Easter to Advent

During Lent we were mourning the loss of several loved ones and my husband gave me this Scripture passage to comfort me:  

"And as for the resurrection of the dead, have you not read what was said to you by God, 'I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob'?  He is God not of the dead, but of the living."

- Matthew 22:31-32

Now here we are, all the way in Advent and the same verse still hits me hard. My secret dark feelings that something will inevitably go wrong with this pregnancy and I will have to say good-bye to yet another loved one this year, are tested by this verse.  God is God not of the dead, but of the living.  Even as we say good-bye to our loved ones, God claims them as His, and promises us all new Life!  There is hope.  It seems dark even now, but light trickles in ... through Jesus.

This little life that I have nurtured for nearly nine months can be a source of secret fears for me, or I can acknowledge God's power in this baby's life and God's power in this baby's death, and this baby can be a reminder that ours is the God of the living...perhaps the joy of new life can relieve some of the pain of loss our family has experienced this year. 

My fear of death is selfish, after all.  I hate saying good-bye.  The hope I feel God pressing on me is the hope that these farewells we say here are temporary.  I must not take them as seriously as those who have no hope of seeing their loved ones again.  And...there are always more people to love.  We have to stay hopeful so we can keep on loving.  When we keep on loving, despite loss, we keep on hoping.

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." -Tennyson

Why I Dread

I started dreadlocks eight months ago when Steven died, and then Plain Ol' Grammy died.  The world turned upside down.  Grief besieged me.  Two lives ended, and nothing was good, or right, or beautiful.

My hair became an outward symbol of the tangled mess living ... and dieing ... are.  My hair became a sloppy-looking hope, that someday this mess will be manageable, live-able, maybe even sort of lovely.  It is a daily reminder for me that there's not always a "cure" for the mess.  Sometimes you just have to ride the fuzzy mess with your eyes closed and try to keep your feet under you.  And sometimes the mess will surprise you, and you will feel loved and beautiful despite the mess, and really know that this sort of love is best:  the love that loves despite, or even because of the tangles.

My dread locks are not what I expected.  Some days I wonder, "What have I done?!" but most days I think, "This is the best decision I've ever made".  They are a challenge to clean (yes I clean my dreads regularly!).  They do not allow my husband to give me a scalp massage (oh I miss head rubs!).  They get stuck in tree branches and in zippers and my children like to pull on them.  They are moody, they are frizzy, and they sometimes bring strange looks down people's noses in my direction.

I'm told dread locks take a while to mature.  When they're mature they require much less maintenance.  I imagine that's the way of most things.  My grief included.  Perhaps it too, will mature, and become more manageable.  Some days I can't believe that I go on living - without Steven in the world.  Without Grammy.  I'm always amazed that another day has gone by without the influence of that soul on this time.  I love that every time I catch my reflection in the mirror, my hair reminds me of my loved ones.  And happy coincidence: the conception of these dreads coincides with the conception of a third little Thiessen baby.

But most of all, these dread locks of mine are accurate.  This is a hair style that screams, "LAURA".  My life is a mess, my hair is a mess, but I have hope because God loves beautiful things, and can make beautiful things out of this crazy life, out of this crazy grief, out of this most crazy time.  I keep looking for beauty in the tangles.  I keep hoping.  And I accept the mess, the grief, the tangles, for now.  They are where I am.  They are okay - more than okay!  They are right.

Kids say...

 

It was 45 F yesterday, so we had to take advantage of it and play outside!

making volcanoes!

One of my favorite corners of my home:  Plain Ol' Grammy, tiny vases from POG, a bird from Kathy, a vase from Amanda, and lego wheels...framing my favorite view: boys outside.

Seamus:

My dice are running down the hallway, and so am I!

Can I have more smarsh-mallows?

I don't want to go to bed, I just want to sleep in my bed.

(after being scolded) You're so pretty, Mommy....just SO pretty.

In six days, when the baby comes, he's going to be so key-ute.


Luke: 

I called Dad so loud that he could hear me as clear as morning!

(crying) You ALWAYS make me learn things!

I found out I liked those carrots in my chewing process.

There was an excess of apples.  So I ate them.

Mom!!  My brother is doing stuff he shouldn't be doing....like eating stuff!

Them Dreads

There is a man in Winnipeg who has made and maintained African and Caucasian dreadlocks in his hair studio for over 25 years.  Tomorrow I am going to go see him for a consultation.  Then I will (hopefully!) make an appointment to have my dreads professionally maintained sometime before the baby is due, so that I have hands-free dreads when baby comes along and needs all my hands.

I started my dreads when Steven and Grammy died in quick succession, this Spring.  They are now nearly 8 months old.  That's how people talk about their dreads.  They talk about "how old" they are, and they recognize them as individuals so the hair is no longer singular "Hair", but plural and personified, "Them".  I have begun to do the same.  This hair of mine has developed a lot of personality in the last eight months.  And while it has made me a few new friends, some very close acquaintances don't quite know what to do with "Them" (ahem, husband).  Still, it seems most people are 100% on board when I tell them my dreads are in memory of Steven and of Grammy.  I tell them these dreads of mine are an outward symbol of my inner, tangled mess of grief.  Then people nod and smile and give me the thumbs up.  Most likely because they're 100% certain by now that I'm a lunatic and their personal safety is in question.  To be fair, some of them legitimately get it.

The last few months with my dreads have been particularly trying.  They don't seem to be locking up as fast as I'd like.  They don't look nice, they're frizzy and static-y and most days I put them under a scarf just to feel like a human under this mop.  I don't really know what I'm doing with them, I don't know how to "maintain" them.  I don't know what they're supposed to be looking like as they mature.  And I begin to wonder if I've jumped into the deep end without a life preserver...typical me.

So I talked to Rob on the phone this morning and he says, "Aw, I know exactly where you're at, and I know exactly what you need.  Come see me and we'll talk, I'll give you the tricks of the trade, and you pay me whatever you can manage after I've worked on your dreads and got you set up."  A window opens!  Light pours in!  I want to cry and sob to Rob, "Make me pretty!!"  And I want to sob to Derek, "Think I'm pretty!!"  And I'm so tired I could literally lay down and cry, because I'm sad and life is hard, and people I love have died, and I want grief to resolve itself, and I want my head to be pretty again. 

One month ago

I got the call.  The call that woke me with a shock that I could feel across the miles, before the words were even spoken.  That call that you know is bad as you hear the phone ringing, it shouldn't be ringing right now, something is wrong, please God, no.  But by the time my phone was ringing it was long over; my pain a belated scream into the absence where you once were.

Steven.

I keep saying your name, wishing you back by the power of memory.  The memories.  Every one of my childhood memories includes you.  Every one.  Because even when you were at your house and I was at mine, I knew you were at your house and I was at mine.  Even as an adult, when you weren't at your house and I wasn't at mine, I always knew you'd come home and so would I.  Our Home was the same, united in that thought.

This thing we take for granted, being safe at home, knowing our loved ones are safe at home, if I let myself consider this false security too long I will go mad with anxiety.  We all adventure, go and do and see and experience.  You most of all.  But our immortality is not of our bodies, the end can come when least expected.  Our immortality is in the love of others, how we love and are loved...being remembered.

You leave behind a lot of people who love you, and a lot of stories about how you loved us.  We can't help being sad on our own account - not to mention the grief we feel at the injustice of your death.  It's lonely, knowing you won't ever be at your house again.  It's lonely realizing we won't hear you roaring down the street on your motorcycle, and be reminded that you Are...breathing, alive, thinking, Being.  It's lonely without you.

Things I could do when I took your existence for granted are impossible to complete now that every breath I take reminds me that you won't take another. There's a crack in everything.

There is a Crack in Everything

That's how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen

"It's not a car," he insists, "It's not a truck!" he exclaims,

"It's a Jeep," he sighs and stomps on the gas.

Thanks to Ezekiel's grandparents for sharing the vehicular joy an open-air Jeep can provide.  They also took me on my first open-air Jeep ride when I was a kid.