Oh, just more sad things

You know, while I was away from blogging I kept on thinking of things I wanted to write about.  I know people probably don't believe me on account of my occasionally loud external personality, but I do kind of  a lot of thinking.  (I may or may not be facetious right now.  I leave it up to you to decide what I would even have to be facetious about in this paragraph.  I make nothing easy on anyone.  I also might just be in a weird mood.  I might have finally redeemed my Starbucks birthday reward and gotten two extra shots of espresso in my caramel macchiato, simply because it was my birthday drink and it was freeeeee also I've always wondered what would happen to me with two extra shots of espresso and I think now I know.)

I never posted any of my musings because, well, this was a terrible year and I hated to admit to even myself that there were moments in which I was musing on other things.  But life goes thusly.

I went ahead and deleted all of those drafts this morning.  I just wasn't feeling it, also, venti Starbucks drinks sometimes, you know, make me delete things willy-nilly.  Anyhow, one of the posts I'd deleted had been some non-sensical musings (much like these?) about rings.

Rings?  rings.

You see, I remember years ago, seeing a widower, just a few months after his wife had died, with a bare left hand (had to Google which hand the wedding band goes on.  Left or right is not my best skill).  I had to wonder, looking stalkerishly at that empty ring finger, what sort of process it was to take that ring off.  What was the decision process, how did he decide it was time?  What sort of emotional toll does it even take on a human, to take off the symbol of commitment, because the person to whom you were committed has died?

It was kind of awful, actually, that day I noticed his bare hand.

But the reason I was thinking about it this summer, after all these years, was because I noticed another widower, whose wife has been with the Lord for the better part of a decade, whose ring is still firmly in place on his ring finger.  And I wondered: what does it feel like, to see that band, and know that its whole reason for existence is no more.  What sort of daily emotional roller coaster might that band represent?

I don't know why I didn't feel free to write about this over the summer, because it pretty much 100% matches my mood.  Which is to say: life is hard.  People make decisions all the time, people have to face those sorrows in the darkest cracks of their heart, and decide what steps to take, and what actions are right for them.  Because no matter what the choice is in this particular scenario (which is to say, when it's an appropriate time to remove a wedding band or not) it doesn't change the fact of it all, that the finality comes not with the removing the wedding ring or not, it comes with the painful separation that is death.  And I can tell you, I don't even have as much to be sad about as half the people I know, but my bruised-enough-as-it-is heart positively shudders at the thought of ever being in that position.  May the Lord grant immeasurable comfort to those who, for whatever reason, have to face these questions on a personal level.

I've been hibernating

A sister who supposedly doesn't read this recently gently reminded me that I could possibly write again.  Because, you know, that's what you're supposed to do when you've committed to a blog.  (Though I recently read my first-ever blog post and saw that I had wisely and honestly been pretty pessimistic about my ability to keep on blogging regularly.  So, if anyone read my blog in 2009, you'd know not to expect too much.)

I could.  And I am.  Right now, in fact.  But I don't want to.

Guys, in the spirit of full disclosure, 2014 has been an awful year.  A friend lost twins.  My sister lost her young son.  I lost a friend my age.  Another friend just lost her son.

There have been good things.  Bright things.  But every time I've even thought about writing here in my blog, I keep logging in and looking at that last post I wrote and thinking, "Ugh, I'm not ready to move beyond that."  I didn't know, obviously, when I wrote that, how much I'd come to appreciate the story of that woman who lost her son, how much I'd come to rely on those around me when all I did was cry for a month when my nephew died.  How exhausted and upset and mad I felt when yet another friend lost her child.  So every time I looked at the post, it bespoke even more grief.

Because it's all good and well, to grieve in unity.  But I HATE that we have to grieve in unity.  Or at all.  I hate that by loving so many people, ones heart gets broken afresh with every good-bye.  I think I've cried more this year than I ever have before--even counting when my own brother died.  I even almost cried at a wedding this year, and I have never cried at a wedding in my life before, so that is saying something.

And this is why I haven't written.  Because I can't think of light and fluffy things to say.  Because even though I still have random interactions with people around me, and I meet strangers who become friends, and I think vaguely interesting thoughts, they get pushed around and reorganized in my brain and at the top, always, remains the dull "ugh I can't even" and then, you know, I just don't write for ages and ages.

I'm not trying to make it sound like I live a wholly depressed life.  I have a new sister-in-law, a new nephew, and another new niecew on the way.  There have been weddings, and engagements, and babies, and changes, and happy things, and all the rest other wonderful things there are supposed to be in life.  But someone (a weird dude.  The strangest people talk to me sometimes) recently was like, "So awesome that you're so young and full of optimism!" and I straight-up told him that I thought it was rude that he assumed young people had to be full of optimism.  I look forward to the future.  I expect wonderful things in the future.  But I think it's stupid that older people think it's okay for themselves to not have optimism, because us younger generation has got it covered.

Maybe I was PMSing that day.  I just looked up the official definition of optimism, and it is in fact what I have, in spite of everything.

op·ti·mism

ˈäptəˌmizəm/

noun

1. 1.

   hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.

   "the talks had been amicable, and there were grounds for optimism"

   synonyms:

   hopefulness, hope, confidence, buoyancy, cheer, cheerfulness, good cheer, sanguineness, positiveness, positive attitude "I wish I had your optimism"

Whatever.  We're going with optimistic though without a spirit of optimism.

So.  Here I am, for whatever it's worth.  Thankful for all that is past, and trusting the Lord for all that's to come.

The unity of grief

Most people have gone through tough times in their lives.  Be it deaths, broken relationships, illnesses, mistreatment, betrayal...  I feel like grief leaves wounds that never completely close.  Oh, they fade, and through the grace of God any heart can heal, but memories will always linger.

But the up side of grief, if I may speak simplistically, is that because it is so universal, it can be shared.  No two stories are ever going to be the same.  No two griefs will ever perfectly match.  But two wounded hearts can share the pain and the peace that their stories have brought.  (I remember the first time one of my friends lost a brother after I'd lost mine, thinking, "Finally, I can offer words of encouragement so they know they're not alone."  But afterwards I realized--it was just as uncomfortable and sad and distinctly Not As Comforting As I'd Wished as the other times.  Even if it feels like you have all things in common, another soul's grief can never be fully entered into.  So words of hope and encouragement are always beneficial, not just from people who know.)

Remember after 9/11?  People would gather to share their stories, their hurts, and to begin the healing by acknowledging that their pain was not theirs alone.  In its individuality, it was universal.  School shootings and natural disasters are like that too, but often when people endure sorrow on an individual scale, they don't share like they might if others were going through the same experience.  Often we keep individual griefs closed in, as if our pain might inconvenience others.

This is a stock photo because obviously I don't actually take pictures when people are grieving.

I've been thinking about that recently.  A woman I know recently had this to say about her journey through grief.  (I would never just link someone's random post, but she wrote this to be shared, and to be a thread of comfort to others.  Her journey from grief means giving up rights to her story, as it were, if it means someone could be helped by it.)  I would recommend reading it, by the way.  I'm not going to lie--I cried when I read it.  I've never lost a child, but I'm a human, so I reacted to her suffering.
And that's the way it should be.  At work, this sparked a lot of discussions.  We all shared a little about the sad times we've gone through in our lives.  I've worked there for more than a year and this was the first time I'd mentioned my brother to some of them.  Everyone had a little piece of grief to offer, and in every offering, the burden was made just a little lighter to bear.

Of course...  I really haven't gone through as many tough times as some.  All things considered, I've gotten off pretty easy on the grief scale.  But that's my point--people can share grief, even if it's not the same.  Even if I haven't suffered as much as you, it doesn't mean that we can't be a comfort to each other.  And, most particularly if we're both believers, we have so much comfort to give each other.  I remember being much impacted by a story of grief told by a man I knew, who, instead of focusing on his own grief, reminded me that none of our suffering compares to the Lord's suffering.  And it's not just that He suffered, He suffered for our sakes.  So we can stand together, and with certainty that overshadows grief, say that My Redeemer Lives.  It's not like that takes away the earthly pain we experience, but it causes our hearts to focus on the One Who can bear our pain in the toughest moments.  Because sharing pain and grief with others will never compare to the lightness that comes with sharing our burdens with the Lord.

Saved (from stupidity, by grace)

This isn't about salvation-type saved, just regular I'm-not-dead saved, just so we're clear, though I'm very thankful to be Saved-saved.

The other day I was at the store buying bouncy balls, and walking across the parking lot with my purchases I was nearly hit by a car. Thankfully, a quick-thinking friend honked and made me look, which, in turn, caused me to jump, which, in turn, stopped me from being run over. It made me thankful to be alive, and without full-body bruises.

It's not so much like I think I would have really died that day (though I would have liked to see the bouncy balls bounce all over the parking lot), but it made me consider how many times I've been spared from something terrible. I can think of multiple times, off the top of my head, where I've come close to death. But even more, what about the times when I was close to death and didn't know it? What about the times when the Lord put a wall of protection around me and held off the danger, and I carried obliviously on?

Those are the times that make me bow my head and thank the Lord. I'm spared from so much, and most of it goes unnoticed as I spend my time wondering about visible problems. How blind I feel, but how thankful!

To throw, or not to throw

I'm currently (with the help of my brother) packing up my grandparent's house. It's been sort of a large job, and not exactly getting smaller, in addition to the fact that we don't have a lot of time in which to work. But we go over, put in a few hours here and there, and it's a pretty good system.

One thing that we've been doing, that I'm not sure my grandparents really had in mind when they suggested this job to us, is throwing away stuff. Fake flowers? Chuck them. Broken toys? Toss. Things that look odd and we don't know how to label? Adios.

Now, to our credit, we're pretty familiar with my grandparents and their wishes/tastes. When I throw things away I think 1) will they miss this? and 2) would they miss this if they knew about it? I've pretty much decided that using those two simple questions, I should be safe.

But my brother and I have had many interesting conversations about what we'd keep and throw away in our own home, should our parents pass away and leave the cleaning-out job to us. (My brother, just last night: "We'd be able to pay the property taxes, right?" For some reason that struck me as funny.) The thing is, our house has a ton of books. Loads. I don't even know what we'd do with them, or how we'd divvy them amongst our siblings, or whether we'd just pack them into storage. But my brother and I were talking about the books, most of all. The other things in our house, apparently, have almost no relevance to us. We don't like our couches, though, so they'd have to be tossed.

Anyhow, I must admit, I don't intend on ever having to sort through my parent's things, due to the rapture, but I find it interesting to take a step back and ponder what's really important, apparently, to my brother and I.

Books.

I'm not all that surprised.

Safe

So, I'm not feeling very wordy today. I'm feeling, however, that I love knowing that I'm safe in Christ's care.

Wow. I just had the weirdest feeling ever. I all of a sudden remembered that when my Dad told us that my brother had passed away, he jumped out of the van where we were waiting for news, and (I think) he said to my mom, "He's safe." That's not weird, it made sense (remember when David from the Bible asked if the young man Absalom was safe? I think it was reminiscent of that), but what's weird is... I'm not sure.

Fine, fine, it was six years ago, but the details of that day seemed like things I'd never forget. Sitting on the porch swing for hours, trying to read my book (ironically, Calm My Anxious Heart by Linda Dillow), but being worried sick about what could have happened. Kneeling in the living room, praying with my family for the safety of the members of the family we were worried for. Trying to go through the motions of the day, playing games, making meals, exactly as if we were going to sit down that night like a normal family and have dinner together.

But all of a sudden, I don't quite remember if my dad said those words, "He's safe." I can ask someone and refresh my memory (and I will!) but it's been so far archived in my brain that it's not retrievable with 100% accuracy.

Sorry. Sad moment alert. Good thing I know I'm resting safe in the Father's hand, right?

A moment for reflection

We've all lost someone, or something. None of us remain untouched by the sorrows of death, even if we somehow think that our loss might not be as life-shattering as the next guy's.

We have a guest in our home right now, and he was sharing the most incredible things last night. He recounted how approximately fifteen years ago, he went to a home-schooling gathering to pick up a bunch of children for a time at the gym, and was met by several frazzled mothers. Not thinking anything about it, he joked that if he didn't know better, he'd think they were upset at him. It turns out, they weren't upset, they were worried... for him. The police were trying to get a hold of him, his family was in an accident, and all sorts of doctors were trying to reach him. He rushed in the building to call the doctors. It started out with mostly good news--his son was being released right then. The next doctor reported that his wife and one of his girls were both in surgery, more news later. The last doctor had news about one of his other girls. The doctor had never seen someone survive an injury like that before.

Our friend described how awful it all was; how difficult those moments were. As he was leaving a few of the mothers offered to go with him, or drive him, or help somehow. He wanted to go alone, he told them, but he was very thirsty, and could someone bring him something to drink?

"Can you imagine what would have compelled someone, in my moment of grief, to bring me some vinegar to drink?" He asked us last night.

That's when I started crying. Not just because I know the family, and know the twin of the girl who ended up dying in that accident, but because he made such a good point. To think that Christ, in His moments of suffering, had been brought vinegar to quench his thirst. The disregard of the world, having nothing but thorns and nails to offer, stooped to a place that wouldn't allow the simple kindness of water to quench His thirst. The Man Who was the Living Water was made like the scum of the earth by dying on the cross.

Puts it in perspective, doesn't it?

Back to Up

I mentioned the Disney/Pixar movie Up a few weeks ago, and I was pondering it the other day. And today, I guess.

A fact about me: I'm not romantically attached to anybody in any particular way. Thankfully. =) One day I might be ready. Moving on.

So here's the deal: sometimes I wonder if love is worth it. That quote from Tennyson, the one that goes, "'Tis better to have lost and lost/ than to have never loved at all," always struck a nerve with me, if that makes any sense. Sometimes I'm convinced that love isn't worth it. First, look at the percentages of marriages that don't last. Oh, and pause and consider the number of marriages that have lasted, but as a technicality, because the marriage itself hasn't held up internally. Then consider the people who aren't in marriages yet have crummy relationships.

And that's just marriage. Don't get me started on the games people play before they get to that point.

Sure, marriage seems scary and like a lot of work. This much we all recognize. But what scares me worse than that is the thought that one day, after you've worked through the agonizing parts, and come out stronger on the other side, blah blah blah, if the Lord doesn't come... well, that spouse (or you, whichever) is going to die. Raptured or dead, those are the only options. Doesn't that sound cynical? News flash, I am sort of cynical.

So we've determined that I'm cynical and that marriage seems big and scary. What does this have to do with Up?

For those who have seen the movie, they will immediately remember the first 11 minutes of the film, wherein a touching story is shown of the life of Carl and Ellie, a couple who went through a lot (death of a child=supposedly one of the worst things that can happen to a person, though I don't know from personal experience), and lived life to the fullest. Until Ellie died. Bummer.

But it was so sad! And even at the end of the movie, when I knew that Carl was happy and hanging out with his newest pal Russell, it was sad, because I knew that for every day Carl was enjoying his favorite activities with Russell, it must have hurt him, because those were Ellie's favorite places, too.

Odd to consider this in such depth, but I'm sort of an odd duck.

So there we have it. Loving and losing sounds frightening. Everyone says it's worth it, but this girl needs a little more convincing.

Funny labels

This really has nothing to do with anything, but I happened to notice something amusing this morning that had to do with my labels. Maybe not amusing, but... sad?

I have mentioned Neverland and Nancy Pelosi the same number of times at some point during the last 75 posts on here. (Cars, creation, and insurance are on par with Nancy and the Neverland gang, apparently, though that doesn't seem quite as amusing.)

So this is just a note to say that I'm glad I started labeling my posts. If nothing else, it provides temporary amusement.

I just realized that I think I've mentioned death more than I've mentioned Heaven. I'm not sure how that discrepancy happened... Ipes.

The Funeral Planner

In days gone by, I used to go to school. "Go to" being the operative words in the statement, but we'll worry about that another day. Anyhow, I had three delightful friends, all of whom I've almost entirely lost touch with since those days. Life comes at you fast.

Anyhow, one late evening we young ladies were discussing the ins and outs of our future lives. One young lady, named Chrissy, was supposedly looking for "James from British" on a map, and could never find him. I'm pretty sure, in this highly preposterous story we were making up, that she died from lack of food and water, so intense was her search for this place named "British" on the globe. For those who are confused, I actually have a slide show explaining the story in all its glory, should you care for a gander.

The point of this little tale is that I decided (uh, "decided" being the operative word) that my lot in life was to become... The Funeral Planner. Actually, I'm not going to lie, I'd still like to have that job--go visit terminally ill children, chat with them about their likes and dislikes, get a feel for their parents, figure out a funeral fitting for a child (you know, balloons, candy, Bible verses read by best friends instead of pastors, that sort of thing) and then be responsible for organizing it once their sickness has gotten the best of them. It may sound morbid, but it actually sounds like a job I'd like.

Moving on, however, to the fact that I tend to think about funerals a bit much. I don't entirely have the details for mine down yet (I'm getting there) but I actually do ponder it sometimes. Well, not a lot, since I figure the rapture will have long since happened by the time a regular person would have needed a funeral, so it's more like a little thing I sometimes wonder about.

For instance, my funeral can't be boring. Nobody likes a boring funeral. If that ol' speaker rambles on for even one moment about the funeral of their own dearly departed mother (who is known to none in the audience), then he has failed, and someone should tackle him. My funeral should be about, I don't know, the Lord? That's what I'm thinking. If they're talking about me, it should be in a sort of off-handed "isn't it great that Joanne loved the Lord and was saved?" type of way. If they want to tell precious little stories about how one time I picked up someone's hankie with a smile on my face, fine. But really? It's not about me, people, it's about the One who made me. And happened to graciously welcome me into His Home, even though I really wanted to be raptured instead.

Stipulation number two. No congregational singing. I mean, seriously, none. I've been to only one funeral where that worked out well, and they had instruments, so it hardly counted. But if it has to be done, sing at the graveside, but not in the funeral home, please. I'd like for random friends to sing, if songs are needed. If there has to be a congregational singing of "Praise Him for all that is past, and trust Him for all that's to come" for the sake of my mother, that's fine, but only because I love my mom a lot. Otherwise, friends of mine who are good singers may sing. Oh, and a friend who's not such a good singer, because I promised her. But only if she really wants to, otherwise I'll spare the excessive singing.

I want an open casket. Unless I've died a vicious death that included animal paws or very large vehicles, I figure my face can handle it. I don't like closed-casket funerals. Weird, I know.

At the visiting hours, I want background music playing. Not boring type, but nothing crazy. Like... that Chris Rice CD with piano hymns? That's a good one. No classical music, though.

I want my friends to have a say in who my pall-bearers should be. My brother is an obvious shoo-in, but my parents and friends should confer and decide who the others should be. I think a lot of times random people are selected. So not cool, people, we're talking about a dead body in a wooden box--only special people should get to carry that!

I liked the open-mic format they had at my brother's, however, if anybody were to do that at mine, we'd need a larger funeral home. I'm just saying.

There are more things, but I just realized that in light of all the funerals that have been going on recently, this most likely isn't the appropriate time to be sharing this with the world. Guess the rest of my funeral plans will have to stay hidden away in my stash of papers. I didn't even get to whom or what I wanted my in-lieu-of money to be donated. So many things that the rapture will preserve us from having to figure out. Isn't that a joy?

Blind faith

There have been some tragic events going on recently, one of which involved a friend of mine who died of bone cancer. He was only 15, and it's been really hard on his family. One reason it's been so difficult is because his dad just didn't expect him to die. He'd been led to believe that it was always God's will to heal someone, and that sickness is indicative of sin. When his son died late Friday night, he turned to his wife and asked if she saw this coming.

He had faith. Faith that God would restore his son to full health and fix what was going on.

Sometimes we talk about "blind faith" and how it's trusting God even when we just can't see what He's doing. But this time? This time blind faith meant that he (the dad) believed that God would do a certain thing, rather than believing that God would do what was best for the situation. And I know I have a measure of that myself--I tend to think, "hey, He wants us to have faith like a grain of mustard seed..." and then I don't open myself to the possibility that He'll do something other than what I want Him to.

And questions with this are so hard. "How can someone with such strong faith feel so let down? Aren't we supposed to be protected?"

When people ask me things like that I just don't know what to say. It's such a difficult thing to be willing to trust God completely; blind faith that trusts Him to do the right thing, regardless of personal preference.

Forgotten: the lost boys

Well, the previous (rather, the post that is below me right now) was an old one I'd written back before I even got this blog. I'm forever writing random things, keeping them for a while, and then deleting them. I wrote this back in January, and when I got a blog in March, I figured I should use it for a blog post. But alas, time slipped away and I never posted it. But today is my day! I pulled it out and posted it.

The ironic thing? I'd never really read Peter Pan before (actually, I'd read the original play, but not the book) and I'm currently reading it. I'm only about halfway through, but it's sort of a long read for what's perceived as a childly book. It's mostly enjoyable, though James Barrie sure didn't shy away from blood and gore. For instance, he described how Captain Hook liked to randomly kill people. Just exactly what I wanted to hear.

I saw the Disney version of Peter Pan once, and the only thing I really remember is that they sung a song with a line "Why is the red man red," which always amused me for some reason, and also that once when Hook and Peter are fighting, Peter steps right off the end of some part of the ship (I'm bad a parts of ships, but it's a little crossbeam the sail was attached to, if that helps) and keeps fighting with Hook--even though he's not standing on anything solid! I remember being rather disgusted at the lack of realism in that part.

Though how the whole thing with Neverland was acceptable, I'm not sure. Oh, James Barrie actually called it "the Neverland" the whole time, so I guess I should start describing it as "the Neverland." Pardon my previous erroneous ways.

Memory days

Today, my brother would have been 23 years old. I can hardly believe that so many birthdays have come and gone since he passed away. I must admit to not having felt very melancholy about it today--it was just another day for me. But even as I have days that are just like all the rest, I have in the back of my mind that I had a brother, but no longer. Well, I still have a brother, but not this exact one.

I can't really think of what else to add. Other than that the odd mix of emotions that I stir up by thinking about it are always confusing to me. Sometimes it irritates me that I've moved on as completely as I have, and other times it irritates me that it still makes me sad. The passage of six+ years is by no means a reason for me to stop caring or thinking about it, but there are so many other problems to consider other than the death of my brother that it's odd to me that I still dwell on it at all. But, I figure that if I feel like being sad, then I will, and that's that.

But today wasn't such a day. Today was a day where I was thankful for the memories I have of us, and the memories I'm making with the rest of my family these days.

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.