Six Years

Dear UD,

                Six years, 72 months, 2190 days ago, we lost you.

 

Six years, 72 months, 2190 days without you here on this earth with us.

 

Six years, 72 months, 2190 days of no phone calls, conversations, creative collaborations with you.

 

It’s been six years since we heard your voice, your laugh, your love for us.

 

You’re not here with us anymore. There’s nothing else to say (except everything).

 

Uncle David, I could tell you about how scared we’ve been the past few weeks with Uncle Bob in the hospital, having had emergency surgery within a week after getting his first dose of Moderna, one of the Covid-19 vaccines, having continued complications since then.

 

Terrified. Triggered. Traumatized from shock and concern. Still praying for his full recovery. From that paralysis, there’s nothing else to say (except everything).

 

I could tell you how ugly some people have been lately. One friend bombarding me with popular media news articles after finding out that I’m waiting to do some real medical and scientific research before deciding about the vaccine for myself, harassing and name-calling me (apparently, I’m in an anti-vaxxer cult, though I don’t remember signing up for it) for simply waiting, wanting to do my own valid and credible research (you know, the type of database research that I require of my composition students) rather than relying on popular media to tell me what to do or God forbid social media telling me how to live. One entitled, older white male acting all condescending like I’m a fly on the wall at the restaurant he manages, a fly that he’ll just try to swat away with no thought because he doesn’t care and will just throw me away. A Facebook administrator censoring my honest post about the negative experience, trying to throw away my voice, my words. Another privileged, older white male “throwing his penis around” to show how powerful he is while throwing everyone else to the wolves…

 

And out in the larger community and world, the headlines are just as ugly—mass shootings, white supremacist cop sentenced while another black girl shot and killed, terrible covid-19 mutations, pieces of the Earth’s mantle (our planet) being exposed in Maryland…

But I could also tell you how beautiful some people (and headlines) are. Bado Church still praying for the Crawhams, for Uncle Bob. One friend inviting me to Zumba in the park and then her community pool. Another friend treating me to a lovely dinner. Sisters calling to check on me. Nieces and daughters coming to visit for spring break, for Easter, for Taco Tuesday. Amazing conversations with new friends…

 

Or I could tell you how much we still miss mom. How much we want to call mom and talk to her, every day, every moment. It’s been just over two years now, and there are still no words. There’s nothing else to say (except everything).

 

Elizabeth Bishop begins her poem “One Art”with these lines:

 

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

 

She advises us to “Lose something every day” and catalogues small objects, names, places, land until the last stanza when she moves to the loss of a person and concludes with this:

 

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

 

Losing, loss, grieving, mourning…if it is an art to develop, I’ve sure had a lot of practice with it in the past six years, UD. And while I see the irony and life lesson in Bishop’s poem, I also see the pain and anguish in the parenthetical note. We don’t want to “Write it” because that makes it real and that means we’re facing it, and it’s over. All the never agains live in that parenthetical space—

 

Six years, 72 months, 2190 days to “master” the “art” of losing you, to get used to the new normal, to grow forward in life. What I’ve learned is that part of that process IS writing it, acknowledging the loss, remembering all the good, honoring you (and mom) and all you both taught us, and passing it all along to others. UD, both you and mom—your life, your love, your time on this earth—it mattered. It matters, and it will be remembered. Six years or sixty, six hundred years or more…as long as there are Crawhams walking the earth. You will be remembered. Mom will be remembered. All of those we lost will be remembered.

                                                                       Love, Rach

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

A Thing of Beauty 2020

Dear UD,

As November 2020 approached, I didn’t know what to do with it. The world ended in a lot of ways for many people this year; the world is in the middle of a pandemic, and in America, we’re seeing increased racial violence as well as civil unrest and nearing the end of an election year where there was a televised presidential debate that was anything but presidential. I was in debate in high school, and if I acted like the so-called president, I would have been escorted off stage immediately and likely banned from future debates. Personally, I’m approaching my second birthday without my mom in this world, and a birthday year where we were both supposed to turn big numbers together (first her in August and then me this month). Not to mention that I’m living alone for the first time in my life while also working only from home, spending day and night on an electronic device for work, connection, fun, trying not to go bat-shit crazy, but not trying not to cuss so much. Yes, I normally don't swear much in general; however, you know if you hear me dropping F-bombs like crazy, then I'm either extra super exhausted (check) or super extra pissed off (check check). In the past few weeks (or is it months), I've been both, and so I find myself cussing a lot as well as singing to songs where I can curse some more. So, that's where I am this semester of super extra grading and responding and working on the computer all the f-ing time and dealing with the f-ing pandemic on top of everything.

 

The thing is, Uncle David, for all of us still here on this earth right now, what we are dealing with is very personal. Too many personal things that we don’t know how to process, don’t know what to do with, but hope to survive. I know that. At the same time, because of the pandemic and all that comes with it, there’s also the collective part that we are all dealing with that makes the personal even more difficult right now. And what do we do with all of that?!

 

And without you, without mom, without family living in the same home with me, I feel so alone. Just a week ago, I discovered something disturbing about someone I know personally (not a close friend or family member, but still someone I hung out with once upon a time), and I just wanted to call my mom, to call you. I want to hear Mom’s voice, and I know she’d say something like, “People are crazy. Just goes to show you never really know someone. That’s why we need God.” And, I want to hear your deep chuckle, because as horrific as the story was, I know you would help me process it and then find a way to help me see the positive in the situation, the good in the world, and the hope in humanity; and you’d make me laugh before we hung up. I miss you and mom so much it hurts. And it feels so lonely without you both in this world with me.

But the other week, I read an article that helped me not feel so alone. In a nutshell, “The ancient term 'acedia' describes the paradoxical combination of jangling nerves and vague lack of purpose many of us are feeling now. Reviving the label might help.” In the article, “Acedia: thelost name for the emotion we’re all feeling right now,” Jonathan L. Zecher states:

 Reviving the language of acedia is important to our experience in two ways.

 

First, it distinguishes the complex of emotions brought on by enforced isolation, constant uncertainty and the barrage of bad news from clinical terms like “depression” or “anxiety”. Saying, “I’m feeling acedia” could legitimise feelings of listlessness and anxiety as valid emotions in our current context without inducing guilt that others have things worse.

 

Second, and more importantly, the feelings associated with physical isolation are exacerbated by emotional isolation – that terrible sense that this thing I feel is mine alone. When an experience can be named, it can be communicated and even shared.

UD, it’s true that every one of us still on this earth has both personal and collective issues to handle right now, so it’s more important than ever to think about, find, and share A Thing of Beauty every day this November. That means looking at the people and places around us and finding meaning and beauty in what is, reimagining difficult or painful things in ways that calm and soothe, reseeing ugly things in ways that simplify and beautify. You did this, UD, in many ways, and Mom did it in her own way too. “Bless someone else, and you’ll feel better,” she’d always remind us when things were challenging. “Look how far you’ve come and what all you’ve survived. I’m proud of you,” you’d tell us. I miss you both so much. But, for my own sanity and to honor the tradition as well as honor you, mom, and dad, I will find and share a thing of beauty every day this month. Thank you, Uncle David, for always believing in me. Thank you, Mom, for always loving me. Thank you, Dad, for always teaching me.

 

Love, Rach

 

PS: For those of you reading this blog entry, I encourage you to look for a thing of beauty as you go about your day this month. Whether you haven’t left your house for six months or you’ve had to go to work every single day despite everything going on around you or you are taking care of Covid-19 patients or you have or have had the virus. No matter what your circumstances, I encourage you to look for a thing of beauty right wherever you are. Maybe you’ll find it in the person next to you, or in the nature around you, or in the kindness of a stranger. But wherever you find it, I encourage you to share it. Tell someone else about it, pass it along, let it heal your heart. Because you never know whose heart you might bless or whose life you might save just from seeing beauty right where you are and passing it along.

 

Birthdays, 2020

 

Dear UD,

I find myself nostalgic for so many things lately. Birthday celebrations with you and mom and dad, parties with all of our extended families together, conversations on the phone with you and Mom, having my daughters living in my home, hosting exchange students, even life before smart phones or cell phones, and definitely life before the pandemic.

The world is so different this year of 2020. It’s riddled with pandemics, viruses, quarantines, political circus acts, videos of racism and police brutality, black lives matter protests, online-only education, unemployment, foreclosures of both homes and businesses, superstorms, civil unrest, tweets of utter stupidity, and so much more. We moved from reading dystopian literature to living dystopian life, yet what overshadows this year for me is that Mom’s not here to celebrate our birthdays together this year. It’s not right, UD, and it’s not okay. But it is what is. 

Mom was 20 years old when I was born, and I remember the last time we celebrated our birthdays in person together. In 2016, she turned 66 in August, so of course I turned 46 that November. At the time, I had just moved back to Missouri for the fall semester and was renting a house in Houston, so I hosted a family birthday party for mom. She was so happy because everyone came, and that’s all that mattered to her—time with those she loved.

Per typical celebrations in our family, we had tons of homemade food, presents, a homemade cake, and even BYOC, also known as “bring your own candle” (thanks to Sonny) for the birthday cake. And tons of people and craziness, but I remember Mom being so happy, and we took lots of photos.

Sam and Serena hosted my birthday party that November. Again, Mom was so happy to be celebrating my birthday with me in person.

It’s unfathomable that we lost her just a couple of years after that and that we’ll never celebrate a birthday together again.

Uncle David, I don’t have a strong ending, a life lesson, or a conclusion. I just miss you, miss mom and wish you were both here. Today, I’m doing things to honor and celebrate her—breakfast and conversation with Alaina (Granny loved her grandkids and spending time with them and was so proud of them), homemade chicken-veggie soup for lunch (Mom loved making soup and sharing food with her family and friends), pool time this afternoon (she was a lifeguard as a teen and loved swimming her whole life), Chinese takeout for dinner (not only did she love eating Chinese food, but it was the last meal we shared at a restaurant with her—all ten of her children and almost 30 of her grandchildren were there, so the restaurant had to push together a long row of tables so that we could all eat at the same “table”), and movie night with a friend (watching one of Mom’s favorite movies).

Happy 70^th birthday, Mom. You are missed; you are loved.

UD, we wish you and Mom were here right now, but as you and mom taught us, we will honor and remember our ancestry, our loved ones, our lessons learned. And we will celebrate birthdays and loved ones, both keeping close old memories and continuing to make new ones.

Love,

Rach 

Black Lives Matter

Dear UD,

On May 25, George Floyd, a black man, was killed on the streets of Minneapolis by a white police officer who was kneeling on his neck during an arrest. In under nine minutes, Floyd died. During those nine horrific moments, captured on video, Floyd cried out for mercy, for justice, for his mama. “I can’t breathe.” I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. He said this over and over again until all his breath was gone from this world. Gone forever.

Once the video was released and the nation and world witnessed this appalling and atrocious event, it responded with horror and action. Protests, riots, social media posts, news articles, the whole world is watching, but more importantly, the whole world is taking action.

It’s so unbelievable, Uncle David, that America needs civil rights action in 2020, but here we are. It has all gone on too long. There’s no justification for what happened. It doesn’t matter what he did, where he’s from, what he was doing, what race he is. NONE of that matters. George Floyd was a man, a human being who deserved the same treatment as ANY other human being. I’m not talking about some liberal agenda, political agenda, or negative stance against police officers. The police have a challenging job, one that I could never do. There are so many courageous, considerate, strong officers out there, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for them and how they serve their communities. However, there is no room for prejudice and racism in a vocation such as police work or education.

Police brutality, racial profiling, black men in prison, unjust treatment because of skin color…all of it has gone on for too long. White privilege has gone on too long. Systematic racism has gone on for too long in America. It is time for a better country, a better world.

UD, I thank God that I was raised to be accepting of other cultures and races, to embrace diversity, to stand up for what I believe in. Because that’s where it starts. It all begins with how we view the world and how we teach our children to view the world.  In my narrative titled, “Beauty in the Spice of Life: An International Playgroup,” first published in Good Works Review 2018, I wrote:

How do we teach our children diversity and acceptance? How can we help them see beyond color and language to people and their hearts? As recent headlines show, these are still important questions in the twenty-first century.

It all starts with what we pass down through the generations; I am grateful that I learned these vital qualities from my parents through conversations, books, movies, music and then passed them down to my own children, using love, exposure, and conversation.

[snip]

In this group, we were learning to pass it along, generation upon generation, through love, exposure, and conversation. Children have an innocence that automatically welcomes and that can be nurtured. When my children were toddlers, I started an international playgroup and exposed them to food and kids and clothes from around the world. I read books to them about other cultures, and we talked about the differences and similarities. Even when they were babies, I bought a board book that is simply the song, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world,” and is illustrated with children from various cultures. I bought my daughters white American Girl dolls that looked just like them, but I also bought them Native American, African American, etc. dolls as well. I took them to local International Festivals every year and took photos for their albums. We watched movies about Dr. King, Rosa Parks, the Civil Rights Movement, women’s rights, Gandhi and so on. When my children became teenagers, we hosted foreign exchange students every summer, and my daughters now have French and Spanish sisters.

UD, I ended that essay with this, “…the importance of unity, difference, community, and the innocence and acceptance of children. Our lives are enriched when we reach beyond the common white bread of our culture into the difference, diversity, yet oneness of others.”

My whole life I have lived this way, taught my own children these values, and passed along these values to my students in the classroom. I teach that silence can be a form of violence and the importance of living our beliefs. I post articles and memes on social media designed to inspire and encourage acceptance and justice and critical thinking. But this week, all of that doesn’t feel like enough. I feel so enraged and powerless, impuissant, that things like George Floyd’s death are still happening in our country.

I am distressed and horrified. So much so that I have felt compelled to action. Called to take action that publicly and visibly shows my beliefs and that stands on the side of justice and mercy and truth and compassion and acceptance.

So last night I attended a Peaceful Protest at Canova Beach Park with a friend of mine. In some ways, it was nerve-racking while in other ways it felt right and emotional and effective. Laina helped me make a sign which read “Equal justice for all. #icantbreath #blacklivesmatter.” I picked up Rebekah and drove to the protest. Before stopping, we drove by, honking our support to those already gathered together, to scope out the situation since we’d heard rumors of plans to attack or mace the peaceful protesters. There were police cars nearby for protection, but everything looked okay. After doing a u-turn, we drove back to the area, and we were appalled to see a counter-protest across A1A near Keywest Bar. While there weren’t a lot of people gathered on that side, it was jarring and simply terrible to see the Confederate flag flying next to the American flag flying next to Trump 2020 Keep America Great flag right here in Brevard County.

We found a parking spot at Canova Beach, donned our masks, and walked over to stand proudly with the 300 Black Lives Matter protesters. For thirty minutes or more, we stood on the side of the road, holding our sign, waving at friendly people who drove by and honked their support, joining chants like “I can’t breathe” or “Black lives matter” or “No justice, no peace” or “Say his name. George Floyd,” and being part of something important and necessary.

At the same time, across the road, the counter-protesters continued waving their flags. I don’t understand how you can protest justice and equality?! I found it ironic that they held the American flag “‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom,” and okay, the freedom/right to protest is covered under that; however, what about the freedom/right to equality and justice and purity and valor that our flag stands for?! One lady was so drunk that she kept yelling obscenities and demanding that we “go home.” Then, one man arrived across the street with a full-sized portrait (as in the picture was taller than him) of white Jesus, and he started walking up and down the road, waving white Jesus around. UD, you know that it angers me when people use God to justify evil, but to show up at a peaceful Black Lives Matter protest with a misrepresentation of Jesus?! I have no words.

Thankfully, everyone in our group remained peaceful yet purposeful. At one point, we all “took a knee” for the eight minutes and 46 seconds that the police office knelt on George Floyd’s neck and in honor and respect and silence for those who have lost their lives because of racism and police brutality.

Ultimately, I felt empowered to participate in civil action, to join thousands around the nation and world in demanding justice, equality, and accountability. It cannot stop here. It cannot stop now. It started with George Floyd’s last breath and will not stop until we can all breathe as free and as just as one another.

George Floyd leaves behind family, loved ones, children. Although his death is a horrific tragedy, he leaves behind a legacy of change as the world has joined together to stand for justice. Together, we stand. Together, we protest. Together, we say ENOUGH.     

UD, I know that you and Mom and Dad would all stand with me. Missing you all.

Love, Rach

PS: Photography by Rebekah Raddon

Memorial Day 2020

Dear UD,

It’s Memorial Day weekend in 2020, a global pandemic still ravages, many states in America are in the middle of a phase to reopen, and all across the United States, people are preparing to gather together for the holiday weekend. Some Americans plan to stay home, others plan to go out while practicing caution and social distancing, yet there are those who don’t see a risk and simply want to have fun and/or exercise their freedom. Simultaneously, the New York Times major headline for this weekend reads, “U. S. Deaths Near 100,000, an Incalculable Loss.” It is a historic front page—simply a list of names of those Americans who have died from Covid-19 so far this year. The article then reveals memories, snippets from obituaries across the nation, of those lost to the virus during this pandemic; their positions, their hobbies, their accomplishments, their gifts and talents, their loved ones left to mourn their loss. The article honors them yet serves as a sober warning and reminder.

Uncle David, during the last several years of your life, you wrote a series of full-length plays titled Memorial Day Picnic (Morning 1919, Afternoon 1945, Evening 1976, Night 2007). I remember being one of your readers during that time and how much I loved the plays and your brilliance. The plays, always set on Memorial Day, range over the course of a century and include family drama, American history from World War I to World War II to the Vietnam War to the Iraq War and all the way to 9-11, and honor for the military personnel who have died while serving in the U. S. military.

Of those who served in those wars, there were a little over 100,000 deaths during World War I, over 400,000 deaths during World War II, over 50,000 deaths during Vietnam, and close to 5,000 deaths during the Iraq War.

UD, can you imagine an America where 100,000 people die from a virus in three months?

According to the NYTarticle, one of those was a 91-year old who “saved 56 Jewish families from the Gestapo.” It is all mindboggling, UD, and lugubrious. Just like in a war, there are now so many holes in so many families. Empty chairs, empty hearts, empty places that were once full. Once whole. So much knowledge wiped out. Gone. Forever disappeared.

Your plays span generations, showing connections, collective mourning, and emotional trauma passed down from one generation to the next. Likewise, this pandemic will span generations, pass down emotional trauma, and spur collective mourning. That’s already happening this weekend as we sit in our homes, reading the names of those recently lost to the virus and as we contemplate all of those lost in military service for our country and as we remember those loved ones we lost too soon.

UD, I miss you. I miss Mom. I miss Dad. I miss Grandpa and so many others. But I thank God for your time on this earth and in my life, and I vow to keep your memories alive, to pass your names down to the next generations, and to continue your values and traditions even in the middle of a world-wide pandemic.

Love,

Rach     

Shelter in Place

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

sanctuary in the midst of the storms our family faced.

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