The smallest things matter most.
Small signs of friendliness can create so much joy,
while small interpersonal tiffs can cause so much distress.
My friend Henri said, "The great events of the day, the newspaper headlines, the things happening across the world, these things rarely touch me as deeply as the smallest gestures that create my world. An unexpected note from a friend or the passing remark from a neighbor can make or break my day emotionally."
What is easier than writing a thank you note,
sending a card to say hello,
or shooting an email to see how things have been?
Still, every time someone says,
"Thanks for writing that, Tricia,"
"Your words helped me today,"
"Let me tell you something I remember about your husband,"
"I appreciate you,"
it seems that I can feel the sun shining directly onto my broken heart, mending my seams.
How amazing that, in God's grandeur,
he still created the smallest things in life to change my heart so much.
The path to the heart is quiet and gentle, sacred and precious. These are the linchpins of life.
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Monday, January 2, 2012
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Holiday Wardrobe
Thanksgiving is a hinge holiday. It's a cornerstone. Round the fourth Thursday in November, and you're in the homestretch to the end of the year.
My city pulled out its holiday wardrobe while I was gone for Thanksgiving. Carols sang through the airport, and as we drove home, the boys played their own frantic version of "I Spy With My Little Eye: Christmas Lights!"
I rode home in a state of numbness, in disbelief over the truth that Christmas is upon me. I wondered how much of my neighborhood would sparkle and twinkle. Robb would have turned our lights on days ago, and he would have 'scrooged' everyone who hadn't lit up yet. He would hate to see our home dark for the holidays, but I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.
"I imagine I can put a wreath on the door. This I can do," I thought to myself.
We drove up our street, and the boys shrieked with the ultimate 'I Spy.'
"Our house! There are lights on our house!"
Sure enough, white icicle lights laced the front of the house. The pillars of the porch are striped like a candy cane. Christmas came to our house, too.
I looked at my mom. "Who did this? What is this?"
Her face was soft, her eyes glistening. "Your Tuesdays. They came over with their husbands, and they hung your lights. They borrowed the lights Robb always hung on our house. They couldn't let you come home to a dark house."
It is perfect. Just enough.
I didn't even know I wanted any decorations.
I cried in my driveway.
Christmas is coming here too.
My city pulled out its holiday wardrobe while I was gone for Thanksgiving. Carols sang through the airport, and as we drove home, the boys played their own frantic version of "I Spy With My Little Eye: Christmas Lights!"
I rode home in a state of numbness, in disbelief over the truth that Christmas is upon me. I wondered how much of my neighborhood would sparkle and twinkle. Robb would have turned our lights on days ago, and he would have 'scrooged' everyone who hadn't lit up yet. He would hate to see our home dark for the holidays, but I just can't bring myself to do anything about it.
"I imagine I can put a wreath on the door. This I can do," I thought to myself.
We drove up our street, and the boys shrieked with the ultimate 'I Spy.'
"Our house! There are lights on our house!"
Sure enough, white icicle lights laced the front of the house. The pillars of the porch are striped like a candy cane. Christmas came to our house, too.
I looked at my mom. "Who did this? What is this?"
Her face was soft, her eyes glistening. "Your Tuesdays. They came over with their husbands, and they hung your lights. They borrowed the lights Robb always hung on our house. They couldn't let you come home to a dark house."
It is perfect. Just enough.
I didn't even know I wanted any decorations.
I cried in my driveway.
Christmas is coming here too.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A Birthday Inspired
Dear Tricia,
So, Tuck's birthday reminds me of a great story that I don't think you've ever heard. Others have for certain, but I think you will cherish this little nugget.
Jason and I were married for a long time, really long depending on who you ask, before we even considered the thought of children. The truth is Jason didn't want children at all, and it certainly wasn't something I could see myself enjoying.
In fact, we were the last of our closest couple friends without children. They had all gone the way of parenthood several times over. Every time we visited to meet and adore the newest little bundle, we left with the greatest sense of relief that it wasn't us!
We would ride home and talk about how weird new babies were, how much work, how much money - how MUCH everything a baby is - and how grateful we were just to be us. We almost always talked about how they look like aliens. We commended each other on how hard it is to lie and say 'oh, she's beautiful,' and then get in the car and remark that you need a full cup of coffee before looking straight at her.
We were also well aware of the cases of a couple who hasn't particularly figured out how to be a successful couple, and so they decide that having a baby will somehow help this scenario.
But then.
Then we came to see you.
And Robb.
And Tucker.
He was brand new and peachy and angelic. He was wearing a blue and red onesie, wrapped in a yellow, snuggly blanket.
And, he. was. perfect.
And you were so natural, as if there had never been a Tricia not holding this baby.
And Robb was beaming. Literally.
If you could see the photo from my memory, there is light emitting from your joy. All three of you. Like when the clouds have sun behind them.
We got in the car and it was quiet. We probably got all the way to I-25 before there were words. And then Jason said, "That wasn't terrible."
And I said, "Yeah, that was weird."
He said, "I've never seen a man so content. That man was made to be a dad."
There was dialogue of how perfect Tucker was, how parenthood somehow seemed to further enrich you (this was puzzling at the time), how you guys were going to be amazing parents, how he was the luckiest baby on earth.
Whether it was you two, your solid marriage, your delight in the gift of this child, how beautiful you made it all look - whatever it was, that was the first time it wasn't scary for us.
And on that day, the tiniest spark of hope was born in both of us. Our son was born 12 months later.
That's a pretty big change of heart for two people who weren't even considering having children. I consider Tuck's birth to be a divine appointment, for my own selfish reasons. :)
Happy Birthday, Tucker. You changed the world.
She captured us in some of our happiest days. However sleep deprived, we felt like we were staying up all night at the best slumber party ever.
(The balancing act got {*much*} harder later, but those first few days were bliss.)
Now this is a beautiful story. Indeed, a nugget I will cherish.
So, Tuck's birthday reminds me of a great story that I don't think you've ever heard. Others have for certain, but I think you will cherish this little nugget.
Jason and I were married for a long time, really long depending on who you ask, before we even considered the thought of children. The truth is Jason didn't want children at all, and it certainly wasn't something I could see myself enjoying.
In fact, we were the last of our closest couple friends without children. They had all gone the way of parenthood several times over. Every time we visited to meet and adore the newest little bundle, we left with the greatest sense of relief that it wasn't us!
We would ride home and talk about how weird new babies were, how much work, how much money - how MUCH everything a baby is - and how grateful we were just to be us. We almost always talked about how they look like aliens. We commended each other on how hard it is to lie and say 'oh, she's beautiful,' and then get in the car and remark that you need a full cup of coffee before looking straight at her.
We were also well aware of the cases of a couple who hasn't particularly figured out how to be a successful couple, and so they decide that having a baby will somehow help this scenario.
But then.
Then we came to see you.
And Robb.
And Tucker.
He was brand new and peachy and angelic. He was wearing a blue and red onesie, wrapped in a yellow, snuggly blanket.
And, he. was. perfect.
And you were so natural, as if there had never been a Tricia not holding this baby.
And Robb was beaming. Literally.
If you could see the photo from my memory, there is light emitting from your joy. All three of you. Like when the clouds have sun behind them.
We got in the car and it was quiet. We probably got all the way to I-25 before there were words. And then Jason said, "That wasn't terrible."
And I said, "Yeah, that was weird."
He said, "I've never seen a man so content. That man was made to be a dad."
There was dialogue of how perfect Tucker was, how parenthood somehow seemed to further enrich you (this was puzzling at the time), how you guys were going to be amazing parents, how he was the luckiest baby on earth.
Whether it was you two, your solid marriage, your delight in the gift of this child, how beautiful you made it all look - whatever it was, that was the first time it wasn't scary for us.
And on that day, the tiniest spark of hope was born in both of us. Our son was born 12 months later.
That's a pretty big change of heart for two people who weren't even considering having children. I consider Tuck's birth to be a divine appointment, for my own selfish reasons. :)
Happy Birthday, Tucker. You changed the world.
~ Jenn S.
She captured us in some of our happiest days. However sleep deprived, we felt like we were staying up all night at the best slumber party ever.
(The balancing act got {*much*} harder later, but those first few days were bliss.)
Now this is a beautiful story. Indeed, a nugget I will cherish.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Authenticity
"How do you wish for people to respond to you, when they hear your story? I mean, crying seems a little over the top every time, but it's hard to know what to do or what to say."
"I don't mind if someone else is crying for our family. In fact, I'm pretty cried out. I can't cry as often as I once did, and sometimes I wish I could. There is a beautiful, cleansing release that comes with a flood of tears, and I wish for that on many days. So when I can't, it blesses me that someone else will. They usually apologize, as if they're sorry for crying if I'm not. But they don't need to apologize. It really truly blesses me."
Really, any authentic response blesses me. Anything that someone truly means, when they don't know what else to say. Because I don't know what to say most of the time, either.
I just hope they aren't surprised if my emotions don't mirror theirs. Someone's response upon first hearing my story might not match the one I carry in my heart, this many months later. It's impossible to cry all the time, but people don't know what to do with a laughing widow, or even one who is occasionally willing to talk.
Two girlfriends joined me on the day I got my tattoo. Jen has two boys, Melissa has two boys, I have two boys. The tattoo artist, so intricately decorated that he's running out of canvas on his body, has one little girl. We talked about the differences between boys and girls, the basic polarizations.
He said, "You know, you moms have it made with those boys. When he grows up, you still only have to worry about where his one penis goes. When my girl grows up, I have to worry about every penis in the neighborhood."
A fair and funny assertion from a man open to the truth that his three-year-old will one day be a beautiful woman with her own sex drive.
Then he said, "So, are you three each happily married?"
And there it was: the tangible pause that follows a posed question that my protective girls aren't sure how I want to answer.
"I'm a widow, actually."
He lifted his tattoo iron from the inside of my forearm, and he looked me in the eye.
"Dude. For real?"
"For real."
"Woah, man. Dude. That's f*cked."
Now that is authenticity.
I said, "Yeah, it is."
"I mean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said that. But, seriously? That sh*t is f*cked."
Yeah, it is.
And his was perhaps my favorite response ever.
"I don't mind if someone else is crying for our family. In fact, I'm pretty cried out. I can't cry as often as I once did, and sometimes I wish I could. There is a beautiful, cleansing release that comes with a flood of tears, and I wish for that on many days. So when I can't, it blesses me that someone else will. They usually apologize, as if they're sorry for crying if I'm not. But they don't need to apologize. It really truly blesses me."
Really, any authentic response blesses me. Anything that someone truly means, when they don't know what else to say. Because I don't know what to say most of the time, either.
I just hope they aren't surprised if my emotions don't mirror theirs. Someone's response upon first hearing my story might not match the one I carry in my heart, this many months later. It's impossible to cry all the time, but people don't know what to do with a laughing widow, or even one who is occasionally willing to talk.
Two girlfriends joined me on the day I got my tattoo. Jen has two boys, Melissa has two boys, I have two boys. The tattoo artist, so intricately decorated that he's running out of canvas on his body, has one little girl. We talked about the differences between boys and girls, the basic polarizations.
He said, "You know, you moms have it made with those boys. When he grows up, you still only have to worry about where his one penis goes. When my girl grows up, I have to worry about every penis in the neighborhood."
A fair and funny assertion from a man open to the truth that his three-year-old will one day be a beautiful woman with her own sex drive.
Then he said, "So, are you three each happily married?"
And there it was: the tangible pause that follows a posed question that my protective girls aren't sure how I want to answer.
"I'm a widow, actually."
He lifted his tattoo iron from the inside of my forearm, and he looked me in the eye.
"Dude. For real?"
"For real."
"Woah, man. Dude. That's f*cked."
Now that is authenticity.
I said, "Yeah, it is."
"I mean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said that. But, seriously? That sh*t is f*cked."
Yeah, it is.
And his was perhaps my favorite response ever.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Thanks a Bunch, Silver Screen.
I just wanted to go see a movie with the friend who came to visit. I just wanted to see a movie. That's all.
We chose "One Day," marketed as a romantic comedy of two who take years to fall in love, dancing in and out of the boundaries of their friendship. Light, easy, and marketed similarly to When Harry Met Sally (one of my all time favorites, and I could quote any scene for you right this minute, I swear).
(You may be thinking, "Tricia, what on earth were you thinking, choosing a romantic comedy? Why would you want to look in on someone else's love story right now?" But you know what? That genre has always been my favorite. Sometimes I want something to still be my favorite.)
So, two hours into their duet of love and friendship, shifting values, finding oneself and losing another, they finally commit to step over the line in the sand, the transition from platonic to so-much-more.
And then she goes for a nonchalant bike ride, and out of nowhere comes a city bus.
We watch her get hit by a bus. Blindsided. We watch the collision, we hear the crash, and by the grace of cinematography, we see her get dragged for several city blocks.
We watch her die on the sidewalk. Emma, whom Dexter finally realized he loved, loved, loved.
Step out of the movie's story line now, and place yourself in the movie theater with me.
I just wanted to see a movie.
As soon as the bus crashed into her, I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand. I was unsure what might escape otherwise: perhaps a scream, perhaps vomit. Both threatened in my throat.
Laurelyn froze, with her hand on my arm. "Oh, Trish."
I closed my eyes. I listened to the movie until I was sure there was no turning back, that she was truly hit, that this movie was taking a turn for the worst. It took me maybe ten seconds to be sure: I'm done.
And then I said, "We need to go. Can we go? We need to go."
Never have two girls more quickly gathered their soft drinks, popcorn, and purses. Come to think of it, I don't remember us grabbing our popcorn or our drinks. Maybe just our purses. This was an exodus.
We raced out of the theater and into the hallway emblazened with posters and backlit theater entrances. I took no further steps. Laurelyn caught me before I fell to the ground. We stood perfectly still, without a sound in our tableau, until my nausea subsided and tears came instead.
She cried with me. "I'm so sorry, Trish. I had no idea."
"I know. I didn't know either. We just didn't know."
We stood, frozen like witnesses to a crime scene. And suddenly, we heard, "Ladies, you okay?"
I turned and saw a pimply, college-aged young man in the employee uniform.
"Did the movie upset you, ladies?"
Oh, for crying out loud, do you think I would come running out of a theater because the plot was just too upsetting? I mean, I guess I just did. But it's not because of the freaking dialogue or the magnificent writing.
Laurelyn stammered to answer on my behalf. "Um, well, yes..."
I stood straight and looked at him, suddenly unleashing my frustrations, as if he himself were the movie producer. "I am 32 years old. I have two small children. My husband died suddenly eight months ago. Now I am a widow and the single mom of two little boys. I wanted to see a romantic comedy, and I just watched someone die before my eyes. And by the way, it doesn't look that way in real life. They should put warning labels on movies like that one."
I later said to Laurelyn, "I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable, for me to hand all those details to a total stranger. But I just needed for him to feel as uncomfortable as I felt, or at least to try to imagine how horrifying that was."
"You're always teaching, Trish. Always teaching. You could have let him think it was just your issue, but you brought him in to your life. Always teaching."
After catching my spewed details in his unsuspecting mind, the movie guy said, "Let me get you some free passes to come back any time. If you want to, that is."
"Thank you."
He issued us our passes, we walked out into the summer's air, and I looked directly at Laurelyn, my companion for this bump in the road.
"Laur, you just made it into the book I will write someday."
We burst into obnoxious, preteen laughter, doubled over on the sidewalk. It was the kind of giggling that comes from heightened emotions with nowhere to go, the cry for release that demands to be unleashed.
We laughed and laughed and laughed.
We got beignets in a box to go. And we finished the evening in a dazed stupor of over exposure and overflow.
"So, new rule. Prescreened only. Deal?"
"Deal."
We chose "One Day," marketed as a romantic comedy of two who take years to fall in love, dancing in and out of the boundaries of their friendship. Light, easy, and marketed similarly to When Harry Met Sally (one of my all time favorites, and I could quote any scene for you right this minute, I swear).
(You may be thinking, "Tricia, what on earth were you thinking, choosing a romantic comedy? Why would you want to look in on someone else's love story right now?" But you know what? That genre has always been my favorite. Sometimes I want something to still be my favorite.)
***Insert: Spoiler Alert.***
I'm going to tell you the ending.
Read at your own risk.
I'm going to tell you the ending.
Read at your own risk.
So, two hours into their duet of love and friendship, shifting values, finding oneself and losing another, they finally commit to step over the line in the sand, the transition from platonic to so-much-more.
And then she goes for a nonchalant bike ride, and out of nowhere comes a city bus.
We watch her get hit by a bus. Blindsided. We watch the collision, we hear the crash, and by the grace of cinematography, we see her get dragged for several city blocks.
We watch her die on the sidewalk. Emma, whom Dexter finally realized he loved, loved, loved.
Step out of the movie's story line now, and place yourself in the movie theater with me.
I just wanted to see a movie.
As soon as the bus crashed into her, I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand. I was unsure what might escape otherwise: perhaps a scream, perhaps vomit. Both threatened in my throat.
Laurelyn froze, with her hand on my arm. "Oh, Trish."
I closed my eyes. I listened to the movie until I was sure there was no turning back, that she was truly hit, that this movie was taking a turn for the worst. It took me maybe ten seconds to be sure: I'm done.
And then I said, "We need to go. Can we go? We need to go."
Never have two girls more quickly gathered their soft drinks, popcorn, and purses. Come to think of it, I don't remember us grabbing our popcorn or our drinks. Maybe just our purses. This was an exodus.
We raced out of the theater and into the hallway emblazened with posters and backlit theater entrances. I took no further steps. Laurelyn caught me before I fell to the ground. We stood perfectly still, without a sound in our tableau, until my nausea subsided and tears came instead.
She cried with me. "I'm so sorry, Trish. I had no idea."
"I know. I didn't know either. We just didn't know."
We stood, frozen like witnesses to a crime scene. And suddenly, we heard, "Ladies, you okay?"
I turned and saw a pimply, college-aged young man in the employee uniform.
"Did the movie upset you, ladies?"
Oh, for crying out loud, do you think I would come running out of a theater because the plot was just too upsetting? I mean, I guess I just did. But it's not because of the freaking dialogue or the magnificent writing.
Laurelyn stammered to answer on my behalf. "Um, well, yes..."
I stood straight and looked at him, suddenly unleashing my frustrations, as if he himself were the movie producer. "I am 32 years old. I have two small children. My husband died suddenly eight months ago. Now I am a widow and the single mom of two little boys. I wanted to see a romantic comedy, and I just watched someone die before my eyes. And by the way, it doesn't look that way in real life. They should put warning labels on movies like that one."
I later said to Laurelyn, "I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable, for me to hand all those details to a total stranger. But I just needed for him to feel as uncomfortable as I felt, or at least to try to imagine how horrifying that was."
"You're always teaching, Trish. Always teaching. You could have let him think it was just your issue, but you brought him in to your life. Always teaching."
After catching my spewed details in his unsuspecting mind, the movie guy said, "Let me get you some free passes to come back any time. If you want to, that is."
"Thank you."
He issued us our passes, we walked out into the summer's air, and I looked directly at Laurelyn, my companion for this bump in the road.
"Laur, you just made it into the book I will write someday."
We burst into obnoxious, preteen laughter, doubled over on the sidewalk. It was the kind of giggling that comes from heightened emotions with nowhere to go, the cry for release that demands to be unleashed.
We laughed and laughed and laughed.
We got beignets in a box to go. And we finished the evening in a dazed stupor of over exposure and overflow.
"So, new rule. Prescreened only. Deal?"
"Deal."
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Aptly Spoken
"You know what I'm excited for? I'm excited for the boys to get older, for the day when they will start asking to hear the story of all that happened. I'm excited for the day when we can tell them how proud we all were of their mom."
~~~
"A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver."
Proverbs 25:11
~ my forever friend
~~~
"A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver."
Proverbs 25:11
Monday, August 1, 2011
Learning to Walk Again
A healthy person wants healing.
A child who is on track developmentally will continue to make strides toward independence.
A person with the flu will feel horrible for many days, then she will be ready to sit up, ready to take a shower and get dressed, and finally ready to begin the routine again.
By the grace of God, healing and growth are natural progressions. They are the way of life.
And so it is a good sign that I want to get up off the mat I've been lying on, that I'm ready to take a few steps on my own, that I'm growing restless in a resting position.
It is easy to convince myself that I've become a burden to my support system, that more progress must happen faster, that each step should really have been two.
But I must be careful what I tell myself.
Getting up doesn't mean one never sits down again.
To carry isn't necessarily burdensome, when the one who is carried is pointed toward growth.
I didn't get tired of carrying my babies, but they grew restless in my arms. They were ready to crawl, walk, and then run.
When the friends carried the man on the mat, it was not because he demanded to be carried. Rather, they knew where he needed to be, and they loved him enough to handle blisters, sweat, and exhaustion.
And in the carrying, they made it to Jesus' feet too.
A child who is on track developmentally will continue to make strides toward independence.
A person with the flu will feel horrible for many days, then she will be ready to sit up, ready to take a shower and get dressed, and finally ready to begin the routine again.
By the grace of God, healing and growth are natural progressions. They are the way of life.
And so it is a good sign that I want to get up off the mat I've been lying on, that I'm ready to take a few steps on my own, that I'm growing restless in a resting position.
It is easy to convince myself that I've become a burden to my support system, that more progress must happen faster, that each step should really have been two.
But I must be careful what I tell myself.
Getting up doesn't mean one never sits down again.
To carry isn't necessarily burdensome, when the one who is carried is pointed toward growth.
I didn't get tired of carrying my babies, but they grew restless in my arms. They were ready to crawl, walk, and then run.
When the friends carried the man on the mat, it was not because he demanded to be carried. Rather, they knew where he needed to be, and they loved him enough to handle blisters, sweat, and exhaustion.
And in the carrying, they made it to Jesus' feet too.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Extreme MakeOver = Extreme Gift
When we moved into our home, the deck was in bad shape. Neither waterproof nor weather treated, it was warped and cracked.
The summer I was pregnant with Tuck, we improved our outdoor living as well as our budget allowed: we flipped over each board and re-installed each one with the existing screws. I remember this well because I was Big Pregnant - as in, he was born in September, and we took on this project in July. I remember well the kneeling, squatting, and nailing involved. (And I say that with the afterword acknowledgement that I did only a fraction of the work involved.)
Robb has maintained it through the seven years, replacing boards, sanding, and repainting. And the task for the summer of 2011 was to finally replace it.
Southeast Christian Church set out to complete this task on Robb's behalf.
Insert: Community Impact Day.
Two dozen people showed up at my house, and together they demolished the deck, built a new one, and landscaped our backyard. All in a weekend.
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
This team of people exchanged water bottles and Advil, power tools, pats on the back, and encouraging words.
They transformed our outdoor living space, giving room for growing boys to run, climb, play and get dirty.
They cared for a widow in the church; they provided for the fatherless.
They served the Lord with all their hearts, minds, and strength.
The summer I was pregnant with Tuck, we improved our outdoor living as well as our budget allowed: we flipped over each board and re-installed each one with the existing screws. I remember this well because I was Big Pregnant - as in, he was born in September, and we took on this project in July. I remember well the kneeling, squatting, and nailing involved. (And I say that with the afterword acknowledgement that I did only a fraction of the work involved.)
Robb has maintained it through the seven years, replacing boards, sanding, and repainting. And the task for the summer of 2011 was to finally replace it.
Southeast Christian Church set out to complete this task on Robb's behalf.
Insert: Community Impact Day.
Two dozen people showed up at my house, and together they demolished the deck, built a new one, and landscaped our backyard. All in a weekend.
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
This team of people exchanged water bottles and Advil, power tools, pats on the back, and encouraging words.
They transformed our outdoor living space, giving room for growing boys to run, climb, play and get dirty.
They cared for a widow in the church; they provided for the fatherless.
They served the Lord with all their hearts, minds, and strength.
Thankful and humbled do not begin to describe.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Action Verb
I believe I have seen the church at its finest.
From the very early hours of December 23, people have been in action, loving and serving all around me.
One woman came to my house, brought me the gift of a tissue box, and emptied my dishwasher.
Meals, meals, meals.
One friend cleaned out her freezer and brought me a dozen single portion meals. She said it was for the nights when I just want to give the boys chicken nuggets or mac 'n cheese, and I can still eat like an adult.
House cleaning. (A humbling gift, this is.)
A few weeks ago, a friend from my church came over to resolve the plumbing issue in my bathroom, which turned out to be an enormous hair clog the size of a small rat. That's even more personal than having a friend clean your teeth, I assure you.
Which, by the way, someone did for me.
She's a dental hygienist; she cleaned my teeth and fostered an excellent initial visit for my children who hadn't been to the dentist yet.
In the early days, four families came to take down my Christmas tree and all of the indoor decor. Dazed and in shock, I slept through the transition and awoke to a clean home.
Friends of friends - people I don't know at all - came to my home and took down all of the exterior Christmas decorations. Now that is a project, ladder and all.
People shoveled my driveway and sidewalk through the winter. They have mowed my lawn in the spring and now the summer.
Playdates.
Cards in the mail.
Books and books.
A friend gave me slippers and a bracelet, to warm my heart and my feet. Love.
Last week, a reader of the blog dropped off an enormous box of super heroes. Her son has outgrown them and wanted to share them with my boys. It has been a super hero frenzy at my house, I promise you.
They have played together and laughed. This has been yet another gift to me.
My list is long, and it continues.
I have learned what it is to serve in someone's moment of greatest need: just do what you think of to do.
Don't worry that it's not enough: it is.
Don't worry that it's not unique: it's yours.
Don't wait for someone to ask: dive in.
Just do something.
That is love.
I know now why God says we will be known by our love.
Love is a verb. And it is happening all around me.
From the very early hours of December 23, people have been in action, loving and serving all around me.
One woman came to my house, brought me the gift of a tissue box, and emptied my dishwasher.
Meals, meals, meals.
One friend cleaned out her freezer and brought me a dozen single portion meals. She said it was for the nights when I just want to give the boys chicken nuggets or mac 'n cheese, and I can still eat like an adult.
House cleaning. (A humbling gift, this is.)
A few weeks ago, a friend from my church came over to resolve the plumbing issue in my bathroom, which turned out to be an enormous hair clog the size of a small rat. That's even more personal than having a friend clean your teeth, I assure you.
Which, by the way, someone did for me.
She's a dental hygienist; she cleaned my teeth and fostered an excellent initial visit for my children who hadn't been to the dentist yet.
In the early days, four families came to take down my Christmas tree and all of the indoor decor. Dazed and in shock, I slept through the transition and awoke to a clean home.
Friends of friends - people I don't know at all - came to my home and took down all of the exterior Christmas decorations. Now that is a project, ladder and all.
People shoveled my driveway and sidewalk through the winter. They have mowed my lawn in the spring and now the summer.
Playdates.
Cards in the mail.
Books and books.
A friend gave me slippers and a bracelet, to warm my heart and my feet. Love.
Last week, a reader of the blog dropped off an enormous box of super heroes. Her son has outgrown them and wanted to share them with my boys. It has been a super hero frenzy at my house, I promise you.
They have played together and laughed. This has been yet another gift to me.
My list is long, and it continues.
I have learned what it is to serve in someone's moment of greatest need: just do what you think of to do.
Don't worry that it's not enough: it is.
Don't worry that it's not unique: it's yours.
Don't wait for someone to ask: dive in.
Just do something.
That is love.
I know now why God says we will be known by our love.
Love is a verb. And it is happening all around me.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Missing Ingredient
Hi, Trish,
I was just eating some french fries and thought to myself, "These need some ketchup. That'll complete the taste for me."
Then I thought the perfect duo of an Oreo with milk.
Then I thought of you. And Robb.
And as silly as it sounds, he was your ketchup. He was your milk.
The perfect complement of one to the other that, when combined, produces the best combination.
However, a french fry is not the only way to enjoy a potato... and there are certainly other ways to enjoy an Oreo. (Hello.... Dirt Dessert?!)
All of this to say, even though you truly feel that your other half is missing, it doesn't make you any less you.
It just means you're not a french fry anymore.
But you could be a damn good baked potato.
I was just eating some french fries and thought to myself, "These need some ketchup. That'll complete the taste for me."
Then I thought the perfect duo of an Oreo with milk.
Then I thought of you. And Robb.
And as silly as it sounds, he was your ketchup. He was your milk.
The perfect complement of one to the other that, when combined, produces the best combination.
However, a french fry is not the only way to enjoy a potato... and there are certainly other ways to enjoy an Oreo. (Hello.... Dirt Dessert?!)
All of this to say, even though you truly feel that your other half is missing, it doesn't make you any less you.
It just means you're not a french fry anymore.
But you could be a damn good baked potato.
Love,
Jamie
(my college roommate)
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Gift of Presence
The sister of my heart came from Arkansas. She stayed with me for the intense ten days immediately following Robb's death, living closely the horrors of physical grief. She remembers those days in ways I cannot, and she intercedes for me every day from 800 miles away. Speed dial has no need for an area code.
A kindred spirit flew in from Chicago. A sudden heart connection a year ago, a seed of friendsip that instantly took root. A girl who knows, just simply knows.
A lifetime friend came from Minneapolis. Friends since we were twelve, she has known me as a teenager, college girl, engaged bride, newlywed, pregnant mom, new mom, preschool mom, and widow.
This weekend, these far away three joined the six women who live close, those who buy my groceries, clean my house, check on me daily, and never think twice.
She is a rare gift who will fly across the country to simply watch the Food Network, if that's all I have in me.
They loved me. They loved my children. They loved us.
"Tricia, you can rest. We'll be here when you wake up."
"Hey, Tuck? I think you're one cool kid. I'm so glad to see you."
"Tyler, you are one resilient kiddo." "No. I'm not resilient. I am three."
"We know you can't do it yet, Tricia. We didn't come to see Denver. We came to see you."
The gift of presence.
The gift of authentic community.
They came. They are.
I am blessed, loved, humbled, and carried.
***
"It's give and take. Laugh and cry. Carry and be carried. Committed and free. Catch and release. Striving and resting. Loud and silent. Risky and safe. Run and rest. Feed and feast. Screaming out loud and sacred." ~ j. edwards
A kindred spirit flew in from Chicago. A sudden heart connection a year ago, a seed of friendsip that instantly took root. A girl who knows, just simply knows.
A lifetime friend came from Minneapolis. Friends since we were twelve, she has known me as a teenager, college girl, engaged bride, newlywed, pregnant mom, new mom, preschool mom, and widow.
This weekend, these far away three joined the six women who live close, those who buy my groceries, clean my house, check on me daily, and never think twice.
She is a rare gift who will fly across the country to simply watch the Food Network, if that's all I have in me.
They loved me. They loved my children. They loved us.
"Tricia, you can rest. We'll be here when you wake up."
"Hey, Tuck? I think you're one cool kid. I'm so glad to see you."
"Tyler, you are one resilient kiddo." "No. I'm not resilient. I am three."
"We know you can't do it yet, Tricia. We didn't come to see Denver. We came to see you."
The gift of presence.
The gift of authentic community.
They came. They are.
I am blessed, loved, humbled, and carried.
***
"It's give and take. Laugh and cry. Carry and be carried. Committed and free. Catch and release. Striving and resting. Loud and silent. Risky and safe. Run and rest. Feed and feast. Screaming out loud and sacred." ~ j. edwards
Friday, October 8, 2010
A Thousand Gestures of Delight
"To make conversation,
to share a joke,
to perform mutual acts of kindness,
to read together well-written books,
to share in the trifling and the serious matters,
to disagree though without animosity --
just as a person debates with himself --
and in the rarity of disgreement to find the salt of normal harmony,
to teach each other something or to learn from one another,
to long with impatience for those absent,
to welcome them with gladness upon their arrival.
These and other signs come from the heart
of those who love and are loved
and are expressed through the mouth,
through the tongue,
through the eyes,
and a thousand gestures of delight,
acting as fuel to set our minds on fire
and out of many to forge unity.
This is what we love in friends."
to share a joke,
to perform mutual acts of kindness,
to read together well-written books,
to share in the trifling and the serious matters,
to disagree though without animosity --
just as a person debates with himself --
and in the rarity of disgreement to find the salt of normal harmony,
to teach each other something or to learn from one another,
to long with impatience for those absent,
to welcome them with gladness upon their arrival.
These and other signs come from the heart
of those who love and are loved
and are expressed through the mouth,
through the tongue,
through the eyes,
and a thousand gestures of delight,
acting as fuel to set our minds on fire
and out of many to forge unity.
This is what we love in friends."
~ Augustine, 397 A.D.
(Quoted from Externally Focused Quest,
Rick Rusaw and Eric Swanson)
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Fortified
Fortify yourself with a flock of friends!
You can select them at random,
write to one,
dine with one,
visit one,
or take your problems to one.
There is always
at least one
who will understand,
inspire,
and give you the lift
you may need at the time.
~ George M. Adams
Thursday, March 19, 2009
I'm just happy.
I am smiling.
We are on day #4 of our Family Staycation, and everyday presents something fun for all of us. (More on this later.) Today, we went to the zoo. I love the zoo. I love the peacocks, the hippos, the lions, the monkeys, the elephants, and my children's impersonations of each.
In the car, Tyler relaxed with his favorite book. And from across the aisle, Tucker asked, "Hey, Tozz, whatcha readin' about?" There is just so much I love about that sweet little dialogue.
And, we had a family lunch date at McDonald's. Happy Meal toys notwithstanding.
And, since it is nearly seventy degrees outside today, I foraged through my drawers to find my favorite capris from last summer. And they fit. I thought they would, but when clothes have been tucked away for a year, you never know what you might find. It's like having coffee with an old friend... you might fall right into old routines and easy familiarity, but you don't know if too much time has passed and maybe it's not quite as comfortable as it once was. Maybe you have each changed just a bit, and it will take more than one coffee date to find your groove in this relationship again. But to my delight, they fit just like last summer. We were glad to find each other again. So comfy.
And, now I am at the library with my laptop and a mocha, immersing myself in various forms of words.
If you were looking for more depth, perhaps you should visit someone else's blog.
Today, I'm just happy.
We are on day #4 of our Family Staycation, and everyday presents something fun for all of us. (More on this later.) Today, we went to the zoo. I love the zoo. I love the peacocks, the hippos, the lions, the monkeys, the elephants, and my children's impersonations of each.
In the car, Tyler relaxed with his favorite book. And from across the aisle, Tucker asked, "Hey, Tozz, whatcha readin' about?" There is just so much I love about that sweet little dialogue.
And, we had a family lunch date at McDonald's. Happy Meal toys notwithstanding.
And, since it is nearly seventy degrees outside today, I foraged through my drawers to find my favorite capris from last summer. And they fit. I thought they would, but when clothes have been tucked away for a year, you never know what you might find. It's like having coffee with an old friend... you might fall right into old routines and easy familiarity, but you don't know if too much time has passed and maybe it's not quite as comfortable as it once was. Maybe you have each changed just a bit, and it will take more than one coffee date to find your groove in this relationship again. But to my delight, they fit just like last summer. We were glad to find each other again. So comfy.
And, now I am at the library with my laptop and a mocha, immersing myself in various forms of words.
If you were looking for more depth, perhaps you should visit someone else's blog.
Today, I'm just happy.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
29.5
Today is my half-birthday. And I didn't even know it, until a package arrived in the mail.
Here's to fun friends who watch the calendar more closely than I do.
(And happy half-birthday to me. I had myself a cookie. Or two.)
Here's to fun friends who watch the calendar more closely than I do.
(And happy half-birthday to me. I had myself a cookie. Or two.)
Sunday, November 16, 2008
I Think She's Right.
I have a few friends in my life who have known me longer than they haven't; we met in childhood, and we have traveled closely, in heart if not in miles.
One of them, who knows me oh-too-well, coined a new term to describe me today:
One of them, who knows me oh-too-well, coined a new term to describe me today:
Hypersocial.
I think she's right. I am the girl who will not eat, sleep, or go to the bathroom, if it means abandoning a social opportunity or a riveting conversation. I have been known to abandon wisdom and self preservation in lieu of something more fun, and I've almost never been sorry. Almost. Thanks to all of you who tolerate - or feed - my hypersocial tendencies.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Fishies
One of my favorite little people turned one this week. I had the honored pleasure of making fish cupcakes for his birthday party. Well, the cupcakes were chocolate and vanilla. But they were decorated with fish... a whole school of them.
Happy Birthday, Mason. You're a toddler now.
And pretty stinkin' adorable.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Mark of Quality
We have a new minivan in our family. Big fans of the Honda Foundation, we invested in one to last us many years to come, through soccer games and piano lessons. Or you know, whatever they want to try.
As we geared up for a small road trip with two of our favorite little boys and their mom, Reece was pretty excited to ride in the new van. With his juice cup in hand, he asked with great exuberance and hopeful expectation:
"But Twish, does it have cup holders??"
"It does, Reece."
"Oh, that's so great!!"
It is great. And it's the mark of a quality vehicle. At least to a four year old who really wants to take his juice cup along.
Juice cups for everyone. And seatbelts too.
As we geared up for a small road trip with two of our favorite little boys and their mom, Reece was pretty excited to ride in the new van. With his juice cup in hand, he asked with great exuberance and hopeful expectation:
"But Twish, does it have cup holders??"
"It does, Reece."
"Oh, that's so great!!"
It is great. And it's the mark of a quality vehicle. At least to a four year old who really wants to take his juice cup along.
Juice cups for everyone. And seatbelts too.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Velveteen
I am abundantly blessed with four dear women friends who light up my life.
I have known them for varying lengths of time, and they each bring such depth and treasure to my life that I cannot go a day without talking to them. They are my girls. Sometimes their influence in my life overlaps; their circles intertwine and they bless me in ways that complement each other. And other times, their friendships with me stand alone, as a gift that is only mine.
But right now, they rest in my heart in a way that is important, unique, and common among each other. They are all grieving. They are each in a crisis of their own. Each girl of my heart is
facing deep loss of some kind: loss of security, trust, value, direction, relationship, love. Each one is on her own journey of hurt and pain, and for each one, I want to scoop her up and deposit her in a better, safer place. I want to pick up the remote control and fastforward to the next scene. I want peace for her. I want answers. I want it to stop hurting.
It hurts to love this much. It hurts to love another person so very, very deeply that her pain penetrates my heart and brings my tears to the surface.
The Velveteen Rabbit had something to say about loving so much it hurts; I think it means I am becoming real.
It's a beautiful journey to love so deeply. But my goodness, it hurts to love this much.
I have known them for varying lengths of time, and they each bring such depth and treasure to my life that I cannot go a day without talking to them. They are my girls. Sometimes their influence in my life overlaps; their circles intertwine and they bless me in ways that complement each other. And other times, their friendships with me stand alone, as a gift that is only mine.
But right now, they rest in my heart in a way that is important, unique, and common among each other. They are all grieving. They are each in a crisis of their own. Each girl of my heart is
facing deep loss of some kind: loss of security, trust, value, direction, relationship, love. Each one is on her own journey of hurt and pain, and for each one, I want to scoop her up and deposit her in a better, safer place. I want to pick up the remote control and fastforward to the next scene. I want peace for her. I want answers. I want it to stop hurting.
It hurts to love this much. It hurts to love another person so very, very deeply that her pain penetrates my heart and brings my tears to the surface.
The Velveteen Rabbit had something to say about loving so much it hurts; I think it means I am becoming real.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to
you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
It's a beautiful journey to love so deeply. But my goodness, it hurts to love this much.
(I love you, sweet girl of my heart.)
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Thank you, Charlotte.
"You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that."
~Charlotte, Charlotte's Web
E. B. White
That is great literature, right there.
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