Inanimate Objects

It's just an old copper frame, bent together in the shape of a porch. You look it at and you may think it's cute, you may think it's not your style or you may think nothing at all. I look at it and I see life. I see memories. I see an old kitchen wall, above an outdated sink. I see the years of life spent growing up in the kitchen of a condo by the sea. I see my Mimi.

It is just an object. An inanimate object meant to be a decoration to adorn some space in time. It's funny how to the right eye it means so much more than that. It means all of those years that I had with her, it means seeing her smile in my mind and hearing her voice as if she was right here next to me. It means seeing aged hands, wet with sudsy bubbles, from doing the dishes that I very seldom helped to dry because the dishwasher was for drying the dishes (you knew that right?). It means everything.

When someone is alive and we have them living and breathing right within our grasp? An object stays just an inanimate thing. When they are gone? Those objects hold a part of them. They hold the time we took for granted and they give us a brief moment of having them back with us. Even if only in our heads.

I never thought I would agree that Voldemort could get anything right... but there is truth in objects having power, in objects being able to hold life. They have the power to give us back moments, they have the power to hold memories. They have the power to make them alive within us. Yes, we can have those memories without them. But somehow the day-to-day life is blinding. An object, right in front of our faces? It draws our focus, it dusts off the cobwebs and pulls the memories out.

This old tin porch will always do that for me. It's the same as a cross. It pulls out Jesus. It helps me to pause, to remember. It holds the memory of sacrifice, the promise of love.

Sometimes these objects are the things you keep close, the things you hold on to; like a cross that a put on your mantle or an old copper porch that sits by your front door. And sometimes these objects are everyday things that catch you off guard. Things that get thrown away and discarded until another one stumbles across your path to remind you again.

For me those will always be:

Single serve coffee creamers- I don't use these often, so when I do it always stops me. I see coffee in a small tan mug from Morrison's or Piccadilly. I hear myself beg to pour the creamer in and stir it until it was blended. I hear myself say that I will never, NOT EVER, drink coffee. And I see my Mimi smile and nod, because she is in on the joke. You know the one; the one adults know, that meant she knew that someday I would be guzzling it by the case load.

E-cigarettes- I don't smoke, not my thing. But E-cigarettes are these rage these days. They will always be my brother. I will hear him trying to coax me into just taking one puff, because I just HAVE to try his new flavor mix. It's his breakfast special (coffee and cinnamon bun) and he says there's no way out as he shoves it in my mouth. I hear him laugh at the way I cough because I don't know how to inhale and so I end up swallowing it. I listen as he tries to coach me threw it, while he explains it's just vapor, as he makes it come out his nose. I see him standing proud behind a sales desk, because he was born to sell and found his niche. I see all of that every time some young kid passes by with vapor blowing behind him.

Carrot-raisin Salad- I see my own hands picking out all of the raisins, because who in the world eats nasty carrots as a kid? I hear Mimi "scold" me, telling me "not to take out ALL of her raisins".

Titanic on a VHS (you know, the one in it's two part box holder)- I saw it not long ago while rifling through old Disney movies at my parents. There it was, box inside of box. It sat lonely, without its accompanying second part video and I could see it all. I could see the endless amount of hours that John Wayne spent sprawled in front of the tv, just laying on his stomach and twirling his hair, watching Titanic (I think his record was pushing 50). I can picture the foot- my foot- the one I used when I got so mad at him one day that I kicked one of those tapes. It hit the railing and then slipped right through, traveling in a head first fall of doom, to crash on the first floor entry-way tile below. I can still hear the screams and feel the hands I flung over my head from ducking and covering from the wrath I knew was imminent. I can remember feeling bad that it broke, but I can also remember the smirk that crossed my face in my selfish moment of "serves you right" sister-ness. It's funny how you can feel bad about the desire you felt to get angry at someone and then wish in the same moment that you could get mad at them, that you could have one of those 'brother-and-sister-constantly-at-war' brawls again. Titanic will always do that to me.

A watermelon truck- I see my grandpa and how he would always have a piece of watermelon in hand whenever they were in season and how he would put salt on them and how my mom still does that. I can see the pictures in my head as I hear her tell me all the stories about how he would chase down the watermelon trucks when he saw them on the road and how he would make them pull over so that he got the first pick of the watermelons for the season.

A Glass of Sweet Tea- This ones tricky. It's not the object itself. It's the taste. It's the feeling of it going down my throat and when it hits just right, when it tastes just right that it's almost perfect (though will never make it to spot on, because it isn't hers), then I can see Aunt DeeDee. I can see my sister's sweet mom, standing in her kitchen, behind the island that jutted out from the side. I can see her hand me a to-go glass with this perfect combination of all things right in a glass of tea. I can feel the sweat from the cup and I can hear her voice and see her bright smile. I can still feel the way my arms could wrap completely around her, even when I was so young, because she was always the tiniest thing and always just the perfect height for a great hug. 

There are so many others I could put down, most that I couldn't even try to bring to mind right now if you asked me to. They won't come. Not until that object finds its way into my field of vision and jogs the hidden parts of my memories and it all comes flooding back again. The memories, the moments, the life... all in one glimpse of an inanimate object.

Ice Cold Breathing

... It's like that last sip of ice cold water before heading out to face a hot, humid afternoon. That last refreshing taste to quench your thirst until the sweating kicks in. Has a breath ever felt like that to you? They feel like that to me sometimes. They feel like that last needed bit of something sustaining; the sip you take to help put the smiling face on life. The face you show the world around you. The face that says that life is alright. I had this thought today, as I got out of the car to pick up some of "my kiddos" from school. This was no where even close to an I need a breath moment and really more so all about the sip of water that I took to fend off the heat. And yet, as the "ahh, that felt good going down" thought left my brain all I could think of was the way breathing has seemed to feel as I get older.

We have had a few days of cool, fall weather in Florida and it was a needed reprieve. Yet, it made the heat of yesterday a surprise I was not ready for. Like a breath you didn't realize you had taken; one that goes down a little too hard and comes up with a little bit too much life. The kind that comes when a hard day hits you after days that seemed to go so smoothly. It's that breath you take to remind yourself that the world is still watching, that you are still living and that sometimes you have to pick your head up and keep going.

As I processed all of this... all the breathing and the smiles that sometimes seem harder to wear than an itchy sweater, I realized, we are all doing it. At some point in every moment of each day, someone around you is the person who is smiling in spite of the fact that breathing hurts sometimes. They are smiling and holding up their own world, in their own way, because we are all doing it. We all have moments when we need that breath, that refreshing sip of ice water on a hot day, to remind ourselves to keep going. It's that breath that you hold in just long enough to pray, "Lord, I need you here."

So the next time I hear you breathe in- that really deep, down to your gut breathing, that seems to expel with it all that you are not saying- I promise to smile at you and simply nod my head, as if to reassure you that it will be ok. You are not alone and tomorrow the breathing may be easier.

Sin Boldly

Do you sin boldly? 

No? You should! You should sin boldly. 

Sermons often have a way of rocking me, but some have a way of breaking me wide open. 

They are all just words, words formed by letters, to make a sentence that someone speaks aloud. But it is in that arrangement of those specific letters that one can truly see the power of words, the power in a sermon. They are words laid together just so, so that we can see God at work through the one who is teaching them.

Sin is a short word, comprised of three letters. But it holds so much if we let it... All week long I have heard those words "sin boldly", replayed the question in my mind as I attempt to fall asleep. 

This entire week and all week before that really, I have walked around in a fog. I stopped blogging. I did exactly what I had recently vowed I was not going to do anymore. I wrapped myself in cloak of haze and let myself hide in it. Why? Because I don't want to think. I don't want to remember. I don't want to move forward, because it is painful. I stopped thoughts, because I didn't want to feel the pull that it would bring from my heart. It has been almost a year since my brother died and with it comes the urge to block it all out again. 

But God gets through fog and haze has nothing on Jesus. And so, He met me where I was. He met me where I was so that I could see the question marks that I had been letting eat me from the inside. 

Do I sin boldly? 
That answer would have been no and I would have thought it should be. Sin boldly? Why would I want to sin boldly? And so I leaned in closer and I listened. "You sin boldly, because Jesus is bolder than sin." These words made sense, but not in real terms. And then there was a reference, a reference to a story that always brings me to my knees... the younger brother, the prodigal son. The inaudible intake of breathe, the invisible fingers tightening around my insides was all it took and the tears were pouring out, tears I had been forcing back all week long. This story has so much significance for me and usually without fail any mention of this story will leave me in tears, it has for years. But these tears were different. These tears held so much of what I have been working so hard to repress, because when this story was mentioned- in this particular sermon, in this particular context- I was confronted with all of the questions I have been refusing to acknowledge. The question prosed went something like this, "What if part of the reason the younger brother left in the first place was because his older brother wasn't contrite enough to share his own sins? What if the younger brother felt he could never live up to the expectations set by his older sibling and so he just didn't even care to try?" 
And so in the middle of a sermon, on a Sunday, in the far corner of a sanctuary I broke open. All week long words have been bottling up and now, because another sleepless night can wait, they will bleed out. Cut open, bleeding black and white. 

Was I contrite enough? 

Did I do enough to help a dark situation? 

Did my brother know that my heart could be just as sinful as his?

Did I share my story with him? 

Did I share my sin? 

I brought him to church, I encouraged him to come to reGroup. I did this checklist of things I thought might help him, but how did I do it? Did I say "come, you need this" or did I tell him how much I need it all too? 

I would like to think I did. I would like to think a part of me had gotten better, that I had learned to be more forgiving. I would like to think he remembered my apologizes more than he remembered the words I spewed at him in anger. But then I replay the number of my memories that include bitter undertones. I can't go back, I can't replay the picture. I can only hope that the things I shared with him before he died were enough for him to know just how badly I wanted him in those seats. I am grateful for the year we had before he died, I am grateful for the redemption our relationship had started to see, but I also know that I could have done more. Our stories are our own, but they are also there for the sake of others. Looking back, I wish I had shared more. Not on pen and paper, in my own private way, but out loud with him. I wish I hadn't waited until I had fully understood my own sin to share it with him, because it wasn't enough time. 

I know that these things - these questions and the way I throw them at myself- are a processing step; a self-inflicted guilt pang that will probably heal with scar-tissue that can still be felt from underneath the skin. They are real; they are the questions that I have been pushing to the far corners of my mind because I didn't want to address them. Yet, they are what I need. I need them to be the reminder that my sin should be shared; shared boldly, so that I don't have to question if I could have shared more. Shared boldly so that maybe another "younger brother" doesn't feel the need to run so far away, so that maybe they will want to settle into a seat, that fills a room, that is filled with people who can help tell them of God's grace. 

Sin is a short word, comprised of three letters. But it holds so much if we let it.

God is a short word too, but God will trump sin every time.

He doesn't need to hold any of it for us, He has already let it go. 

Link to hear sermon (preached by Zach Van Dyke) 

Letting it Change

To say I have ever welcomed change would be the furthest thing from the truth. I have often feared change above all else, often gripping far too tightly to things, even ones that I knew were not the things God wanted for me. Even when things were going terribly I would often cling to what was known simply for the fact that it was comfortable. But recently, I have felt this itching for something that needed to be moved. It was me; it has been me. And yesterday, while sitting in a staff meeting it was all too clear to me. A wonderful leader at our church spoke on the subject of change; change in the way it relates to grief and to healing. He talked of the healing process in the physical sense. That sometimes, after a bad fall or an accident that leaves one injured, there is a period of unmoving. 

You have to be still to heal. 

You have to let the world move around you and you have to allow your body the time it needs to repair itself. It is the same for emotional wounds as well. The ones that often seem, at least to me, harder to face. We don’t have to look at them. We cover the bags under our eyes with makeup or fill our bodies with caffeine to keep us going. We bury ourselves in busy so that our emotions can remain at rest. Laid docile so that they don’t drown us. But eventually, as with a physical injury, there comes a time when we have to get back in the game. There comes a time where we have to welcome change, start some physical therapy and put the body back to the work it was purposed for. That’s where I am now. I have felt it coming because I have felt the grip on my heart, the hand around my throat that means I am trying to keep feelings at bay. I knew it was coming because when my schedule opened up more during the summer, due to one job being out from break, I panicked. I had been looking forward to the freedom, the chance to just sit, be and breathe. That was until I really thought about what that extra time meant, exactly what that sitting, being and breathing would bring about. 
It would mean less tasks to occupy my time; less "have to get dones" and more time for the "you need to address this". Getting back to blogging was another pinpoint sign that I needed to let it change. I needed to let some of that pain back in to fully keep moving. I stopped blogging because it was too hard to find words, it was hard to make words make sense. The things I did write during that time (simply because the words had to come out some how) are not words that I am sure I will ever share. They are hard. They are raw and they are void of much hope.

My little brother, Patrick, got married this weekend and it was a glorious, beautiful morning of celebrating new love and new potential. But things were missing, people were missing. A father was missing his eldest son and a daughter wasn’t able to kiss her daddy on Father’s Day. Instead, she kissed a balloon and sent it up to heaven. Makaylin was confused. Her eyes saw a balloon, but her demeanor said she didn't understand the meaning of the moment. What do you do in the situation? So I took some time to explain it to her, to let her know she was sending the balloon to her daddy. She still didn't seem to understand why everyone was circled around her or why they were watching her so intently, but she kissed it and she let it go. Then she grabbed her cousins hand and they ran, as fast their little legs could carry them, so that they could dip their toes in the water. And while on one hand she is young, there is a side that stands to reason that maybe we haven’t (maybe I haven’t) done enough to continue the story for her. John Wayne’s story has been continued in the life of the recovery community and shared to help others. But have we done the job needed to help her understand his story as her father? We add him to our prayers at night but outside of that it has been hard to mention his name outside of bigger events. Hard because when she asks questions or smiles and tells us her daddy is in her heart it brings it all back, it makes things fresh. That’s where I am now, at the road between wanting to avoid having to face things I was never prepared for and knowing that it is time. 
It is time to figure out the future from here. It is time to forge a new beginning and the bright possibilities that holds, while still remembering the past and all the good and bad images it contains. It is time to let change happen. To let God change me into the person he has been molding and will continue to mold for the rest of my time here on earth. It is time to get up, time to move forward. The tears that I fought hard against as I listened to the words of a wise man during a monthly staff meeting told me so. The tug on my heart that says, “this will be hard, but it will be worth it” reminds me of it every time I want to curl up in a ball on the couch and shut it all out. The breathing may seem hard right now, but it will get lighter. It will get lighter as I give it over, as I let go of the controlled face I have worked hard to put on and as I let go of the "strings" so that my hands are open to embrace the change.

Coming Back

I sit, and the days go by, folding in on each other like pages of a book that is just slightly over descriptive, that you find yourself reading over too much.  It is in the read over, in the skimming, that you realized you missed some crucial point hidden in all the clutter. So you go back to move forward, you go back to find the point where you missed the message and you carry on from there.  That is what today feels like, that is what this weekend felt like. The picking up and the carrying on. Excitement felt freeing. Hearing Babe tell me "You are such a big kid sometimes" was light, but what came after, that part was heavy. "You haven't acted like that in a while." There was no mocking in his tone, I could only hear longing. Longing and hope. Hope that it would stick. And after the sad taste of swallowing all the moments in which I thought I had done a good job of "being" excited, I felt it too, that hope. And so I'm going back and I am hoping that person, the one that has simply been trying to get from one moment to the next is not gone, because she was needed, but that she has found room for "the other one".  The one who hunts alligators and finds freedom in the little moments of stolen splendor, who does life and doesn't let life do her.  I want to read each page. The fast paced ones where you are clinging to each word and the descriptive ones too; the ones that hold the beauty and the heartache and the pain and the freedom and the redemption. I want to soak it all in and live on each moment that life brings. 

And so I have decided to come back, back to this world that I so enjoyed during the brief time that I was here. I may not be here often and it may be sporadic but I enjoyed this space and I feel like I have words now, words that couldn't seem to find their way to the surface for a while. And I may be coming back to myself, because no one may have even realized I hadn't been by this little space and there may not be many who will read this, and that's ok beccause coming back to myself may really be what I need most of all.

***This was written quite a few weeks ago and the coming back has been a process, but for some reason today just felt like the right day! 
Below is the day in reference and it (and many more sense) have been good, GOOD days! And good in the sense that even the tough parts have been soaked in. So if you are reading this, I am sorry for the hiatus and I am so very glad to be back! 

I Want Her Back

I am linking up today with day ten's prompt for Blogtember.  Originally I had planned to make this a love letter to people. To all the people who made my family feel so cared for in these past months.  I went to type weeks but realize it has been much longer than that.  Time has seemed to have a warped sense of reality for me lately, it flies and yet goes so slow all at once.  I still plan to write that post about people (I have been meaning to for sometime now) but ever since posting the self portraits I have not been able to think about anything but that girl, the one in the picture.  I want her back. I want the girl pictured above back. And so I write this letter for her, I write this letter for me.

Dear Girl,
I love you! I am sorry it took me losing you to realize just how much.  I wish you hadn't gone away.  I miss your smile.  I miss the way it not only showed up on your face, but the way you felt it deep down in your soul. I pray that you will be back soon.

Your utter joy with the world astounds me.  You struggled, yet there was always something in you that sought the best.  I loved the way you said that everything would be ok and that you truly believed it.  I am sorry if that is not the case anymore.  I loved your optimism and your zest for life.  I miss your ability to believe that everything is not only going to be ok, but that it is going to be great.  I apologize that you now view life without that filter.  I am sorry that you now believe that life sometimes just is what it is. If I could give those feelings back to you I would.  Maybe we can find them together. But for that to happen I need to see you.  I need to feel you.  I need to know that there is a part of you that is still with me.

I want you back.  I want you to sing along to the radio at the top of your lungs, not to drown out the emptiness you are feeling, but because you find joy in singing along to a song that means something (or that just has an awesome tune).  I want you to watch a movie, or some corny reality tv show, and get crazy because it was a horrible ending that you had called all along but hoped you were wrong about.  I want you to be able to remember the movie days later because it was something you actually watched and not just some screen you stared at to pass the time.  I want your fight back!! I want you to get mad, I want you to have something mean so much that you have a reason to argue with someone! I want your sass back! I want you to care about the little things that drove you into a tizzy.  I want you to get upset when there are no garbanzo beans for your salad or when you realize you are out of Mt. Dew for popcorn night and the popcorn is already popped.  I want you to act like it is going to ruin your whole evening unless you have that Mt. Dew and pout so that Babe will go to the corner store and come back with five in hand (either because he loves you just that much or because he doesn't want to hear you gripe. I love how you always chose to believe the first even though you knew most of it was the latter).

I want to say thank you for holding on.  I want to say thank you for showing up and trying to make your face match what it always had. I thank you for the energy you left behind; it has helped to keep my feet moving and my body get out of bed.  I thank you for continuing to know that even though the picture may be a little different now, that you still look to a source higher than yourself and know that someday things will be better, that it just may not happen here on this earth.  I wish you continued to believe that would happen this side of heaven. But God did not promise us that we would not struggle, he did not promise us that we would not fall; thank you for continuing to hold on to the fact that He will catch you when you do.  Thank you for knowing enough of this world to know that there will be happy, blissful, wonderful moments. Please remind me, if you can, that they are all around me if I just look closely.

I just want you to know that I will fight for you.  I want you to know that though it may not seem like it right now I am looking for you.  I vow to not let you go forever, I wish we hadn't needed to take a break. You are amazing, you shine and you love so wholeheartedly that it often hurts.  Don't ever lose that!

Until we are one again,
Yours,
Melanie

You Make Me Who I Am

Jenni's first prompt for Blogtember was Describe where or what you come from. The people, the places, and/or the factors that make up who you are.

And for me, it just so happened that, I already had something in the works. One of those posts I had started and never finished. I figured today was the best moment try to give it a shot... The people in my life have shaped and molded me, this most recent time in my life is shaping me even more. I come from a family that loves and loves hard. But I also come from a family that is its own concoction of dysfunction. Which all families seem to be in some way or another. This is all a part of mine. 

I am and I am not...

I am the sister of an addict, but I am not.

I am not the sister of an addict because there is no addiction in heaven.

I will always be the sister of an addict because that is what I was taught to be.

I am the sister of a boy; a boy whose struggle was often greater than his resolve.

I am the sister of a boy; a boy whose light shone so brightly that his story will continue on.

I am the sister of a man; a man who learned what it meant to work for something he was proud of.

I am the sister of a man; a man who gave the best he could in order to love his little girl.

I am the sister of a girl; a girl who was not born into but brought into our family, yet loved the same.

I am the sister of a girl; a girl who should not have had to go through the life she has led.

I am the sister of a girl; a girl who too quickly had to learn what it meant to be a woman.

I am the sister of a woman; a woman who stands strong and holds her world in her heart.

I am the sister of a woman; a woman who is working hard to be everything her daughter needs.

I am the sister of a boy; a boy who struggled to find his own way and his own place to shine in the wake of his older brothers choices. 

I am the sister of a man; a man who found that place and who is standing stronger than I had ever imagined humanly possible. 

I am the sister of a man; a man who is working hard to step up to the plate and who has forged ahead despite life's struggles. 

I am the sister of a girl; the sister of a girl who knows all too well what loss looks like. 

I am the sister of a woman; the sister of a woman who stands strong and carries on for herself and for those she loves.

I am the daughter; the daughter of parents who had to lose a child before any parent ever should. 

I am the daughter; the daughter of two people who are working on themselves just as their children are and that is a beautiful thing.  

I am the sister to brothers who have gone to war; one who chose to serve our country and one who fought a war within himself long before any of us ever knew. 

I am me. I am a people pleaser, some days it can be my greatest attribute and some days it is my Achilles heel. 

I am me. I am a product of the life I have led, of the people I have loved, of the people I have lost and of the future I am working hard to keep on track. 

I am a wife; a wife who is trying to be the person she needs for the man who has never once faltered, to the man who has put his own wishes aside to stand by her. And I will be better.

I am a friend; a friend to some of the best people any lifetime could ever ask for. A friend to people who have shown up, help me up, and kept me going. 

Everywhere I have been, everyone I have met, every factor of every part of my past has brought me to this place and helped shape who I am and it is those factors that will lead me on from here, one day at a time. 

Everything above is part of me. There may be parts that are harder for me to look at but they all make me who I am. I am learning to accept that. I am learning to accept that the dark parts just make the brighter parts shine that much more. Yet, it is all just a part, because to sum up everything that us brought us to where we are would take us until the end of our days. 

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And on that note, I am going to end with this prompt, just because my brain feels like ending things a little more sunshiney. If you could take three months off from your current life and do anything in the world, what would you do? 

This one was pretty easy too, because just the other day I sent Babe a text that said... "Let's just be like Minnie and Mickey, move into Disney and forget the outside world." Typically he would respond with some, "you are crazy" type thing and I would be left to roll my eyes. But this time he responded with "I wish." So, I decided that was making progress and maybe I could make it happen someday. Anyways... I would totally do that. I would move into Disney for a month. Right into the castle. Live there and frolic in all of the "forget the world" Disney glory. Then, I would rent an RV and road trip the USA for the next two.  I know it isn't some big, grand, fantastical sounding plan. But it's mine and it's simple and right now simple is right where I would like to be.  

Taking Granted for Granted

Last wednesday's post topic left my mind somewhat reeling. After I got done, the list of the things I take (or took) for granted just kept running through my head at warp speed and growing larger with every second. And then I thought, "taking something for granted is a funny term." Everything I take for granted is something that had been granted to me. It wasn't something I was born with, it wasn't something I really worked very hard to get for myself or something I work very hard to keep. Then when it really came down to it I thought, my entire life is something I was granted, every last bit of it. Everything is something that God bestowed upon me for whatever purpose He had in His intentions for making it a part of my life.

I thought, "God grants us things and in that granting we are already taking those grants for granted."

How is it that the word granted has such opposite meanings. A grant is a gift. In the granting of something from one person to another we are given something... usually something precious, at least something that was/ is precious to the person granting it. Yet to take something for granted, we almost devalue its worth (basically like giving it back all while keeping ownership of it).  We take that thing or that person (even ourself) and in our own minds almost make it less than it is. We give is less of its original value. And it is not as if that thing ever really lost its value, it is still just as worthy as it always was, we just have to except it for what it really is. We have to value it for the true gift that is being given to us in the granting. Taking something for granted is like opening a gift, looking at it and then turning our head to something else that better captures our attention. It's as if we are a child whose toy is not shiny enough; like taking an antique and trading it in for a cheap, mass-produced product that could be found on any shelf, in any store.

I no longer want to live that way. I no longer want to take the things so lovingly and painstakingly granted to me for granted. I no longer want to use the word granted in terms of the "taking something for it" but in the "these are the things I've been" type of way. I want to give only one meaning to the word granted in my vocabulary. I know that is is not going to be easy... since Wednesday I have already found myself taking small things for granted. I have found myself feeling let down for the way life has unfolded recently. Yet, I have also realized how many times I have been able to stop in the past few weeks in awe because of things in my life that I had so easily over looked before.

So today I will start this new terminology by sharing... 

Ten things that I have been granted through this experience 

1.) An awe for people & their love for my brother/ family (more on this in a post I have been working on)

2.) A better and deeper relationship with a girl who will ALWAYS be considered my sister

3.) My youngest brothers return from Afghanistan and the time I have gotten to spend  with him

4.) Seeing the innocence of a child shine through in some of the most adult situations

5.) Seeing the kindness of strangers

6.) An affirmation of the meaning of friendship (I would be so lost without it)

7.) Memories

8.) A deeper respect for my father and the man he is (actually for all the men in my life for that matter)

9.) A chance to take a better look at myself 

10.) A greater understanding for circumstances and struggles and learning about life

What about you? Anything you have been granted through the hardships in your life? 

Our Middle

What have I been spending time doing? I have been spending time trying to figure it all out, trying to understand, wanting to make myself get on here and let it all flow through my fingers. So I sit down to write; something that I have so wanted to do in these past two weeks and yet something I have been dreading. I wasn't sure if I would post this at all. Part of me even briefly considered just giving up on blogging altogether... 1.) because I wasn't sure if I wanted to or even how to go about posting this and 2.) because I knew that I also couldn't go on blogging if I didn't write about it, because to just continue on as if the world was as it always had been was an impossibility. But so often I have wanted to come on here; to lose myself in someone else's space for a while and then to share in my own.  I knew I couldn't give this space up because this blog and this community have given me so much.  I have found solace, friendship, warmth and support.

I also found it strange that of all the weeks for the post topic to be about our biggest heartbreak that would be last week, in the week when the world dropped out from under our feet. In the week that I experienced my biggest heartbreak and devastation. My brother died last Saturday. It was sudden, it was unexpected, yet it was also something we have spent much of our lives dreading in the back of our minds. If you had read this post you may understand more as to why. These are words my dad had put down, that "although solid in his recovery, the beast that is addiction caused him to relapse one final time." Final is something that I hate having to use in my vocabulary. I don't even know how to grasp the concept of that when it comes to my brother. There is a part of me that wants to cry every minute or scream at the top of my lungs, but my body won't let me. There is a part of me that wants to feel angry, but I can't. A part of me that wants to feel that at  he is at peace, and while I know he is, I am not there yet. Instead, I don't really feel anything.  Not a numbness really, just nothing. There is such a large part of me that still doesn't believe it is real. A part of me that is choosing to do and plan and prepare so that I don't have to fully face the understanding of what is happening.  I don't know if that is best but everyone says that people grieve in all kinds of different ways. That's what they keep telling me anyways.

For now, I do not know what else to say so instead I will share with you what I had already written and read at his funeral...

There is a quote I read in a book by Sarah Dessen that says, “There has to be a middle. Without it nothing can ever truly be whole."

From the second I saw this quote I thought “well, yes, that’s definitely the truth. So fitting for my brother.” 

John Wayne, you were the epitome of the middle child, maybe because you had it coming and going.  During the week I got to play the oldest while Patrick was the baby. And there you were in the middle.  Officially you and I were supposed to share that role but when Jaclynn was with us I still think I let you go ahead and take it, since you never really liked to share much anyways.  And with your wit and charm made it all your own.

Though our family will never physically be whole anymore we will always be whole.  You will always still be there in the middle. In the middle of all of us.  We just have an extra bit of crazy with us now, which is fitting given we are and always will be "those crazy Fosters.” 

 

I don’t know if you knew this but sometime in the past year I started to twirl my hair.  I thought “well I have joined the crazy hair twirling side of the sibling group now”.  When I found myself twirling the hair on the back of my head (John Wayne did this so much as a kid his hair always stood straight up on the back of his head, no matter how much you tried to control it) in the car just a few days ago I thought "oh man, I’m really in for it now." But it was nice, because now anytime I find myself pausing with my hands in my hair I will be able to stop and think of you.  I can still remember when you had that alfalfa pulled so tightly on the top of your head that when you shaved your hair off you had a huge bald spot back there because the hairs had just been magically stuck up in place from all of your incessant twirling.  It was a good look, but it will never beat the hair do that got you escorted out of chapel when we were at TCS.  

I can still remember the scene you caused walking in with your bright blond Eminem hair bobbing down the isle. Mimi had to come pick you up and take you to get it dyed back brown before you were allowed to return to school.  I can only imagine what she had to say when you walked in up there.  I can just hear her now, after she gives you a big hug, saying “Oh John Wayne!!” and then licking her fingers and trying to rub your tattoos to see if maybe they are just sharpie. Because, while I assume that God gave you a good little spit shine on some of those tattoos, mainly the ones you tried to give yourself, he also let you keep a good majority of them.  You would be one who would make it into heaven with most of his tattoos still lingering. I know you got to keep the one for May May.

John Wayne, please know that she will always know you and that you will always be a part of who she is and that we are blessed to have one of the best parts of you here with us.  It’s not as if we cant see you in her already.  She was beat boxing to me and Wally just the other night. She definitely has a good bit of her daddy in her. And while that may scare some of us, we know that she will be alright.  Because when that wild hair of a two year old becomes a wild hair of a young adult she will have the best of both sides of this world in her corner. You could not have picked a better person to be the mother of your child and she will have Kaley to look towards as an example, but she will also have you up there helping God keep watch over her wild ways in order guide her feet to a solid and steady foundation with which to walk from.  

I love you.  We all love you and you will always be with us, because you are our middle!