On being a family

What is a family? Over the past sixty plus years, I’ve had my beliefs about family shaken to the very core. I used to believe family was more than just people related to me by marriage or blood, more than just the basic unit in society that social scientists define, more than just a household, or a common last name. I used to believe family was always there, always ready to support you, to stand behind you, beside you, and with you, no matter what happened. I believed a family shared more than a name or parents or a gene pool. A family would love you unconditionally in spite of you, in spite of any shortcomings or sins; a family was loving and supportive, even when no one else would, when it was not easy to do; a family “had your back.” Blood was always thicker than water. Family sticks with you, even when they disagree with you.

Sure our life hasn’t been easy—no one’s life is. We have had our ups and our downs, our successes and our failures, our agreements and our fights.  We are all so different—different values, lifestyles, beliefs, political stances, personalities.  Yet that one tie, the one thread holding us all together, was our past, our heritage, our memories, our shared joys and sorrows. That tie has been bent, tangled, nearly unraveled, and stretched, sometimes to the point of tearing in half, but it has still been there to hold us all together.  

Until now.  

Now that cord, that family tie, is no longer the tie that binds.  It has been severed, completely, cruelly, with a finality that breaks my heart. I have reached out, held out my hand and my heart, and have hoped for healing and mending of our broken family, all to no avail.  Things hoped for, but never realized—a reunion that will never come, a reconciliation that will never materialize, and a kinship that is now forever lost.  When Dad died last December, I heard the death knell of our fractured family and with the loss of Sheila, our fragile family disintegrated, broken like glass, into a thousand little pieces.  You have all effectively and thoroughly shunned me and mine. You have made it quite clear that you do not want to be associated with me. You no longer identify with me as family.  You have pushed us completely out of your lives, and you want nothing to do with me, with my children, my grandchildren—your nieces and nephews and cousins.  

If you meant to hurt me, you have. If your intention was to make me cry, again, you have succeeded. I have spent countless hours praying, reading, lamenting, and remembering, sometimes bitter and angry, but more often than not, mourning for the loss of not just people we loved—Dad, Sheila, Karen, Patrick—but the loss of a shared grief and a desire to heal together.  

But you have not destroyed me. For you have helped me realize what true family is, what it really means to stand behind and with and beside someone. I have been knocked to my knees, and it was there that I looked up and saw where my true family lies.  My faith has been the catalyst to heal, to understand why I had to be broken to be made whole. God reigns supreme in all things, and He alone knows where all this will lead, and how it will glorify Him. I now know that family is not merely a DNA connection, or made up of individuals who we are related to by name or blood.  Family is that wonderful group of people that God has placed in my life, whether through birth or marriage or by chance.  Family is there when I need them, providing support and love and help, grieving with me and rejoicing when I rejoice.  

And when I think about who will be here in October to help remember and celebrate Sheila’s life, and Dad’s legacy, I realize that every single one of those individuals are part of my family. They are family not because of a choice someone else made, but they are family because of a choice they made.  

And God blesses our family, and He will continue to watch over us.

You are welcome to join us, and celebrate, and grieve, and cry, and be, well, family.  But should you choose to stay away, know that I do not resent you, or think ill of you, or regret the past.  

You were my family once.  Perhaps you will join us again.

Letting Go

I miss these people, these parents of mine. So so much. It has been such a rough weekend, starting with that all too familiar drive through the gorge from our house to Knoxville. I couldn't help but cry because this trip is so different, so final. Weird, because I have made at least 25 or so trips over the past 18 months that were ten times more urgent--Dad at the ER, Dad getting worse, Dad dying, Sheila getting sick, an emergency admission. But this one? Driving to their old house to clear it out, to sell and give away their belongings. Friday night it seemed overwhelming, a Herculean task, as if I would never be able to empty it. Sorting through their things, emptying drawers and closets, moving books and dishes and trinkets and clothing, pricing furniture and odds and ends. How in the world do you put a price on a lifetime of memories? 

Finding odd little things that made me catch my breath and cause actual pain in my heart, like my daughter's wedding invitation and the corsage Sheila wore, pressed into her Bible. Or my dad's high school yearbooks and a pile of Father's Day cards he'd kept for the past 60 years. Even in the garage--crazy mementos, such as the disposable ponchos you wear at Niagara Falls when going on the "Maid of the Mist" boat--they actually kept them! And everywhere I turned I could feel my parents, smell them, sense them, hear Sheila tell me "jiggle the toilet handle or it won't stop running." 

Then the actual "garage sale," and dealing with strangers touching everything, critiquing things, asking about sizes, or age, holding up an object and asking for a price, and I would look at what they were holding and could only see my dad's face under the ball cap in their hands, or smell Sheila's perfume emanating from the familiar grey poncho being held up. Not wanting to haggle over prices, but at the same time not wanting to just throw things away, I spent two days watching their home become just another house, as one thing after another got loaded into a truck or a car. Marveled at the kindness of these strangers who paid me more than what I asked, who thanked me, and blessed me, and even helped me clean up; one really kind woman even brought me some fruit. 

Then, without any warning, suddenly the house was practically empty, with only a few things waiting to be given away. I walked through all the rooms, turned the thermostat back up to a respectable, Dad-approved setting, and went outside to close up. Suddenly, a golf cart pulled into the driveway and a friendly older couple waved and asked innocently "hey where's the lady of the house?" And I had to tell these former neighbors, who had moved away six months ago, that it was too late--she'd gone. We talked for 30 minutes, and amazingly enough, I didn't cry, or even tear up--it was as if I was unloading my heart, and I wanted to be gentle, to tell them they did not shock me or hurt me. 

I do regret neither of my sisters were here to help, to grieve with me, and none of their children, my parents grandchildren, even bothered to reach out, to say well done, or thank you. But in a way, it was better this way, to be alone, alone with my feelings and memories and emotions. And I know Dad and Sheila are together again, and they are no longer hurting, or worried. And I know they loved me, and that they knew I love them. And I am ever so honored they trusted me to take care of things for them in the end. 

Love you both. Thanks for all the memories.

Rest

Rest and relaxation.  Taking a break from reality.  Slowing it down.  Getting away from it all.  Unplug.  Off the grid.  Decompress and de stress.  These are the words that come to mind when you mention the word “vacation,” at least here in America.  In many other places in the world, people (and businesses) go on holiday, with the only objective being to not work, but to enjoy something that isn’t work.  Not here, no.  We fill our days, our hours, our minutes, in fact our every waking moment, with schedules, to do lists, goals, and tasks, and we pride ourselves in checking off the boxes.  Vain and self assured, we foolishly think we can control our lives, so we fill our days to the brim, oftentimes with more than we can humanly achieve.  Throw one unexpected twist—a flat tire, a cold, a broken furnace, or a death of a loved one—and our house of cards collapses.  And so do we—so we seek rest in a vacation, many times applying the same rigid timelines we apply to our daily lives.  

I recently returned from a two-week vacation, a long-awaited (and much deserved, I told myself) break from all my responsibilities, a getaway from the hustle and bustle, a salve for my tired soul, and comfort for my grief. You see, we've had a heck of a rough season, afflicted in every way, and although we were not crushed, I was pretty close to it.  I'd been abandoned and betrayed by family, all four of our parents had died in the space of two years, we had taken on huge care-taking and legal responsibilities, and my faith was perilously teetering on the edge of complacency.  Adding insult to injury, I was out of shape and overweight. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to run away, escape, forget, bury my anger and my sorrow and my grief, to rediscover my true self.   

Funny thing happened.  Even though the itinerary was chock full of activities, destinations, tours, and countless amenities (i.e. massages), I was not a slave to the schedule.  As I relaxed and unwound, I learned the beauty of ignoring deadlines, sleeping in, and just being me, and resting. I ran away and escaped, to be sure--right into the hands of a loving God. And discovered my resting place was always there, inside of me, where He had touched my heart and set me aside.  Amidst the joy of rekindled (and new) friendships, I realized how blessed I am, not DESPITE all the heartache, but BECAUSE of the heartache.  And I longed for home, to go back to the stress and the sleepless nights and the mundane tasks and the not-so-mundane tasks.  I was no longer afraid of lamenting, or sorrow, or frustration--they were all simply paths to a compassionate and merciful God, and a booster shot of His grace.  

Humbled, I tumbled right back into my crazy, hectic life, thankful for the respite, but relieved to be back home, and awed by how still and peaceful I felt deep down inside, even, no especially, in the midst of an emotional tirade, confusion, or the deep dark pit of depression.   That tiny, simple kernel of peace was still there, and all I have to do is reach inside, take a deep breath, say a prayer, and let it calm the maelstrom that is me.  

Rest.  In Him.  In His love.  In His peace.  In His word.  

And find rest.

Thank you Jill and James.