The Linger

I’m rapidly approaching the two-year mark since the death of Natalie. I wish I could say that time has made it easier, and I guess in a way it has, but I still find moments when the loss of her feels shockingly fresh. She still shows up in my dreams and I bolt awake with a knot in my throat and tears in my eyes. The other night I woke up crying because I dreamed of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in her house, the one just at the top of the stairs. I dreamed of the smell of the books.

I miss her voice. I miss it every day. I have this list in my head of all the things I want to talk to her about, as if we haven’t spoken because we’ve just been busy. I know this isn’t true, but in those brief moments when I forget she’s dead, I exuberantly anticipate her thoughts and opinions.

I miss the way she’d say my name.

I know she’s dead. I do. She’s gone. There are the parts of me where her absence hasn’t yet settled. Two years later, those places are smaller now. And I hate them for shrinking. I hate the places that have come to grips with her loss; hate how my life has kept on going at a steady clip without her in it. I hate every holiday, every occasion for a hug or a call, every big moment where the weight of her presence isn’t. Those moments propel me forward and she’s stays in the same place.

 I hate having to let go.

 But I am letting go.

 I’m resigned to do it. I hate it.   

The Safety in the Setting

There are certain events that still exist so close to the surface that to pull them out with words would be akin to itching a dangerous scab. Words work best on scars, not scabs; on the parts already cut and healed and marked, not on those so fresh that to prod them is to open up the bleeding. Scars are set and there is safety in the setting.

Much of 2010 is still scabs, those wounds where I’ve managed to stave off infection but haven't yet dealt with the long-term. All that is to say: I can't quite write about this year, because much too much of it is still too close. There has been progress and for those progressions I am thankful. I've built rich and meaningful friendships in places I didn't expect and have gotten better at my current job and my career. I found a fantastic church body and have relished getting to know it. I became more secure in my faith. But I make no bones: it's been an exhausting twelve months. The quaint, quivering little heartache that started the year seems so comical in light of the thunderous and lead-filled bombs of the summer. They simply can't compare.

I learned that there are as many ways to die as there are to live, and that death changes the core of those left behind. I know it's changed me. I learned that death takes bodies and leaves souls but depression takes the soul and leaves the body and no matter which robbing occurs there are those left to deal with the newly empty space. This year both of those losses found me.

I have a coworker who has been a sort of pen-pal these past few months (he works at another office) and lately we've been discussing the concept of community. He brought up the idea that communities are just like ecosystems: there are those who are consumers and those who are providers, and without a balance the community (and the individual) crumbles. I'm struck dumb by his use of ecological terms to describe one's place. 2010 has been a year where I've been a straight consumer. I haven't given anything to anyone this year, and I usually love to serve. I haven't had the energy to encourage or empathize or work at relationships or pursue friendships, haven't had the emotional capacity to look outside myself and I know that I—and those I love—have suffered from it. (To those who stuck with me this past year I offer my deepest gratitude and love. It didn't go unnoticed.) At the beginning of 2010 I predicted it'd be the year of sweetness. I just didn't know the sweetness wouldn't start to come until the very, very end.

2011: the year of renewal: of the mind, of the spirit, of the soul. Let the transformation begin.

Two Months Out

I make no illusions about grief. It has now been almost two months to the day of Natalie's death, and I can't say I've begun to learn this language at all. If anything I'm discovering more words I didn't know I didn't know. Grief comes in such tiny splinters that I don't expect them until they are in me—under my fingernails come tiny shards of a life I so dearly miss and they do their best to double me over in pain. The other week I cried for an hour about an AOL email address. Seriously. I realize it sounds ridiculous but that is the thing with splinters: outside of us they are so tiny, but when they are where they are they are monumental. The night I got back to Virginia from a very hard trip to Canada I went over to Nat and Mike's to try on some of her old clothes (yeah nothing emotional about that endeavor) and in all my mental fortitudes I wasn't prepared for the coats to smell like her.
They smelled like her. Her hands were in the pockets.
I felt them there.
I can't touch those coats now because they feel like a hug and I lose it. They are on a chair.

The trip to Canada was agonizing because I was with men who didn't seem too keen on the business of living. All of them had gone through divorces or rough marriages or wars or other losses, all of them exhibited no signs of zest. At times it felt like I spent the trip trying to convince them to keep living. Maybe I am more sensitive to it right now because of Natalie, but to them life was more a chore to be endured than a gift to be enjoyed. I just watched a woman with a love of life lose it and then to spend 10 days with men who have life and seem so keen to trash it was, in a way, utterly profane. It was offensive. I wanted to scream at them for being so careless with something I know others have fought so hard to keep. I didn't.

There is much to say about the trip to Canada but I don't think this is the place to do it. Coming back I felt like my heart was sunburned, rough, raw, flaking and peeling, hot and sore to the touch. I felt like I left pieces of my heart strewn along the highway, on the shoulders of those I hugged, on pillows where I slept. I picked at it in moments of quiet and regretted it in moments of movement. It was never comfortable.

I realize that living can be unsexy; it is by its very nature., because living is sustained and sexy isn't. Living isn't some big constant adventure, it isn't one high after another, because living is real, and to be real, it needs to be rooted and there is nothing sexy about rooting. Roots aren't pretty. They are dirty, they are unseen, they get no glory. But they endure.
And lord, when roots are true, do they produce some beautiful flowers.

May the Mind

May the mind of Christ, my Savior,
Live in me from day to day,
By His love and power controlling
All I do and say.

Natalie’s memorial service was lovely. Michelle and Dave did a great job organizing it, and, in deference to Natalie’s ever-present faith, the service was God-filled. No one there was surprised that it was a service about her faith. The second song sung was a hymn I didn’t know, but its words captured so well the life and prayer of such a dear woman.

May the Word of God dwell richly
In my heart from hour to hour,
So that all may see I triumph
Only through His power.

The words spoken about her were true and imperfect, stories of cancer and remission and cancer again. There had to be 300 people there on a mild and bright Saturday afternoon. I sat between Erin and Megan, two friends who have loved me wisely and well throughout the years. I know Erin because of Natalie; I was so thankful for their hands and hearts. We all needed to touch each other, to keep moored. Grief was pounding.

May the peace of God my Father
Rule my life in everything,
That I may be calm to comfort
Sick and sorrowing.

I was the last to speak. I didn’t know what I wanted to say except that she taught me irrational and unconditional love, that she was my hero and mentor, and that I am who I am because of what she gave. Her investment in me is my daily breath. I don’t remember what I said. I hope that my thoughts came out. Words can't capture the biggest gratitudes.

May the love of Jesus fill me
As the waters fill the sea;
Him exalting, self abasing,
This is victory.

I cried. Lord did I cry. I haven’t stopped crying. I have no strength or energy to care about much else. I want so badly to be a good representation of who she was, to honor her, but thinking of her is suffocating. I am bone tired from carrying weight. She would tell me that I was loved far beyond her own capacity to love, and that that love endures. Her steadfast reminders I will miss.

May His beauty rest upon me,
As I seek the lost to win,
And may they forget the channel,
Seeing only Him.

The Truck

For the past nine months or so, I’ve been standing in the middle of a road. There was a truck coming; I knew it is coming. There were times when I saw the dust from its tires; I heard the sound of its rumble. It was coming and I could not stop it, could not step out of its path. I tried to prepare for it, tried to steel myself for the collision, to brace for the impact. A truck was coming. I just didn't know when.
The truck hit on Friday night, when Erin called and tearfully said, “Sarah, it’s the call.”

Natalie has died.

She was 53.

I was prepared for the shock of her death. I wasn’t prepared for the grief.

A Place On Earth

In my AP English class we had a project where we had to make a representation of either heaven or hell and present it in front of the class. I chose to do hell, because I could understand that. I can comprehend the idea of hell. I can fathom loneliness, chronic uncomfortably; I imagine hell to be a place that isn’t fire and brimstone but oppressive silence, an uncomfortable chill and very damp. In my mind, it is a slow ceaseless sort of torture.
It’s heaven I don’t get.
When I think of heaven, my mental picture is wooden picnic tables on clouds. It’s rather boring. But if I replace the word heaven with the word paradise, I have a completely different reaction. I can imagine a paradise. I think.
Several years ago I wrote a short story about people talking about their ideas of heaven. I think I did this because I don’t know my own. As I was writing the story, I found it fascinating that each character’s version of heaven was totally different than the others; that what is heaven to one person might be closer to purgatory to another.
I guess what gets me about heaven: to be what it is supposed to be, it must be all things to all people. I can’t wrap my head around that.
To be honest, I don’t know if I believe in heaven. I don’t live with some confidant expectation that I’ll end up there; that the people I love will be there too. Don’t get me wrong; I want it to exist but I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if this life is it and strangely that notion doesn’t do much to change my faith. But at this moment, I have to believe in heaven. There seems too much to a soul to simply disappear.

This Bitter Heart

Usually when my life is in turmoil and tragedy has struck and I don’t know what to do or where to turn, I go to Natalie. When good things happen, she is my first call. Default, no question. I call her, I stop by, I sit on that couch with tea and we talk and things are ok. I talk to her at least once a week. She has loved me so well. It’s been this way for 14 years. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation.We were discussing a trip to Asheville.

So what do I do now that she is the tragedy?

Walking to my car this morning, that was my shock. I thought, “I’m so heartbroken; I really need to be loved and comforted; I need to call Nat” only to literally stop in my tracks and realize I couldn’t. I won’t hear her voice again. Nothing like showing up to work after sobbing for ten minutes.

Driving away from her house yesterday after dropping off my goodbye letter (she hasn’t the strength for a visit) I wondered if it was the last time I’d be in that driveway, in that kitchen. The word shattered doesn’t begin to describe my selfish little heart.

I don’t know how to grieve without it seeming selfish. Is there a way to do it? The person I’d normally ask that question to is Natalie.

I’m lost.

I Hope They Have Beer in Heaven

For 4 years, the last weekend in June meant one thing, that thing that would cause friends to travel great distances and promote the usage of vacation days, a holiday unlike any other:

The Old Dominion Beer Festival.

You may laugh, but this truly was a very, very special weekend event. It would start on Friday around 5pm and ended Sunday at 7pm and those three days were chockablock full of music, food, cigars, an inevitable sunburn, probably a rain shower or two and, of course, lots and lots of beer to sample...fifty breweries in fact. It was summer. After the festival we'd go inside the brewery to fill our growlers and get dinner (as Brandt is doing after the 2006 festival. That's five growlers he is holding; I have four myself).

That all changed in March, 2007 when Old Dominion Brewery was bought out, with Coastal City Brewing Company getting a 51% share and good old Anheuser-Busch getting 49%.
Last May I got online, looking up the musical acts for the 11th annual ODB fest only to find it wasn't happening...they blamed construction. They said, "Don't worry! We'll be back and bigger than ever next year!"

Today is supposed to be the big day of ODB fest.
I should be sitting at a picnic table, stuffing my face with a funnelcake and downing my 12th sample of Some Kind of Awesome Beer with all my friends, but no.
There is no joy in Mudville, ODB Fest is no more more.
I hate you, Anheuser-Busch. Hate you.

(Romano and Seany in happier times, standing with glorious kegs of ODB goodness)

Note: Asheville has the Brewgrass Festival in September, celebrating all things bluegrass and beer-ish, but Brandt (guy with the growlers) is a slimy bastard and is getting married in Virginia the same day as Brewgrass. Bah.

All Creatures Here Below

My grandfather's memorial service was this past weekend, a chance to memorialize 92 years in a scant 45 minutes. Family gathered, huddled, mumbled, and stared, hoping for cues from no one in particular. Yet the most powerful part of the whole service didn't come from aunts or uncles, it came from my brother.
As most of you know, I suffer from something called hyperhydrosis, a condition that randomly makes my hands and feet sweat uncontrollably (if you didn't know this, surprise. I do. There is no cure, but apparently botox shots every six months can mostly stop it, if I got a couple grand I need to burn). When I have an episode, the very last thing in the world I want to do is touch another person's hand. I am frighteningly self-conscious about this, and I think for good reason. Like I would rather be naked in front of a large crowd than have to hold hands with people for more than 10 seconds. (So please, don't ever make me hold your hand. I'm not kidding. I once dumped a boyfriend because he insisted on holding my hand when I didn't want to.) Toward the end of my grandfather's memorial, my Uncle David got up and said, “As per family tradition, we'd like to end the service singing The Doxology and holding hands.” I froze. I was standing between my brother and my Aunt Penny, whom I've met a total of twice in my life. I looked at him with panic in my eyes.
“I can't hold hands! Look at my hands! I can't do it!” Elliott locked eyes with me and said steadily, “Switch places with me. Stand between me and Katie (our little sister) and we'll take care of you.”

And you know what? He did. When the time came he looked right at me and grabbed my hand, the one I was trying to hide, and held it firmly through the song, giving me a little squeeze when we both broke down into tears.

All this time I've been wondering how to love my brother well, what boundaries to enforce, the amount of contact I should have with him, I've been condemning him and judging him. And then he goes and, if only for a moment, loves me so deeply and precisely that I am struck dumb. It wasn't the lesson I was expecting to learn in that moment, but I praised the God from whom all blessings flow.

What!?

So Sean Taylor, one of my favorite Redskins players, died this morning after sustaining a gunshot wound to his thigh during an attempted robbery at his home yesterday. Taylor was the anchor of the defense, the guy that would alter offensive schemes because he was in the game. It's a surprise and a crushing blow--I mean the guy just got engaged and had a 1-year-old daughter...he just got his life together, it seemed to just be starting. He was sort of the face of the franchise. So senseless. It does feel like I've lost a friend of sorts, someone I cheered for every week for the past 4 years. So weird to take it hard.