Dancing Over Death

When I think about the Lord,

how he saved me,

how he raised me,

how he filled me with the Holy Ghost,

he healed me to the uttermost...

When I think about the Lord,

how he picked me up,

turned me around,

how he set my feet on solid ground...

It makes me want to shout:

Alleluia!

Thank you, Jesus.

Lord, You're worthy of all the glory

and all the the praise. 

~ Shane and Shane, "When I Think About the Lord"

In This Room

When we first moved into this home, this room was the first one we changed.

When I was about two weeks pregnant, we redecorated in a soft blue and yellow theme.  I painted puffy clouds on the ceiling (with good ventilation so we wouldn't damage the baby's growing neurosystem).

It suited us well.  It was Tucker's room, and then it was Tyler's.  Until we sold the crib and bought bunkbeds.  Then they became roommates down the hall.

Then, what to do with this powdery blue and yellow room that suddenly was so whimsical it made me nauseous? 

It became The Office.  Earth tones, greens and browns.  I think the wall color is something akin to 'butternut toast'.  We transformed the room on a dime, borrowing tricks from Trading Spaces.  The monstrous oak desk  migrated in here.  The 'changing table' became a credenza.  We made it work.  A shared space for the two of us: the filer and the piler.

But now, though, what to do with this space, now? 
Now that it's all mine. 

I kept the earth tones.
I kept the credenza.
I added bookshelves.
I added a reading corner, complete with a small table, a cozy (red floral) chair, and a reading lamp.
I took out the monstrous desk,
and I replaced it with a streamlined work space
just big enough for my laptop,
a picture frame,
and a bud vase.

With a daisy.

I knelt to the floor tonight, my face to the carpet.
I pictured dozens of clips from the many scenes in this room.
I rocked my babies, when they were sick or well, sleepy or not.
I wrestled many a boy into a fresh diaper.
I worshipped in here,
silently or loudly,
most often late at night.
I have journaled a million words.
I have danced in here,
alone - in praise,
with my boys - in silliness,
with my husband - in love.
I received the call from the coroner's office in this room.
I slipped away to this room many times on the day I became a widow, just to say that word to myself again and again.

Tonight, I dedicated this room once again.
"God, may you fill this space.  I give this to you, along with every word and thought that will come through this room.  May words land on the page.  And may you receive the glory."

Before we changed anything at all when we first moved in, Robb splattered 'R loves T' on the biggest wall, in splashy blue paint.  Beneath all these earth tones, there's a love note written to me.

I believe I can work in this room. 
I believe I will write a book in this space.

Dinner Party Girl

I hosted a dinner party.  The first one in 13 months. 

(Did you know I'm a dinner party girl?  'Cause I am.  I'm a dinner party girl.  And I can set a lovely spread on a table, if I may say so myself.)

I **love** hostessing.  Name the party, give me the guest list, let's create the menu, and let's do this thing. 

My mom is the ultimate hostess; her sisters are the ultimate hostesses; my grandmother was the ultimate hostess.  The girls in this family had no choice but to learn the art, because it was instilled as deeply as doing the laundry and changing the sheets. 

This.  Is What.  We do.

Here is what I know, above all else, about hostessing:

There's always room for one more.
There's always room for dessert.
There's simply always room.

And,

My home need not be spotless, but my home must always be gracious.

It's really that simple. 

* * *

"... Not that I like Martha Stewart, nobody likes Martha Stewart, I don't even think Martha Stewart likes Martha Stewart.  Which actually makes me like her."

~Samantha, in Open House, 

by Elizabeth Berg

Some Things Right

Last week, I read Open House, by Elizabeth Berg.  (And I'll tell you right now, I'm in for everything she's ever written.)  In the first chapter of the book, the heroine is trying to convince her husband to stay, and in the second chapter, we find her on the first morning of their separation.  Ultimately, the story tells how she finds herself on the other side of marriage.

Our marriages ended differently, this heroine's and mine, but I identified with her on many levels.  Especially when she couldn't set the table without crossing paths with yet another wedding gift from the life she had once lived.

Anyway, she doesn't like her mother.  (I assure you, non-lovers of books and therein book reviews, these paragraphs are going somewhere.)  Her mother is shallow and ridiculously happy always, never willing to go anywhere near real emotions, and keeps everything an inch deep at all times. 

In a fit of rage, the heroine asks her mother, "When did you ever let anyone get close to you?  I mean, really close.  To the real you."

And in a page of brilliant writing, we see a crack in the mother's facade of happiness, and we readers realize that she has chosen to appear happy all along, thinking it was best for her children to never see her life's pain.

I stare at my mother's carefully made-up face, and suddenly I see that same face many years ago, shortly after my father died, when she came out of the bathroom after having been in there for a very long time.

"Now!" she said.  I was sitting in the hall, spinning jacks, and I looked up at her.  "I think that style is much better, don't you?" She showed me some modification she'd made to her hairdo, and I nodded, then returned to my jacks.

What occurs to me now is that what my mother had been doing all that time was weeping.  With astonishing quiet.  And that when she was done, she'd washed her face, fixed her hair, put on lipstick, and then gone out to the kitchen.  She turned the radio on low and made dinner so that it would be ready when it always was.  And then she smiled and chatted empty-headedly or fussed at her daughters all during dinner, preempting any kind of real conversation, preempting any questions, and then she put her daughters to bed, still smiling, still dispensing random advice about this and that, and her daughters squirmed and rolled their eyes and felt their love lessen year by year, eroded by embarrassment, by a terrible, defeating kind of resignation that told them she would never be different.

But what did she do after she put us to bed?  I wonder now.

And I imagine a mother who took a mask off her face, then pushed hard into a pillow to weep for the loss of her husband, for the loss of the life she was supposed to have, for the only man she ever -- I gasp, thinking this now -- loved.

And it comes all at once to me, it comes at this instant, that my mother simply lost too much and repaired herself in the only way she was able; that, in fact, she is continuing to repair herself, hour by hour, the pendulum of the cuckoo clock swinging in the light and the dark of all the days that have passed since my father died at this same brown wooden table.

I found such comfort in these words, in the idea that I'm doing the right thing by looking this in the eye, by talking to my children about the canyon that could have swallowed us whole, that I'm not preempting their questions and mine, that I'm not hiding behind a mask of any kind -- lipstick or otherwise.

I don't show them everything.  Because they shouldn't have to see it all.  But there's nothing I'm afraid of, no question they could ask that I wouldn't be willing to wade into.  And they can mention his name as easily as anyone else's.  Because he is as real to us as anyone else is.

It's great to read something and realize I might be on the right track, doing some things right.  That my boys won't look back and wonder who I was all these years.  That maybe I'm giving them the chance to know me all along.

I'm Here.

I lay down next to Tuck sometimes as he's falling asleep.  Nighttime gets the best of him sometimes... of both of us, really.

He closes his eyes, almost asleep.  Then he opens them slowly, pulling himself awake again, just to make sure I am still here.

I am still here.

He wants to go to sleep; he is so very tired.  But his imagination mocks him, telling him that if I am out of sight, then he has lost a second parent. 

He starts to roll over with his back to me. 

"Mommy, when I say your name, and then I don't say anything else, can you just say you are here?"

"I can do that, buddy."

He rolls over.  He tests me.  "Mommy?"

And then nothing else.  That's my cue.

"I'm here, Tuck."

"Always?"

"Always."

All Exhaustion Is Not Equal

Yesterday was a rough go.  So many things went wrong.  And by wrong, I mean they changed unexpectedly.  I can vary from a plan, but I like a little notice.

For starters, Tyler didn't have school.  I thought he did.  This was nearly catastrophic for me, on the emotional realm.  All you show-offs who read every bit of paperwork that comes home?  This is your moment to shine.  I will hide in your shadow. 

So, I took them out for coffee.  Or, in their case, juice smoothies.  I really thought I was going to get some work done, except I forfeited my laptop so they could stream Netflix and I could have a few minutes of silence.

Then I thought we would give Monkey Bizness a try.  The one for big kids, the one my boys have been asking for with deep longing.  Except we got there and they herded us into this waiting room and put us on their wait list, since the play area was full.  I get this, if there is indeed an end to the wait.  Forty minutes later, we were still waiting with no movement on said list, I was out of snacks, and we had watched nearly all of The Happy Elf, streamed through Netflix on my phone.

(My Netflix subscription is nearly worth the same to me as my anti-anxiety prescription.  They serve different purposes, and yet much the same.  Hooray for mobilized technology.)

We went to the mall for lunch.  We went to the Lego store for ideas.  We went to Apple for the kid Macs.  We went to Barnes and Noble for the Lego and train table.  Enter stores with kid displays for my children to explore and enjoy endlessly?  Guilty as charged.

By the end of the afternoon, I begged my mom to take them to her house for dinner.  Please.  I'll provide the food, beverages and children, if I can just have a bit of time today.  A bit of time to catch my breath.

She said yes.  Hours later, she brought them back, fed and in their jammies.   'Cause she's so cool like that.  If I am ever a grandmother, I will do many things as she does them.

(While they were gone, I fixed my double chocolate cherry cookies (and by fixed, I mean repaired), I made grilled asparagus for a party of one, and I mapped out my post-graduate course plan.  Path for the next three years: Check. 

It wasn't exactly wasted time.

There's a reason why I write about all this: to describe the kind of exhaustion.

It was single mom exhaustion.  It wasn't widow exhaustion.  And there is a difference.

I felt the kind of tired I would have felt if Robb were in the middle of a long business trip and I were on my own for a long, harried day.  The kind of tired that would have prompted me to send him some snide text about how great his traveling business life must be, and please bring me something great for managing the homefront in your absence.

But I did not feel the kind of heart weariness that comes from thinking through fog, from wearing the wet blanket of depression, from crying without explanation, from tying a scarf around me just to hold myself together.  It wasn't that kind.

I am thankful others can see this difference and speak it into my life. 
I am thankful they see victory, when all I can see is tired.

There's a difference.  I can feel it.

Good morning, 2012.

I think New Year's Eve is overrated.  It's my least favorite holiday.  It's possible that I have written about this before in the archives of this blog's five years, but I don't really feel like checking.  I just feel like saying I don't like New Year's Eve.

It's so high pressure.

First there's the dating scene.  If you're married or with someone, then you're supposed to have some fine, exquisite plan to ring in the new year, something memorable and remarkable.  Something to tuck away so you can later say, "Remember New Year's Eve 2007?"  And you can knowingly smile and nod.

Then there's the resolution scene.  What do you wish you could do better?  What do you wish you would do more of, less of, and ultimately what might make you a better person?  If you're not the type of person to ask yourself these questions on a daily basis, then really, why wait until it's time to buy a new calendar?

I woke up somewhat cynical this morning.  Perhaps you can read it in my tone.

Dear 2011:
You have taught me much.  I had no idea how strong I could be, how complete I truly am.  I didn't know a heartbreak could last so long, that joy could mean so much.  I didn't know.  You taught me.  Together we learned.

Of all of my years, behind and before, I am confident I will never, ever forget you.  Even though now, I barely remember you.  I think your pieces will come together in my mind.  On the timeline of my life, your numbers will be thick and bold.  Remember that year?  It was thick and bold.

I finish your last page, but I don't really close your book, because you seamlessly spill into today, a new year.  (Plus, I went to bed at 8:15, long before your official farewell.)

And that brings me to you, 2012.  Twenty-twelve.  Look at you, already with the two names.

I imagine you have a thing or two to teach me.  Please don't give me a bulleted, itemized list.  No syllabus.  It's better if I don't know.  Just, please, be kind.  And most of all, be patient.

Let's try a million recipes this year.  Let's become good friends with Betty Crocker.  Let's see what else there is out there besides chicken.

This will be my year of the baked goods.  I already have the ingredients for double chocolate chip cookies (with dried cherries in them - how about that?  We'll see.), a strawberry pie, and a coconut cream pie.  Let's bake.  And let's love people with what comes out of the oven.

Maybe we'll write a book together this year, you and me, 2012.  I've gotta tell you: 2011 and I have a solid start.  But I welcome your insights.

January 1, 2012.  Let's do this thing.

Lace Up Those Skates

Let me let you in on a family secret:

My dad taught me to rollerskate when I was five,

and he taught me the magic words that keep you from falling.

Hibbidy.  Hobbidy.  Hoobidy.

If you say those three words, you won't fall.

It's true.

And it works on ice skates, too.

By the end of the day, the boys were teaching this trick to other little skaters.  

Moms were saying to me, "What are those magic words again?"

"You guys are doing a good job getting back up again..."

They are old enough to remember the first time they went ice skating.  

Someday, they will know we did this on December 23, 2011,

on that first anniversary.

A lump caught in my throat as I was lacing Tucker's skates.

"Mommy, why are you crying?  Oh, wait... I know. I just forgot for one second.  

Mommy, just for one second.  I know you miss daddy.  I know you do."

Someday they will fathom how much I love them.

"Girl, you are hard-core determined to make room for joy in your life." 

~ my friend, Melanie O.

(Indeed, I am.)

Listen (...again).

It has been a year since I said these words, spoke them to an audience of hundreds, with my wedding handkerchief in my hand and my brother at my side. 

As I listen, I feel like it's someone else talking.  Who is that girl?

It's good for me to listen again.
To hear my voice,
to hear the scripture,
to hear the poetry,
to hear the truth.

Perhaps you heard this a year ago.
Or perhaps we have met since then.

I invite you to listen (...again).

Victory: A Whole Year Of It

I feel tremendously victorious today.

Morning after,
just finished a marathon,
dance the speakers off the wall,
conquer the world,
victorious.

The first year is finished.
I did it.
A whole year of it.

I am not naive to say this next year will be a cake walk.
In fact, I have heard and expect that in some ways the second year is harder because the heart begins to thaw, the soul begins to feel, and one begins to wake up all over again.

But, in the past year, I have woken up each day and wondered how I would do it, get through it, make it back to bed at the end of the day.  The year's holidays stockpiled against me, one on stop of another, threatening me with their mocking dates with every turn of the calendar page.

I don't have to worry as much about those, because I've met them once already.  Now I know what to expect for Valentine's, birthdays, anniversaries, and seasons.  This doesn't mean I love it.  It just means I've smelled the dragon's hot breath, and I can withstand the heat.

And now I know that every single day, the best and the worst, only lasts for 24 hours.

Today, I feel victorious.  I did it.  A whole year of it.

Unnatural, Unspeakable

I cannot explain it.  It is unnatural.  Unspeakable.  Beyond human logic.  Entirely supernatural.

I am doing okay.  I really, truly am.

I have delighted in the music, the festivities, the wrapping and the giving.  My heart is light and full.  I'm smiling.

What is that old adage? "Shared joy is double joy; shared sorrow is half sorrow."  I have felt the measure of this equation in my deepest moments this week, when my heart could breathe because someone else (many someones) carried my load.

The anniversary of this week feels dear to my heart, but not crushing to my spirit.  In some moments, it has felt as though I walked with someone else through the loss of her husband a year ago, not that I lost my very own.

(Disassociation?  Perhaps.
Effective cocktail of meds?  Perhaps.
My name on the breaths and prayers of the invisible, anonymous you?  Most certainly.
Sheer grace of God?  Absolutely.)

"May it be unto me as you have said."


"Emmanuel, Emmanuel.  God incarnate, here to dwell."


"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Go tell it on the mountain: we have had a Merry Christmas.

Soli Deo Gloria.

And so, it has been a Year.

Months ago, I began reading Henri Nouwen's book, The Genessee Diary.  

It is his published journal from inside a Trappist Monastery; he felt his life had become too mechanized, too secure, too predictable, too busy, too much writing about prayer instead of actually praying, too much thinking about theology and not actually worshipping, so he stepped away for a season.  He became a monk.  And he wrote about what this was like, what he learned.

In an ironic turn of the pages, he finished his seven months in the monastery just as I am finishing my first year as a widow.  Both he and I had sidestepped our lives as we knew them, reluctantly embraced a new season, and now together we embark on the end of the year.

(Never mind that he took his journey in 1981.  When I read your writing, your story becomes my present day.)

Henri, as I like to call him since we are now dear friends, wrote in his journal:

"I will have to ask myself what these months have meant to me.  I am still in it, but I see the end and the slow moving away to new experiences."

I set down the book with pause.  The same is true of me.  What has this year meant to me?  I am still in it, but I see the end.  And I see the turn of 2012 bringing new experiences.

I want to say I have learned nothing.  I want to say Robb's death was without meaning, these months have been empty, and I am bitter and angry because I got screwed hard out of everything I had planned for the rest of my life.  I want to say these things, boldly, with the strength that only comes from vindication.

But those things are not true.  I have learned much; these months have been sacred.  I have long said, if I will tell this story, I will tell the truth.  

So, here are my thoughts.

I have lived an entire year of winter.  There were sunny days that peeked through on occasion, but my heart stayed cold, bundled, protected.  Still, there are things to enjoy only in winter: good books, shorter days, enveloping blankets, and isolation.  I have relished in these.

In January, when I began speaking to God again, I made a deal with him: if he would just get me out of bed and safely to Starbucks, I would visit with him there.  I might not talk, but I would listen.  My mornings have been my sacred hours.  Starbucks has been my sanctuary. 

God has met me there.  My journals are filled with schizophrenic psalms, from temper tantrums to triumphant praise.  His companionship has been nearly tangible, certainly a presence I could feel strongly enough to know I wanted more.  In reading the Psalms, again and again, and again and again, I have let the psalmists cry out on my behalf, when I had no words left.

There's a reason why Psalm 88 made the cut into the final manuscript.

I have learned that there's no one way to be a perfect mother.  But there are a million ways to be a good one.  And, with God as my witness, his grace as my strength, I have been a damn good mother this year.

I have been willing to learn this year.  I have trudged ahead with my eyes open, insistent that this wrenching pain would not be wasted.  I have written a million words, unafraid of anything that might show up on the page.  I have found honesty and the beauty of saying things out loud.

A friend of Robb's recently wrote to me.  He said, "Tricia, when Robb talked about you, he always said you were an amazing woman who could handle anything."  My precious husband... he knew me well.  I never imagined the strength inside this frame.

I have learned firsthand that love is greater, stronger than the grave.  No matter what happens next, no matter the path I take or who walks beside me, I will forever love Robb Williford.  

This year has been the closing chapter of our marriage: I honored him, even after death parted us.

I choose to borrow some words from Henri, because great words should be shared, and because I can't say it better.

"For me, this is the end of a most blessed and graceful retreat and the beginning of a new life.  A step out of silence into the many sounds of the world, out of the cloister into the unkept garden without hedges or boundaries.  In many ways, I feel as though I have received a small, vulnerable child in my arms and have been asked to carry him with me out of the intimacy of [this place and] into a world waiting for light to come. 

Why was I here?  I don't know fully yet.  Probably I will not know fully before the end of the cycle of my life.  Still, I can say that I have a most precius memory which keeps unfolding itself in all that I do or plan to do.  I no longer can live without being reminded of the glimpse of God's graciousness that I saw in my solitude, of the ray of light that broke through my darkness, of the gentle voice that spoke in my silence, and of the soft breeze that touched me in my stillest hour."

Thank you, Henri.  You write my heart.

Thank you, Robb.  You hold my heart.

Thank you, God.  You heal my heart.

And so, it has been a year.

The Nothing Everything

"Did you know Jesus was born in a hay house?"

"Yes, and the word for that is 'stable.'"

"Because there was no room at the hotel.  No room at the inside."

"No room at the inn, yes."

"I just made a hay house with my cheese."

"Mary and Joseph rode in their car.  For real."

"Well, they didn't have cars yet.  Do you know how they got there?"

"On a horse.  Or a goat."

"Or, a donkey."

"Katie is Mary in the Christmas Pageant.  Charlotte is the star."

"Do I have to eat one bite of chicken or two?"

"You can choose: one big or two small."

"We were playing batman.  Tucker was the daddy and I was the baby."

"Except it's almost Christmas, so the daddy will die soon."

We flit in and out of these conversations: the nothing and the everything.

Third Culture: A Follow-Up Piece with 5280

In this month's issue of 5280 magazine, Robert Sanchez highlighted my journey in his article, Wife Interrupted.  They received a large response from readers wanting to know more: how to live inside the grief, how to walk alongside someone whose heart is broken.  They asked me to write a piece in response, and they have posted this online.

These are my words.

I belong to a third culture. I am neither a whole, healed woman, nor will
I wear black and grieve forever. I belong in this nebulous, in-between
place.

We are a growing demographic, the broken-hearted us. You might
belong on this team roster, or perhaps you are walking alongside
someone who is. If you are wondering how to help someone in this
place, let me tell you what I've learned.

If you don't know what to say, simply say, "I'm so sorry." Or even
better, "I am so sad for you." Don't try to explain or offer a lofty word.
There is no explanation, so free yourself from trying to find one.

When you ask how we are, we may say, "Fine, thank you," or "We are
doing okay." Try with all your might not to press further. The pleading
eyes or the prodding voice that says, "Really? Come on, really? How are
you, really?" We can't answer that question. It is all I can do to speak. I
answered you. Puncture this surface, and I might spill everywhere.

I, personally, have needed acknowledgement that nothing was normal
anymore; that everything has changed for me. I have needed a “free
pass” from anything and everything on anyone's calendar. I have not
been able to step into what was, sit at a table where Robb would have
been, attend a party where he would have been a guest.

It’s natural for anyone who has gone through this to want to proceed
with “life as normal.” We may not want a public display of any kind.
Perhaps the best thing you can do is to be present and patient. When—
and if—we are ready to begin the journey of uncovering the tragedy, we
may remember you were one who was present and patient. And we may
trust you.

This journey brings along a monster named Burden. He whispers dark
secrets that make us think we're exhausting you and your resources. If
you can give without waiting for a wish list, you can slay that dragon for
us. We may not know what we need, but we usually know what we don't want. Respect the word "no."

There is a difference between wanting to give to us and wanting to give
for you. The motives are thinly veiled, and there is grace and space for
both. Try to know why you want to help. Is it because you know this
family well, you see a need, and you can fill it? Or is it because you feel
overwhelming compassion—perhaps even a sense of guilt that your life
hasn't fallen to pieces—and you simply must-must-must respond in a
tangible way?

If you are giving for us, then just do. Step in. Don't wait. It will mean the
world.

If you are giving for you, then give in a spacious way: gift cards, notes,
surprise gifts. It will mean the world.

If you are one of us, stuck in the in-between, third culture of grief, please
let me tell you what I have learned. The rules have changed.

If you are hurting, if you need help, say it. Others don't know what you
need, but so many want to help. If you know what you need, say it. And
if you know what you don't want, say it. Be honest, and don't let pride
exhaust you. Save that energy for getting out of bed in the morning.

Be alone as long as you want, as much as you want. Isolation is normal,
I have definitely learned. In other centuries and cultures, those with a
broken heart and a ruptured world have been sent to live in seclusion for
as long as they needed. Allow yourself the freedom to clear the calendar,
to say no, to be alone.

Check your mailbox. And on the day the mailbox is empty, don't be
deceived: It doesn't mean the world has forgotten about you or the one
you love.

Give yourself a break on the thank-you notes. All the rules are different
now, even the formalities of courtesy.

You can't always predict an emotional toll. What you fear with all your
heart may come more easily than you expected. What you thought you
could conquer may bring you to your knees. Go easy on yourself. Go to
a party if you want, and leave five minutes later if you must. If laughter
finds you, pull up a chair and invite her to stay. Don't worry about what others might think—tell them you're taking the day off from sadness.

God is good and antidepressants aren't bad. Get help.

We Trimmed a Tree

 

New tree,

new ornaments,

not a thing we've used before.

Tyler helped put the star on top, since they both remembered Tucker helped Daddy do it last year.

We did it.

Somehow, it seems like our most beautiful tree yet.

Your Name?

My nails were dry and my manicurist was massaging my hands and arms with warmed cream.  (I contend that this is worth the price of admission.)  As she kneaded my forearms, her thumbs came across the tattoo on the inside of my right wrist.

She paused and looked to me.  "Is this your name?"

She is a lovely Vietnamese woman, she will perpetually look 19 years old, she is fluent in broken phrases, and her accent is contagious.  After an hour with her, I think in her voice all day long.

"Oh, no, no, that's not my name."

"Someone's name?"

"It says 'betrothed.'  It means, 'promised to marry.'"

She smiled, clearly unsure of what I meant.

Her thumbs gently massaged the letters. 

"It your name," she said.

Yes, actually, I thought.  In a very real way, you are right.  It is my name.

5280 Magazine

When I posted this a few weeks ago, I made a publication faux paus by jumping the gun before the professionals had made their debut.  With my sincere apologies to the writers and editors of 5280 magazine, I took down the post.  Today, the story hits the shelves.


5280 has been Denver's magazine since 1993.  They are a classic Denver read with all the best angles on anything happening in the Mile High.

I spoke at an event last fall, and one of the women in attendance is married to the Senior Staff Writer at 5280.  Kristen began following my blog, and when my world ruptured, she shared my story with her husband, Robert Sanchez.  Robert contacted me last summer to ask if he could tell our story in the magazine.  We have met many times over the last six months, he has studied our family with discretion and integrity, and the December issue of the magazine will feature his words.  This has been a 100% positive experience from beginning to end, and I have been honored to work with Robert and his team.  They give journalism a great name.

I met this week with 5280's photographer, Jeff Panis.  We met at Starbucks for our first impressions, and we talked over coffee and a banana.  He said I was a brave woman.  He said he had read my story.  He said I have a radiant smile.  He said the photos would be easy and fun.  He raised his coffee cup to life for the living, a mom who gets out of bed because she loves her kids, and a husband who would be proud to see the three of them moving forward, one step at a time.

He diffused my every apprehension.

He asked if I felt comfortable to offer my home as the site for the photo shoot. 

My first thought: The sink is filled with dishes, there is a layer of dust on virtually everything, and I haven't run the vacuum since June.

My second thought: If I'm going to tell this story, I'm going to tell the truth.  I don't have my act together.  My house is loved and lived in. 

"Let's do it."

We reconvened in my living room ten minutes later, and I made a quick sweep of the toys and string cheese wrappers from the living room floor before I opened the front door. 

Jeff chatted with me as he filled my living room with contraptions and equipment similar to Richard Haney's flight of the balloon boy.  He tested the lighting, the angles, the exposure.  He said photography is 90% preparation and 10% execution, so he had much to do before he really needed me at all. 

He asked if he could slip upstairs into the loft to add the lighting that would shine into the stairwell where I would sit for the photos.  (Sure, if you don't mind stepping over the piles of yesterday's unfinished laundry.)  While he was upstairs, I gathered the flip-flops, wayward socks, magazines, and washcloths that were strewn on the stairs; I piled them all on the coffee table. 

(It's a good thing I never claimed to win any Good Housekeeping Awards.  Otherwise I might have been nervous.  The good news is when you live the truth, you have no lies to remember.)

When he gave me the thumbs up, I took my place in the setting he had in mind: a casual posture on the carpeted steps, my elbows on my knees, my hands relaxed, and my face looking straight into the lens.

Here's the thing.  In family portraits, you want to present your best color scheme and keep everyone still long enough for the shutter to click. 

In personal portraits, you want your best smile, your chin up, your eyes engaged, and your best you.

In this article, they seek to capture the authentic me, the genuine posture and heart of a girl whose husband died ten months ago.  I'm not down for the count, but neither am I ready to lead a parade.

It took me a while to find my groove, to find myself.

Jeff snapped a dozen pictures, and then he sat down next to me to show me the digital thumbnails.

The lighting was excellent, the angle was smart, and he somehow avoided the smudgy fingerprints on the railing and the crumbs on the carpet.  But as I looked at my face on his screen, I was distracted by what he captured.

My eyes were overwhelmingly sad.  I've never seen that girl in a picture before.

He said, "I don't think I've found you yet."

"No, I don't think that's really me."  And yet, I don't know how to change the spirit of my eyes any more than I know how to change the length of my nose.

"Let's keep trying, Tricia.  We'll find you."

Round two.  I kept smiling too much or not enough.  I wasn't real. I wasn't me.

He looked at me over the camera. "Where is the confident girl?  I know she's in there."

Interesting you should ask. I've been looking for her for months.

He was patient.  My heart cannot be rushed.

"Look at me," he said.  Click.

"Now show me the smile I saw when I walked into Starbucks." Click.

"Now ease it back a bit."  Click.

"Now give me that small smile."  Click.

"Yes.  That's it.  That girl right there."  Click, click, click.  Click.

Two dozen shots later, he sat down next to me again.  "Look, Tricia.  Look at this one.  See?"  He beamed with the contentment of sought out discovery.

Photo by Jeff Panis

It was me.  Quiet, reserved, casual.  Gentle smile with a subtle light in my eyes.

I contend that the algorithm of photography is 90% science and 10% art.  But that 10% holds the heart.  Without that, it's only a snapshot.

~ ~

If you're near a newsstand, please pick up a copy of 5280 magazine. It's a tremendous publication, from start to finish.

The Tree Stands Alone

My Tuesdays packed up Christmas for me last year.  As I lay sleeping, wishing to hibernate through the winter, they wrapped each ornament, folded each branch, collected each snowman, and stowed the entirety safely in a corner of the basement.

By their grace, I awoke later that day to find that Christmas had been put away.  A silent, profound gift.

I cannot bear to think about those boxes.  The colored lights, the star, the strings of silver beads, the red ribbons.  The lit greenery Robb hung from our bedroom window and over the loft into the living room.  The millions of snowmen.  A veritable army.

The ornaments that tell our story.
Our First Christmas.
Our First Home
Baby's First Christmas.
A Family of Three.
A Family of Four.
Dozens of representations, looped with a metal hook.

(I shall go nowhere near the exterior elements.  They were his realm entirely.  I didn't even give him the decency of a happy, helpful attitude as he asked me to hold his ladder steady.)

All of these will stay tucked away this year.  A hibernation of their own.

I bought new.  It's the only way to do any of this: to start new.

The boys and I went shopping to take advantage of the early-bird, 50% off, pre-holiday sales.

We bought a tree.  Pre-lit.  White lights.  Branches glazed with faux snow.

I claimed a color scheme of silver, white, and red - shimmers and sparkles, please.  And I said yes to everything that caught their eye in the aisle of ornaments.  This tree belongs to us, boys.  As long as it fits the said criterion and color scheme, put it in the cart. 

(Tyler tried with great effort to convince me of his new love for Ariel, The Little Mermaid.  A love so deep that he would like a Chistmas stocking decorated exclusively in all things hers.  I guided him elsewhere.  I'm fairly confident this is a fleeting fancy.)

We chose dozens of ornaments that carry no meaning - except now they will forever be the ornamanets of our first Christmas as a Tricycle.  This tree will stand alone, different from all the other decorations that will stay safely hidden this year.

We have decided to put a picture of Daddy on our tree.  And I am on the lookout for an ornament that is a tricycle.

Their Only Parent

I think I feel most overwhelmed with single parenting when I am worried for my children. 

I sit at this coffee shop, and I cry over their hearts, their learning, their impulses, their grief, and their needs.  With nobody to say it to, nobody who will carry this quite as deeply as I do, though few come very nearly close.

I am their only parent.

Today, my heart aches for Tucker, who has always learned differently than other children, absorbs silently, and shows little of his knowledge to the people who need to know.  I ache for the spirit in his heart, the needs of his mind, the wounds in his soul.

I ache for Tyler differently, on different days.  Today, my heart bleeds for Tuck.

And then I am reminded that I am not their only parent.

His Creator knows his heart.
His Counselor knows his worries.
His Father holds him close.

And this is the God to whom I pour my heart today,
that He will allow the world to see my son
only as his gracious Father allows others to see him.

I am his mom. 
I am not alone.
Neither is Tucker.

Annie

We popped popcorn, filled cups with orange juice, pulled the couch into the middle of the living room, loaded up on pillows and blankets, dimmed the lights, and tapped into Netflix.  I introduced the boys to Annie, in all of her curly charm.

Twenty-five years ago, my brother and I watched this movie on a seemingly endless loop. (My mom thinks she may have watched it once in its entirety.  This blesses me deeply to realize that she had other things to do while we were watching TV.)  The lyrics and dialogue are hidden in my subconscious mind, and they emerged throughout the evening.  Thankfully, the boys don't yet believe this kind of commentary takes away from the movie experience.  They are simply impressed that I seem to know Annie's friends.  And her every word.

We streamed Netflix through the Wii, and the movie sometimes got ahead of the download.  So we had to be patient while the screen paused to 'retrieve.'  Long about the tenth time we were staring at a still screen, I was the one who became impatient.  Surprisingly, the boys were really fine with the wait.

Tyler said, "Mommy, this is not that bad.  You know what's bad?  Touching hot lava.  This isn't that bad."

True.  Thank you for the perspective, four-year-old.

The thing about Annie: she brings with her the word 'orphan.'  She gives us things to talk about.  Questions to ask. 

"Annie misses her mom and dad, because they died.  She wears that necklace because it reminds her of them."

"She lives in a big house for little girls because she doesn't have anyone else to take care of her.  Who would take care of us if Mommy died?" 

There is little safety in promising I won't die, since we sure didn't think Robb would.   So we talk through Plans B, C, and D.

When your world has been torn, it's hard to believe the seams will stay together for long.  It's good to know there's a plan.  They can follow the scenario to the darkest path, and they can still know there is a plan. 

They were captivated.  They woke me the next morning to say, "Mommy, let's talk about Annie."  We have been reenacting scenes all week long, and I will purchase the sound track soon.  Tyler has been marching around the house singing "It's a Hard Knot Life."

They found their due love for her.  Plus, it doesn't hurt that her name is written in the sky with fireworks.