped off a surprise gift a week ago. I am grateful for conversations with my sisters, cousin, daughters, and friends on the phone, Messenger video chat, and Zoom. I am grateful for collaboration with a friend during this pandemic where we are helping each other with our writing. I am thankful to the friend who invited me to use her private pool so that I could swim. I appreciate my sister sending me one of my favorite meals via UberEATS when I was having a difficult time. I am grateful for my students who are continuing to learn and complete their work even through the move to online classes. I am so thankful that I am privileged to be able to work from home and continue earning a living during this pandemic. I appreciate that I can pay my bills and order food when needed. I am thankful for the peace and solace of nature, for sunshine, for the ocean. This Easter, I am grateful for the love of Jesus who sacrificed and gave His life for us and for what this holiday celebrates: that He is risen.

I wish that Mom were still here on this earth, but I am thankful that I know Mom is with Him now. Today at the beach, I found a rock with a hole in it (one thing that Mom collected during her life), and I am grateful for the reminder of Mom and the reminder that she lives on in those who come from her and in the memory of those who love her.

Ultimately, I am grateful that, even during these troubled times, I have so much to be grateful for. Thank you to all of you whose kindness lifted my spirits during the past month. Happy Easter! 

Mothers Carry Love

Dear UD,

It’s May, the month of mothers, May flowers, and graduation celebrations.

“I remember all the flowers you picked for me for Mother’s Day,” Mom said when I stayed with her last December. I remember too. I see me at 14, walking the family farm, hiking the rivers, climbing the bluffs, clutching a fistful of Missouri wildflowers. Purples, yellows, whites galore, but on I walked, searching for the rare red ones to round out the bouquet. Every year until I married and moved away, I brought Mom a handful of colorful wildflowers.

The past two summers I stayed with Mom in July, and even then, I hunted for wildflowers to bring her. Wildflowers and rocks with holes in them. I just realized that I don’t know why rocks with holes were so special to her, but she collected them so we searched for them anytime we walked or swam the rivers.

And now there’s a hole in my life because she’s gone.

I never even contemplated a Mother’s Day without Mom. Incomprehensible. Inexplicable. Inconceivable. Completely and utterly unfathomable. Unimaginable. Unbelievable.

At least not this soon. Not this quickly. Not when she was only in her sixties.

Aidan is graduating this month, and his Granny won’t be there. An empty seat that should be filled. An empty place that once was filled. That only months ago would have been filled. A generation of grandkids who will miss her, some who may not remember her. Unthinkable. Unacceptable. Unbearable.

This week is rough, UD. I’m heartbroken. All the time. Everything reminds me. Makes me sad. Everything, everything, everything.

Mom is irreplaceable. Rare. Exceptional. She is loved and missed more than words can convey.

Moms are life; they give birth to new beings. Moms are selfless; they sacrifice for their offspring. Moms are home; they offer grounding, place,

and foundation.

It’s Mother’s Day, UD, and we’re motherless. Motherless, without a mom here on this earth. Motherless—no synonyms, substitutes, replacements for mothers. Motherless for the rest of our lives. How do we go on from here? You lost your mom, Grandma Bonnie, in your thirties. How did you do it? How did Mom?

But you had each other, and we had you both. It’s so lonely without you, without Mom. I miss her voice, her fresh garden vegetables, her smile, her cooking, her advice, her adventurous spirit, her welcoming and giving service to everyone. I miss her presence here on earth, knowing I could reach out and she would be there. Knowing I had someone on my side, always. Knowing I had a place to go, no matter what.

One of the most precious lessons I learned from Mom is this—to include and welcome everyone.
Mom never met a stranger, and her home was always open for those in need. Like a mother hen collecting chicks, Mom surrounded herself with those who needed. Always, she gave, fed, welcomed. Her love carried on her hands as she gave to others. Her love carried on her heart as she shared with others. Her love carried on her prayers as she remembered everyone.

And now, UD, even though we are motherless, heartbroken, devastated, and inconsolable, we must survive, remember, and band together. Through the tears and grief, remember Dad, you, Mom. Through the pain and sorrow, remember the moments we treasure. Through the anguish and loss, remember the lessons and love from you all. Together we stand stronger. Together we welcome others. Together we carry love on our hands, hearts, and prayers.

Love, Rach

PS: Thanks to my sister Jill Adams for some of these nature photos.

March Birthdays, Take Two

Dear UD,

Today, I have no words.

Today, you would have been 62.

Today, a year ago, we celebrated your 61^st birthday all weekend at your place, another family celebration filled with kids playing ball outside (and Little and Aiden jumping cliff to cliff, flying over open space), dogs romping around (except poor O. B. who shadowed your every move, sitting between your feet at every chance), and cousins/siblings/aunts/uncles all playing various games of Scrabble, Bridge, and the new Dragon Joust card game that you created. And you, cooking, grilling, making special meals for all of us even though you were the honored birthday boy. 

Sonny, Mom, and I stayed up until midnight on the night before, playing Bridge with you to ring in the first moments of your birthday. We saluted your birthday, and you jumped to Three No Trump, like always, winning the rubber.

We sang Happy Birthday (something you did for every single one of us on every birthday through a phone call), ate cake, and watched you open presents. Last year, mostly, you received cards, as you requested, where we told you how much you meant to us.

Did you know then, somewhere hidden inside, that it was your last birthday?

Did you know, in a way that we did not until after, how deeply you impacted our lives on so many levels? How very much we loved you? How special you were?

Even as we brought you presents, you gifted us with everything you had, with everything you were. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. ~Hamlet (1.5.167-8)

Today, a song comes on the radio, and the lyrics slay me. No longer are you “only one call away.” No longer are you “there to save the day.” No longer can your siblings or 17 nieces and nephews or 30 plus great-nieces and nephews call to share news, get advice, wish you Happy Birthday.

Today, we vote in the primaries, trying to pick the best of the worst, without a viable option. I imagine what you would say and wish we could talk about it.

I’ve heard some people laugh at the idea of Trump, saying he wouldn’t have the power to do anything if elected. I’ve heard others say that Trump is a refreshing choice, someone to bring new life to the political hypocrisy and depravity of this corporation-run government. Both of those are furthest from the truth. This election year has been a debacle of Hunger Game/Nazi proportions. Will we not learn from history or from futuristic literature? George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” but World War II wasn’t that long ago. Surely we haven’t forgotten it already or forgotten where racism, prejudice, and blindly following dictators who use repeated common fallacies in reasoning leads?!

I would remind you of the stories I have read, of Fahrenheit 451, “Harrison Bergeron,” The Handmaid’s Tale, The Giver series, the Unwind series, and ask how people cannot see the parallels. How they cannot see our country sliding headfirst into a dystopia.

I have tried to stay out of the political debates this year, but Trump scares me. He should scare all of us. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor, winner of Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, and author of Night, wrote, “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

You always wanted to see the best in people, in our country, in our world. I wonder what you would say now, after all of the headlines and horrors of the past year. After the past week when our first amendment right to peaceful protest has been under attack. In the words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

 

So, today, I speak up and cast my vote. 

And, today, I’ve heard from various family members who are all thinking of you, honoring you, missing you.

Mom is planting a flower garden with roots and bulbs of perennials such as lilies, irises, wildflowers, and bleeding hearts. Every spring when they shoot up and bloom, she will think of you.

Others will watch a musical or Hitchcock classic or Shakespeare play, and some will reach out to a sibling or cousin and cherish the mundane fact of having a phone conversation with a loved one.

Still others will cook a meal that they learned in your kitchen while most of us will play a board or card game.

Whatever we do, we remember you.

Today is your special day. We love you, Uncle David. Happy birthday!

Love,

Rach

Mooring

(To Uncle David, who was a safe haven for many)

Dear UD,

Don’t worry about the world ending,

you’d tell me,

but then my world ended three months ago

when you died suddenly—

it’s theend of the world as we know it, and I feel bad—

cracking your head on the marbled counter as you fell,

leaving a half-drunk glass of iced tea, lunch preparations, and a world that needed you.

Your heart failed,

they told us, and

unmoored, your beloved dogs Harley, OB, and Lucky ran so crazy outside that the neighbors wondered.

Three months before, in January, the ground was frozen and the chilled wind too cold to lower dad’s coffin at the graveside ceremony. But you were there, wrapped in your heavy coat, leaning on your cane. The arrangement of flowers (every single flower mentioned in Shakespearean literature) a testament to your generosity.

Then, in April, when the world is mud wonderful with celebrations and renewal of life, with the beauty of spring, and instead, blindsided, we had to return to a cemetery.

Don’t worry about some catastrophe,

you’d tell me,

as we talked for hours on the phone;

even though you lived on 85^th street in Manhattan that fateful September 11 when the twin towers fell, you’d say that the world is fine and that people have been predicting Armageddon for ages.

But you are not here, and the world is not fine.

I am not fine.

I think of the headlines, since you died, and I wonder what you’d say now, a mere three months later. The flash flooding, the church shootings, the fires, the murdered health care workers, the politics, the earthquakes, the list goes on, and today, the famous lion decapitated for sport. I wonder if you’d see it, apocalypse here now. Is that why you left us so soon? So you wouldn’t have to see it?

It'sbeen a long day without you, my friend, and I'll tell you all about it when Isee you again.

Three months. Only three months. Three neverending months.

It’s been raining every day lately, dark storm clouds blotting out the sun, keeping us cooped up, but an ocean of tears couldn’t fill the void inside, couldn’t make me feel safe or secure again. I throw out the rope, but there’s nothing to hold it. 

Unmoored. Unmoored. Unmoored.

I am adrift.

 

I cannot journal. I cannot read devotions. I can, barely, talk to God. I am depressed. I am bored. Facebook is boring. Everyone is on one extreme or the other. Everyone finds some proof that his or her belief is true—both sides 100% truth, so nothing is true, nothing is real, and nothing makes sense. All of this information at our fingertips. The whole world connected. Yet, no one checks sources or credibility. No one thinks.

Overwhelmed and alone.

Am I supposed to be the wise old crone now? Or can I simply say I am a bird, say that I identify as a bird and step off the cliff and fly.

I am adrift in an ocean of tears, and I cannot find my way home. I am adrift in a sea of words, and I cannot understand. I am adrift in an ocean of beliefs and facts that contradict each other.

Hopeless and alone.

Is this what the end of the world looks like?

I wish you could have stayed to see it with me.

Love, Rach