In January, Shawn started his new job. I resigned from my new job, facing both a cross-country move and an unidentified illness.
In February my illness received a name: Lupus. We were not sure what that meant. I started medication, and Shawn encouraged me to sleep in late, bringing me hot tea in bed at 8:30 or 9 each morning.
I don't remember much of March. I think I did a lot of meaning to get the house ready to sell, and not really making much progress. David had his senior recital and I made cupcakes. We (and by "we" I mean Shawn) replaced the nasty carpet in our bedroom with prefinished oak, and it was gorgeous.
The beginning of April, we went to Illinois to look for a house.
The end of April, we went to Colorado to see my nephew get married.
In May we finally got our house on the market and sold it in 3 days (praise the Lord!).
In mid-May, David graduated from Syracuse University where he was named a University Scholar and gave the speech for the College of Visual and Performing Arts. It was during these ceremonies that our realtor texted us the particulars of our house sale.
We then began to negotiate for a house in Champagne. Nothing came
together. With a closing date of July 22 on our NY house (which turned out not to be accurate, but we didn't know that then), we got itchy
to get something done. And by itchy, I mean we were plagued by nervous stomach. And then some.
I lose track of the time-frame, but David and I went to Minnesota to pay a visit to his grandparents before he entered medical school and to capitalize on the Minnesota wedding reception his cousin was holding after the Colorado wedding, a chance to see a lot of relatives. This was at the end of May.
Shawn and I also made another flying trip to Illinois to look at more houses. I am not sure when this happened. Memorial Day, perhaps.
Jonathan graduated from Liverpool High School at the end of June. Laura and Matthew came to Syracuse for the event, as did the grandparents Carpenter.
On July 6, we threw a graduation party for Jonathan. It went astonishingly well, considering the circumstances. I will be forever grateful for that weekend. All six of us were together: Shawn, me, Shannon, David, Laura and Jonathan. Just us, but all of us, intact at 8402 Sugar Pine one last time. I had left the house "together" for the occasion. I remember people commenting at the party, "You still have pictures on your walls." Yes. Yes, I did. And I meant to, but I also paid for it.
Somewhere in there, we bought a house we had never seen. Oh well. We just did.
After the party, we began to tear the house apart, and mostly what I remember is driving to the Salvation Army and the dump, over and over. I lived those weeks with a constant lump in my throat and tossed fitfully in my bed each night, my hungry eyes grabbing for every last possible glimpse of anything familiar and grieving as the house-scape disintegrated in front of them.
On July 19, Shawn and I drove to Illinois again, to close on the house. I saw it for the very first time. The short upper cabinets in the kitchen and the oddly protruding soffits made me feel as though someone were pushing down uncomfortably on the back of my head. The total absence of a pantry, the corroding bright brass faucet at the kitchen sink and the fact that every sink in the house needed replacing caused a rising panic in my heart. I have a memory of standing across the kitchen from our realtor, feeling the oppression of those soffits bending me forward, trying to swallow, willing myself not to burst into tears as she earnestly inquired, "Do you love it?" This is not even taking into account the hours of weeding out gargantuan weeds that had appeared in the landscaping outdoors, a foreboding sight to a Lupus victim. It was my brother's birthday that day, but I was lost in my own misery and never wished him a happy return.
It required more than all the value of our house in NY (after realtors' fees) and our 20 acres of beautiful land to purchase this place, and there is so much to do. Housing prices in Syracuse are so unbelievably low; financially, it is a terrible place to move out of. But there was no time to think about that. We just signed over everything and drove 12 hours back to Syracuse where we had to hurriedly get ready for the packers.
I am not going to write about the packers again, or even link to a former entry about that. If you are morbidly curious, you can find it yourself. They packed on the 22nd and 23rd, loaded the truck on the 24th. I am so thankful for people's kindnesses. Some kind friends helped us clean the house behind the movers. And that night, some kind neighbors fed us dinner and some other kind (and brave) friends hosted us and our dogs for the night. In the morning we loaded everything that was left into our three remaining vehicles (we had donated Jon's van to the Rescue Mission). Everything that was left included the dogs and the dog crate, which Jon and I had to take in the Odyssey. And just like that, we set out, my men and me, 12 hours across the country. I got to have Jon, and he drove most the way (maybe all the way?). Shawn and DJ each had to stick it out alone.
We drove 12 hours the 25th, and the moving truck arrived at 9 am on the 26th, so the 26th was a full day of unloading everything we had not thrown out into a house that is smaller than the one we had before. It does not fit very well. We are still trying to figure it out. There will be another garage sale, and probably more trips to a dump, if we can find one.
During the first week after we arrived, we tried to get our bearings while still getting David ready to go to medical school in North Carolina. He left August 2. I don't even know what day of the week that was. He drove off in his little Corolla, all loaded down with all of his earthly belongings, or at least the ones he could find that the packers had not demolished. His departure left a shockingly quiet emptiness from which I may never recover. Jon was in social withdrawal, and by withdrawal I don't mean that he was socially withdrawn. I mean "withdrawal" in the sense of a bad drug withdrawal, when the thing (in this case, friends) has been suddenly removed and there is an unbearable craving for it.
On August 4, Matthew brought Lu back (back?) from Cleveland where she had done her summer internship. Their arrival was greatly cheering. Lu brings sunshine most places she goes, and Matthew is always both uplifting and comforting. We took some breaks from unpacking and just worked on living for a few days, exploring the park in our backyard. Laura liked the house, which was a big encouragement to me, and helped me also to like it better. We can make it nice. As she says, "It has really good bones." All it takes is money... all it takes is money. Money and energy and imagination and a lot of cleaning up after projects. Sigh.
On August 7, Matthew left, and on August 8 Shawn and I drove to NC for David's white coat ceremony which is a beautiful and stirring charge to new medical students to remember the humanity of their patients and to be good and kind doctors in the future. They are so idealistic at this point, I hate to see it crushed after life happens to them.
While in NC (August 9 and 10), we procured a bed and other necessities for David, and then we drove home on the 11th. Time to get Lu and Jon ready for college... Lu, facing her fourth year, was fairly good-to-go and completely self-sufficient. Jon was not dialed in.
Wednesday night (August 14), the night before we took off for PA, at about 8:30 pm, Jon told us that he needed some after-shave. We set out in the car for the Walgreens that is five minutes away. On our way, Jon said, "By the way, did you ever buy me my refrigerator for my dorm?" No, somehow I had forgotten to do that. And so we headed home, got the van, drove to the city where there is a Walmart, and bought him a refrigerator and socks and underwear because he said he needed them.
I will not detail what else he did not have. I just pray. Prayer is a very good thing, a very good thing. On a bright note, it only took about 15 minutes to move all his stuff into his dorm room when we got there.
We drove out on the 15th and home on the 16th, eight hours each way, and we left our two younger kids there, in PA. My youngest child, dropped off early for marching band, probably with less than half of what he actually needs, unceremoniously dumped onto a campus that is not yet bustling... and I will be too tired to go back next week for move-in day and to hear Lulubelle speak at the big "Welcome to College" ceremony because she is the senior chair of the orientation board.
On the way home, I sent Shannon a bunch of texts, telling her I love her, because I do and because she always answers texts the fastest.
So now we are here, just the two of us and our dogs, and I am too tired to take a shower. I have been lying on my bed for most of the day, because when I try to get up and walk around, I get really dizzy. Shawn says I am dizzy because I have not eaten lunch, but I am too dizzy to make lunch. And I cannot imagine what to make for dinner, for just two of us. We have never been alone like this. Maybe for an evening, but never like this.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Friday, August 2, 2013
Throw it away
When we had our kitchen done in our old house...
Augh. I should not think about this. I loved that kitchen. It was practically perfect, and beautifully aesthetically pleasing besides, custom designed to fit my exact needs. I miss my kitchen. But this is not a post about my kitchen. No.
When we had the kitchen redone, we (obviously) had to empty the original cabinets, and I found myself in quandaries about what to do with things.
I remember when they took down the cabinet over the refrigerator. There was (among other things) a handmade puppet toy in that cabinet. It was made from a cone and a stick, and by pushing up on the stick, you could pop a colorful, handmade clown up out of the cone. Someone gave it to me at a baby shower for Shannon.
Having a long dowel as one of its major working parts, it was not the safest toy, nor was it good for cooperative play; things made of long dowels invariably become weapons, clubs, things to swing at people who do not have one. This, no doubt, is why it had been consigned to the cupboard over the refrigerator.
That day, the cupboard detached from the wall and askew, open on the floor, I lifted the puppet toy out and considered it. It was cute, handmade, a gift from a friend.
The guy who was doing the job looked over my shoulder. "What's that?" he asked.
"It's a puppet toy," I said. "I don't know what to do with it."
He took it out of my hands, smashed it across his knee, and handed it, in pieces, back to me. "It's broken," he said. "Throw it away."
This story recurs to me over and over and over as I unpack boxes packed by our Bad Packer. "It's broken. Throw it away. It's broken. Throw it away."
On the plus side: the next time we move, there will be less to move.
Augh. I should not think about this. I loved that kitchen. It was practically perfect, and beautifully aesthetically pleasing besides, custom designed to fit my exact needs. I miss my kitchen. But this is not a post about my kitchen. No.
When we had the kitchen redone, we (obviously) had to empty the original cabinets, and I found myself in quandaries about what to do with things.
I remember when they took down the cabinet over the refrigerator. There was (among other things) a handmade puppet toy in that cabinet. It was made from a cone and a stick, and by pushing up on the stick, you could pop a colorful, handmade clown up out of the cone. Someone gave it to me at a baby shower for Shannon.
Having a long dowel as one of its major working parts, it was not the safest toy, nor was it good for cooperative play; things made of long dowels invariably become weapons, clubs, things to swing at people who do not have one. This, no doubt, is why it had been consigned to the cupboard over the refrigerator.
That day, the cupboard detached from the wall and askew, open on the floor, I lifted the puppet toy out and considered it. It was cute, handmade, a gift from a friend.
The guy who was doing the job looked over my shoulder. "What's that?" he asked.
"It's a puppet toy," I said. "I don't know what to do with it."
He took it out of my hands, smashed it across his knee, and handed it, in pieces, back to me. "It's broken," he said. "Throw it away."
This story recurs to me over and over and over as I unpack boxes packed by our Bad Packer. "It's broken. Throw it away. It's broken. Throw it away."
On the plus side: the next time we move, there will be less to move.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Finding center
I have found that sometimes the best progress in unpacking happens around dinner time. I begin to cook, and my three big guys, being hungry, stand by waiting. I discover that I need a particular utensil, and suddenly Shawn, David and Jon are all out in the garage, ripping through boxes, searching for that-which-will-occasion-dinner-to-be-served.
This was not intentional on my part, initially. But human nature being what it is, I am not making any promises that I will refrain from capitalizing on the phenomenon.
The upshot, however, is that there are a very lot of open boxes, half rifled through, sitting in the garage. Sometimes we find things like the original electric knife. It has been fragile ever since, years ago, a former co-worker of Shawn's yanked the blades out of it without pushing the release button, cracking the casing (this was at a company Thanksgiving luncheon). We babied it along, and actually we bought a replacement and ought to have thrown it away. But it still worked, so we didn't. The Bad Packer threw it into a box, loose, the blades loose as well, and fortunately we saw it splayed among "kitchen misc" before we had reached into the box and cut off our fingers by mistake. We found all of the parts, and set them gently aside on top of a different box.
Yesterday I emptied the last two boxes in our bedroom. I hope they are not the last two boxes of stuff from our bedroom, because important things are still missing. But they were the last two boxes that were occupying our bedroom, and it was a huge feeling of relief to get them out. Triumphantly, I carried them out to the garage. The moving company tells you to empty the packing paper into the largest boxes and then flatten the smaller boxes, so I emptied the first box of its packing paper and then looked around the garage for an implement I could use to cut it down. My eyes fell on the electric knife blades, and I used one--it worked beautifully--to slice the packing tape. Then I turned to the second box, stuffed its packing paper into the same large box, and went to grasp the blade to use once more.
It was gone. I could not find it. I gazed around at my garage full of open, partially unpacked boxes containing my pulverized former belongings next to large, unpacked boxes overflowing with used packing paper. I surveyed flattened boxes, garbage cans, furniture that does not fit into the house, bicycles, shoes, and even genuine garage items. Also my Odyssey van. I could not turn around. Forlornly atop a nearby box sat the electric knife base and its one remaining blade, only one; the set was no longer intact. Nothing was intact. My life was not intact. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I felt as though I could not breathe and then I started to sob, the undignified sounds echoing among the cardboard boxes on the concrete garage floor.
I cried until the sound of myself made me sick, which did not take very long.
Jon kindly helped me find the missing knife blade. It was on top of the van. I cut down the box, laid it on the pile, and spearheaded a shopping trip during which, among other things, we bought a toaster oven because I cannot find the toaster, and I got a pedicure because I have not been able to find the things needed to clean up my nasty, peeling toenails.
This morning I awoke, and my sheets were clean because we have a washer and dryer now. My bed was centered under the ceiling fan, and my dresser was centered across from the foot of my bed, because our boys helped us move them around last night. I felt better. And Jesus reminded me that He brought me here. This is the house He led us to, when He shut all the other doors. God is with me, and He will never leave me nor forsake me. It is going to be ok.
It is going to be ok.
Or, as they say here, "You're fine."
This was not intentional on my part, initially. But human nature being what it is, I am not making any promises that I will refrain from capitalizing on the phenomenon.
The upshot, however, is that there are a very lot of open boxes, half rifled through, sitting in the garage. Sometimes we find things like the original electric knife. It has been fragile ever since, years ago, a former co-worker of Shawn's yanked the blades out of it without pushing the release button, cracking the casing (this was at a company Thanksgiving luncheon). We babied it along, and actually we bought a replacement and ought to have thrown it away. But it still worked, so we didn't. The Bad Packer threw it into a box, loose, the blades loose as well, and fortunately we saw it splayed among "kitchen misc" before we had reached into the box and cut off our fingers by mistake. We found all of the parts, and set them gently aside on top of a different box.
Yesterday I emptied the last two boxes in our bedroom. I hope they are not the last two boxes of stuff from our bedroom, because important things are still missing. But they were the last two boxes that were occupying our bedroom, and it was a huge feeling of relief to get them out. Triumphantly, I carried them out to the garage. The moving company tells you to empty the packing paper into the largest boxes and then flatten the smaller boxes, so I emptied the first box of its packing paper and then looked around the garage for an implement I could use to cut it down. My eyes fell on the electric knife blades, and I used one--it worked beautifully--to slice the packing tape. Then I turned to the second box, stuffed its packing paper into the same large box, and went to grasp the blade to use once more.
It was gone. I could not find it. I gazed around at my garage full of open, partially unpacked boxes containing my pulverized former belongings next to large, unpacked boxes overflowing with used packing paper. I surveyed flattened boxes, garbage cans, furniture that does not fit into the house, bicycles, shoes, and even genuine garage items. Also my Odyssey van. I could not turn around. Forlornly atop a nearby box sat the electric knife base and its one remaining blade, only one; the set was no longer intact. Nothing was intact. My life was not intact. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I felt as though I could not breathe and then I started to sob, the undignified sounds echoing among the cardboard boxes on the concrete garage floor.
I cried until the sound of myself made me sick, which did not take very long.
Jon kindly helped me find the missing knife blade. It was on top of the van. I cut down the box, laid it on the pile, and spearheaded a shopping trip during which, among other things, we bought a toaster oven because I cannot find the toaster, and I got a pedicure because I have not been able to find the things needed to clean up my nasty, peeling toenails.
This morning I awoke, and my sheets were clean because we have a washer and dryer now. My bed was centered under the ceiling fan, and my dresser was centered across from the foot of my bed, because our boys helped us move them around last night. I felt better. And Jesus reminded me that He brought me here. This is the house He led us to, when He shut all the other doors. God is with me, and He will never leave me nor forsake me. It is going to be ok.
It is going to be ok.
Or, as they say here, "You're fine."
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Homemaking. Or not.
So yesterday I was frantically filling out some last minute medical forms for Jon's college. They asked for my husband's occupation. And then they asked for mine. I felt quite a pang as I wrote, "homemaker." Ha. Homemaker indeed. Adrift in a sea of boxes, overwhelmed, exhausted and unmotivated.
I had a home, but it was torn apart, literally, thrown unceremoniously into boxes by "professional" packers high on marijuana.
One of our packers, the highest one with the utterly blank blue eyes, was Really Bad. His idea of packing:
This house feels a little bit like a beach house, except for all the boxes and packing paper everywhere, and the way the furniture awkwardly doesn't fit. But it feels a little like a beach house, and the way we go to the store, bring home bags of food that is not from Wegman's and try to cook it in whatever way we can improvise, that feels like a beach house too, sort of. This morning I opened the refrigerator door and had the involuntary thought, "I think I would really like to go home now."
But home isn't there. The house is... I think of it, empty, waiting for the new owners to close, and how I hope they love it. But the contents of home have all been yanked out and deposited here for me to sort through. And I am not any good at sorting.
Homemaker. I wish!
I had a home, but it was torn apart, literally, thrown unceremoniously into boxes by "professional" packers high on marijuana.
One of our packers, the highest one with the utterly blank blue eyes, was Really Bad. His idea of packing:
- Stuff some packing paper into bottom of box.
- Up-end organized drawer into said box. Continue up-ending organized drawers until box is almost full.
- Stuff some more packing paper over the top.
- Seal box with packing tape and label as "misc." ( I am really beginning to despise the word "misc.")
This house feels a little bit like a beach house, except for all the boxes and packing paper everywhere, and the way the furniture awkwardly doesn't fit. But it feels a little like a beach house, and the way we go to the store, bring home bags of food that is not from Wegman's and try to cook it in whatever way we can improvise, that feels like a beach house too, sort of. This morning I opened the refrigerator door and had the involuntary thought, "I think I would really like to go home now."
But home isn't there. The house is... I think of it, empty, waiting for the new owners to close, and how I hope they love it. But the contents of home have all been yanked out and deposited here for me to sort through. And I am not any good at sorting.
Homemaker. I wish!
Monday, July 8, 2013
1,000,001 things to do
There are about 1,000,001 things I should be doing right now. Of course. But at the same time, as I live my last days here, I feel desperate to write things down. Argh. Nobody is dying or anything, but I feel this urgency to write while I remember, lest it all be lost.
Yesterday afternoon.
Before anybody left, I said, "Group hug!" and we all got into this big Carpenter huddle with our arms around each other's shoulders. I was engulfed in the largeness of my family, both corporately and individually (my head barely crests Jon's shoulder). We hunkered in all close to each other, feeling the love, and then Shawn started praying. I can't even remember what he prayed, but by the end we were pretty much all snuffling, and even DJ had to pull his sunglasses over his eyes as he extracted from the embrace.
We did frantic pictures, trying to capture memories that we crave with a starving kind of hunger.
Shannon lost her bank card, and I, I found it. I, who never find anything. There was much rejoicing and amazement. (I may or may not have done an inelegant dance.)
DJ and Lulubelle left first; he drove her back because the Amtrak wouldn't have gotten her in until 3 a.m. and she needed to work in the morning. His jaunty little old sand-colored Corolla turned the corner at the stop sign, onto Pinegate, and we waved, blowing kisses. It was sad, but Shannon was still by our sides. We would see DJ in a couple of days again, and Lulubelle at the beginning of August in our new home.
Shawn and Jonathan worked on putting the tent back into the tent box. Shannon and I went to Target to get her a new billfold for keeping track of her bank card. Afterwards, she and I toured the house together and took a few more frantic, desperate pictures:
It was time for Shannon to go.
She was a real hero. She smiled big and hugged us, and we hugged her back tight. I packed up a Styrofoam cooler with leftover party food for her to take home. She got into her little gray car, turned it around with a five point turn, and like her brother, drove jauntily down the road, waving, turning right at the stop sign. One last time.
One last time.
I watched and waved until I couldn't see her anymore, trying to memorize the sight, catalog it forever in my feeble mind. Then her car was out of view. I began to drown in salty tears and a massively runny nose. Sometimes it is very hard to breathe.
We returned the tent, the chairs, the tables, the roasters. We dropped Jon off at the grad party of one of his school friends.
When we got home, just the two of us, Shawn said, "I am going to get into my pool and go for a swim, because this is one of the last times I'm going to have a pool to swim in."
So he and I swam on that hot, humid evening while the sun set. As the sky darkened we could see into the lighted windows on the back of our house. Lulu's room with the yellow stripes she painted. The warm maple cabinets in the kitchen. The collage of graduation pictures on the family room wall. I thought back to other evening swims when I had looked in at my kids watching a television show, or afternoon swims when Schubert had perched, concerned, on the back of the sectional to keep an eye on our safety.
I thought what a dream it has been to live here, a strange surreality, a Minnesota girl transplanted into the east, never quite belonging but coping and learning and making friends, building a life. I thought of how I'd never even dreamed of having a pool, and here we've had one, all our own, for a season... and enjoyed it! I watched the sun set between the trees, close, one block to the west, a fiery ball sinking in pink sky between black, leafy branches. I wondered if I will feel more like myself in the midwest, after we move, and if this life we have lived in New York will seem like it wasn't even real at all, a dream interlude, nothing but the time I raised my brood.
And then the mosquitoes came out, and we went inside and got back to work. There are 1,000,001 things to do.
Yesterday afternoon.
Before anybody left, I said, "Group hug!" and we all got into this big Carpenter huddle with our arms around each other's shoulders. I was engulfed in the largeness of my family, both corporately and individually (my head barely crests Jon's shoulder). We hunkered in all close to each other, feeling the love, and then Shawn started praying. I can't even remember what he prayed, but by the end we were pretty much all snuffling, and even DJ had to pull his sunglasses over his eyes as he extracted from the embrace.
We did frantic pictures, trying to capture memories that we crave with a starving kind of hunger.
Don't you just love Jonno's argyle socks?
And Lulubelle's spiffy running shoes?
And the way DJ clutches his sunglasses?
And Shanny's braids?
The mama and the papa on the front porch.
Shannon lost her bank card, and I, I found it. I, who never find anything. There was much rejoicing and amazement. (I may or may not have done an inelegant dance.)
DJ and Lulubelle left first; he drove her back because the Amtrak wouldn't have gotten her in until 3 a.m. and she needed to work in the morning. His jaunty little old sand-colored Corolla turned the corner at the stop sign, onto Pinegate, and we waved, blowing kisses. It was sad, but Shannon was still by our sides. We would see DJ in a couple of days again, and Lulubelle at the beginning of August in our new home.
Shawn and Jonathan worked on putting the tent back into the tent box. Shannon and I went to Target to get her a new billfold for keeping track of her bank card. Afterwards, she and I toured the house together and took a few more frantic, desperate pictures:
There is so much pathos here, so much childhood remembered.
It was time for Shannon to go.
She was a real hero. She smiled big and hugged us, and we hugged her back tight. I packed up a Styrofoam cooler with leftover party food for her to take home. She got into her little gray car, turned it around with a five point turn, and like her brother, drove jauntily down the road, waving, turning right at the stop sign. One last time.
One last time.
I watched and waved until I couldn't see her anymore, trying to memorize the sight, catalog it forever in my feeble mind. Then her car was out of view. I began to drown in salty tears and a massively runny nose. Sometimes it is very hard to breathe.
We returned the tent, the chairs, the tables, the roasters. We dropped Jon off at the grad party of one of his school friends.
When we got home, just the two of us, Shawn said, "I am going to get into my pool and go for a swim, because this is one of the last times I'm going to have a pool to swim in."
So he and I swam on that hot, humid evening while the sun set. As the sky darkened we could see into the lighted windows on the back of our house. Lulu's room with the yellow stripes she painted. The warm maple cabinets in the kitchen. The collage of graduation pictures on the family room wall. I thought back to other evening swims when I had looked in at my kids watching a television show, or afternoon swims when Schubert had perched, concerned, on the back of the sectional to keep an eye on our safety.
I thought what a dream it has been to live here, a strange surreality, a Minnesota girl transplanted into the east, never quite belonging but coping and learning and making friends, building a life. I thought of how I'd never even dreamed of having a pool, and here we've had one, all our own, for a season... and enjoyed it! I watched the sun set between the trees, close, one block to the west, a fiery ball sinking in pink sky between black, leafy branches. I wondered if I will feel more like myself in the midwest, after we move, and if this life we have lived in New York will seem like it wasn't even real at all, a dream interlude, nothing but the time I raised my brood.
And then the mosquitoes came out, and we went inside and got back to work. There are 1,000,001 things to do.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
The Last Grad Party
Jon, on the occasion of his graduation party.
I now know how it feels to be overflowing with thankfulness.
I have felt thankful before, as in, happy and relieved and grateful. Often I feel as though I ought to be thankful.
But this weekend I have felt thankful in the fullest and truest sense of the word, pressed down, packed in and flowing over.
We didn't get many pictures, but trust me, Jon's party was a great day yesterday.
I am thankful to God for, among other things, the weather. It has been a strange and very wet summer. It rains every day, violent downpours that chase each other up driveways in waves and splatter in watery designs across windshields, splashings punctuated by thunder and lightening sometimes close enough to make one's hair stand on end. And after the five, or fifteen, or forty-seven minute deluge, the sun comes out again, hotter than blazes, with thick humidity that makes one feel a little as though pneumonia were creeping into the lungs.
In the midst of this, Shannon and I ran errands and got wet, day after day. Yes, wonder of wonders, Shannon has been home all week long, helping me. We withstood much rainwater on our heads, and I prayed and prayed for a decent day for the party.
We arose on Saturday morning to see that it had rained in the early hours of the day. We proceeded to prepare for the party, setting up tents, tables, chairs. Chopping fruit, icing bottles of water and cans of soda, arranging platters and heating up the hot food in roasters. And do you know... the weather held out! It was really nice, all day long, right through to the end of the party. After the last guest left, we took down the tables and chairs, stowed them in the garage, lowered the tent. We went to bed. In the morning, we arose to discover that it had rained in the night. God is so good. He gave us this window, this beautiful, marvelous, miraculous window, in which to celebrate Jon.
I am thankful to God for the weather, and also that our nuclear family, the perfect six of us, were all together in our very special, half-a-dozen way. Lulu came home on the Amtrak, all by herself, and it was perfect and fantastic. The bedrooms were full, and each bed was slept in by its exact and proper sleeper, our last shebang together in this, our family home of 18 years where the young ones were raised and Shawn and I transformed from young adulthood to the farther side of middle age. It has been our last time all together, just us, here, in this house, and God has blessed us so richly. So richly. Such rich blessings can make me cry, but they are good tears.
I am also thankful for friends, thankful for them, and thankful to them. I am thankful that when there is not a single blood relative within hundreds of miles, these people have stood in the gap, praying for us, laughing with us, sometimes crying with us. We've shared driving responsibilities. We've shared meals. We've shared deep secrets. We've shared parenting tips and recommendations for dog groomers. New friends, old friends, neighbors, school friends. And the glory of it appears when they come to our party and unexpected people know each other and I look out and see people connecting, conversing, having a really nice time. God is so good.
I am thankful for friends and relatives who could not be at the party, but who prayed for me. Going through things, trying to pack and clean and prepare, occasionally I would happen across an old letter, which I would read, and so often I found within the envelope the words: "I am praying for you." Texts, too, would pop up at the most perfect times, reminding me that I was being uplifted. Thank you to those who prayed, and to the Lord who heard and answered.
I am, above all else, thankful for Jesus. Because in the midst of everything, I know that He will never leave me or forsake me. He loves me. He is working with me and on me. Even if the moving truck crashes and burns and the house we bought turns out to be a mold-ridden death trap, God is in control and has a plan for me. He is my security. My home is not my security, nor my bank account, nor even my family. God is my security, my Lord, my everything. And the best part of that is this: nothing can ever take Him away from me. Nothing can separate me from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus my Lord.
We are moving in a couple of weeks, and it is OK. It is all going to be OK. Because when we get to the other end of this, Jesus will be there already, ahead of us, marking out our path.
Happy graduation, Jonathan. We are, all of us, on to new horizons.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
maybe it's going to be ok
Initially when Shawn accepted the job in Illinois, we thought it would be so nice to be able to finish out Jon's final year of high school and then move.
Apparently I had not done the logical-thinking-about-upcoming-life-events which would have shown me that planning a move at the same time as planning a graduation party was probably Not a Good Idea.
As of right now, the move is sort of on hold (I will pay for this later). We are trying to get the party underway. The house is full of dirt and dust, the kind that gets disturbed when you start opening up and purging 18 years of stored memories and partially full paint cans in the basement. I am living in faith that somebody is going to help me get this under control at some point. I have prepared a lot of sloppy joe meat.
After doing strenuous party shopping in the messy rain on Monday... on Tuesday I realized that I had mislaid my master list for Jon's party, the list that had everything broken down by what to do each day until the big event, things to buy, things to prepare, etc.
Shawn, working at home, was on a conference call. In silent tears, I wrote him a note in my most tragic handwriting: "My list for Jon's party is GONE!"
He hung up the phone at the end of his call and looked at me kindly. "You mean that list you asked me to scan, because you said it would be the end of the world if you lost it?" he asked.
Yes. That list.
He printed me a new copy.
Sometimes I am more ahead of myself than I realize, and I just have to love the guy who helps me get there.
Apparently I had not done the logical-thinking-about-upcoming-life-events which would have shown me that planning a move at the same time as planning a graduation party was probably Not a Good Idea.
As of right now, the move is sort of on hold (I will pay for this later). We are trying to get the party underway. The house is full of dirt and dust, the kind that gets disturbed when you start opening up and purging 18 years of stored memories and partially full paint cans in the basement. I am living in faith that somebody is going to help me get this under control at some point. I have prepared a lot of sloppy joe meat.
After doing strenuous party shopping in the messy rain on Monday... on Tuesday I realized that I had mislaid my master list for Jon's party, the list that had everything broken down by what to do each day until the big event, things to buy, things to prepare, etc.
Shawn, working at home, was on a conference call. In silent tears, I wrote him a note in my most tragic handwriting: "My list for Jon's party is GONE!"
He hung up the phone at the end of his call and looked at me kindly. "You mean that list you asked me to scan, because you said it would be the end of the world if you lost it?" he asked.
Yes. That list.
He printed me a new copy.
Sometimes I am more ahead of myself than I realize, and I just have to love the guy who helps me get there.
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