being yours

I was undone at the sight of you

I understood how mountains could move, lands separate, oceans rise and fall

I felt my very core tremble knowing you were mine

I became fearless as you took your first breath

With every squeeze of your tiny hand I gained strength, I became better

My old self eclipsed by a woman, now a mother, branded by your very existence

Being yours meant I would accomplish the most difficult, most breaking of things

Being yours means knowing boundless love and soul crushing pain

The light you ushered in is forever unmatched

The truths you unveiled continuously reshape my perspective

My heart now beats where yours cannot, it’s pulse ever so slowly inspiring a new life

Each inhale and exhale carrying the melody of heaven, resounding in His perfect love

It casts out fear, it casts out doubt, it has no end, it has no equal

May that melody flow to others, may it move the mountains in their hearts and bring light to darkness

My precious lil Bird, you are our broken pieces shaped into perfection, into selfless love

What an honor it is to be yours

Auntie Mary

There they sat, sun kissed around a 70’s formica table, salt water creating crispy curls in their hair. The scent of tanning oil wafted through the outdated beach rental. The shag carpet was recently vacuumed, and by recently I mean, at least seven times. The furniture rearranged, dusted, lysoled, and dusted again. The ashtray was filled with Marlboro lights, all with red lips permanently imprinted on their papers. Towels hung over the balcony to dry, a tv in the bedroom creating background noise and sending flashes of light down the hall. Tears streamed down their faces, silent laughter shaking their bodies, UNO cards scattered on the floor. There she sat – mascara running down her cheeks, the corners of her Revlon stained red lips almost touching her ears. She never failed to get the last laugh, the hardest laugh, the rawest laugh, and the most joy watching her audience.

My Aunt Mary. My oh my, was she precious to me. She was the queen of sass, brutally honest to her core (savage as the kids say), always a full face of makeup, at least two precious stones on her fingers, peppermint flavored Extra gum, marlboro lights mixed with some Reds, a can of lysol, and a comment about everything. She was never a distant aunt, an old aunt, a crotchety aunt…she was my immediate family. At times I wondered if my cousin and I were switched at birth – I have Mary’s auburn hair, petite frame, eyelashes for days, and precision with a makeup brush. She could never offend me, she loved in her most unique way, and she was a pillar of my childhood and adolescence. She taught me about makeup, skincare, to assume every surface was once touched by someone’s dirty foot or butt, and she taught me how to find humor in just about everything. Her life wasn’t always smooth, but she was a survivor, she was scrappy as hell, and I adored her, every.single.bit of her.

This precious human being left our temporary world for one eternally filled with joy, laughter, and zero pain and suffering. She leaves behind an equally fierce daughter, two priceless grandsons, a gentleman who loved and cared for her over multiple decades, five younger siblings, multiple nieces and nephews who thought the world of her, and a sweet pup named Jacque.

I Love you Auntie Mary, with all my heart. I am so grateful you no longer suffer, I am thankful you are whole, being made new in every way. I can hear your laugh in my head and pray I never lose it. Kiss kiss hug ❤ 12.3.2018

be relentless

Almost exactly 4 years ago I was sitting in this same house, taking in the changing colors, cheeks flushed from the crisp east coast air. It was a joyous week celebrating life – 50 years of one well lived, the union of two beautiful souls, and the anticipation of meeting the little one growing inside me. Family from near and far all converging with shared purpose and excitement. There were so many hugs and squeals – the air riddled with hope, elation, and that feeling – you know the one – where all just feels right in the world.

Weeks before our trek across the US, we learned our Little Bird may not be growing as she should. The messages were mixed and tests inconclusive. We kept the potential of her defect to ourselves – we wanted our ignorance to last as long as it could. The air was thick with joy and maybe selfishly we knew, this would be the last time we would breath with ease, the last time we could wear joy and know it was genuine. Surrounded by every face we’ve ever loved, receiving thoughtful gifts – some passed down through generations, and resting in the idea that life was good – it is something I will never forget.

As I sit in the same house, cheeks flushed from the crisp fall air, tears sneak quietly down my face. This isn’t how we were supposed to return here. Empty handed. Hearts deflated by pain and anger. Broken in every way. It feels as though we exist on the outside looking in. Always asking ourselves, is this our life – forever and ever? Does this state of devastation and grief ever lessen? Does it ever become something capable of sharing space with joy and happiness? I don’t have the answer. It is likely I never will. That has to be OK.

What I do know is this: even when I can’t see through the grey and the fog, life is still beautiful. It’s beautiful because even in this mess, this effed up brokenness, there is love. I know that love is so much bigger than me and my pain – it is the currency in which I should place all my investment. Without it – we would not have made it this far and neither would you. We all have a story – likely littered with pain and disappointments – that’s OK – it makes us human, it gives us common ground. We need to use that common ground to be there for one another. If you know someone in pain – sit outside their door – take them a meal – send them a text or email (snail mail is WAY cooler though) – love them in whatever way they let you, until they let you in. Once you’re in – don’t freaking screw it up! Don’t give unsolicited advice, ask them how long it will last, or lament about your own problems – JUST BE. 

I cannot stress or say this enough – if someone you know is grieving, the loss of a person or their life played out in depression, anger, isolation; maybe they’re struggling with family or lost in their own pain – don’t stop reaching out. Ever. Also, Don’t make it about you. If they don’t respond, do so harshly or coldly – don’t take it personally (well, try not to). It won’t be easy – there is an ugliness that stems from shame, loss and pain. It manifests as self preservation; the thickest and tallest emotional walls, and words sharper than knives. It generates visceral reactions to the simplest of things and strikes out of fear, loneliness, and exhaustion. Nine times outta ten, it has nothing to do with you. Chase them down and leave your expectations outside – try and try again, be relentless in loving them even if they only let you from very far away. One day your love will seep through, it will sit with them when they feel alone, it will tap them on the shoulder when they’re about to lose it, it will keep them going.

my heart

It was my second week in Tennessee, I sat cross-legged on a patch of fresh mauve carpet, hiding 20-year-old basketweave linoleum. The old recliner where I curled up to listen to Peter Jennings talk about a world, one existing far from East Tennessee summers, it was gone. In its place was a bed, the kind with bars on the sides and various mechanical parts. Mr. Jennings voice no longer reverberated through the ancient television, his face distorted by ill-placed foil antennas. Instead, I sat covered in new carpet lint, listening to my Grandpa sing hymns, and stare off into another world; he was dying. We knew it was the end – he rarely existed in the present. He hallucinated about carpentry, selecting nails from his phantom tool belt and grinning while he hammered them off into the air. Sometimes his arm would rise to the sky as if telling angels he was ready to be home. One afternoon we put all 88 lbs of him in a wheelchair and I raced him around the aged double-wide – through the kitchen, squealing through the dining room and back again. With what little energy he had, he would belly laugh as we careened around every turn. My grandma was never far – staying busy by snapping green beans or canning tomatoes. My mom cleaning, even purchasing new drapes to brighten up the place. I sat, rarely taking my eyes off Grandpa. We shared popsicles while the sun beamed soft and gracefully through the front porch. The many plants would rise to greet it – and we would soak in its warmth; I was 13.

Grandpa Jack was hard of hearing, and even when yelling, my voice did not carry the right tone. Despite being unable to hear me – as long as I was talking he was “listening.” He would smile ear to ear and nod his head, and when he could see I stopped speaking, he would smile wider and say, “I love you too!” I knew he had zero clues as to what I said, but it didn’t matter, our language was the same. He told my mom, “she is my heart;” well, he was mine. He wasn’t an affectionate grandparent – you would get a gruff hand on your shoulder more often than a hug – but his smile was all the affection I needed. I adored him. I would often slip my hand in his chapped, grease-covered one or rest my head on his bony shoulder – he never grasped back or warmed into a hug – but he never ever backed away. My favorite spot was next to him as he shared tales, large and small, of shipping yards and odd jobs he had while traveling the country.

His answer to every ailment was iodine – I will never forget that rusty liquid on his various nicks and bruises. He thought cats were disease carriers…and theirs likely had a few. He always wore cotton trousers and a white t-shirt, tucked in with grease stains or a tear around the collar. He walked with his feet kicking out in front of him and arms swinging with purpose. He was older than most grandfathers I knew and had technically been retired my whole life but he still found a “job” every single day. Some days it was “going into town” to run errands. He threw a button up over his tattered t-shirt, put on his favorite fishing cap, “forgot” his hearing aids and fired up the ole Datson. We all knew he really went to socialize which always meant cornering a kind soul into listening to his tall tales. They realized too late he couldn’t hear and had to muster all their southern kindness nodding for an hour. You always knew he was enjoying himself because his chin tilted up and to the left, smiling until his eyes disappeared, hands in his pockets, whistles exiting through his dentures.

His other jobs, for lack of a better term, involved excessive tinkering. You could often find him halfway in his shed, bent over, tools flying aimlessly through his legs into the yard. Once he located the right one, he hammered on whatever needed it and tossed it back into the shed with the same fervor as before. He loved going to my uncle’s farm, he walked along the fence line and gazed out over the fields – I never knew what he was thinking but he always seemed happy, free. He was constantly laughing as me and my cousins wrestled and never panicked when we were racing each other to the top of whatever tree was nearby. He always stood at the trunks’ base whooping us along.

He said grace with the gumption of a southern preacher, and his worn hands always clasped my grandmother’s. As much as those two bickered, they were very much in love. He was her person – he may not have been a consistent husband/father, but he always needed her care and attention and she was happy to give it. I never saw them visit, I never saw them dance or laugh together – but I would catch a glance every once in a while, there was love there.

This particular afternoon in Tennessee my mom came and sat next to me placing her hand on Grandpa’s chest – I noticed a glimmer of concern as she touched his face and grasped his fingertips. I asked what was wrong, even though I already knew; she told me to get Grandma. I walked to the bathroom door and knocked, I’m sorry to bother you but mom says you should come out here. She sat down and clasped Grandpa’s hand – he turned to face her – a rare moment of cognizance. She began weeping and he somehow began comforting her. It was an amazing thing to behold. Grandma leaned down and pressed her face into his chest – he smiled and began humming – he reached his free hand up to the sky and hummed a little louder. As his hand danced in the air his face lit up, his eyes opened wide and he smiled with his mouth open – toothless and filled with joy – he was heading home.

I didn’t know heartbreak until that day. I’m not speaking of my sadness, no, it was my Grandma. I watched her closely the week of his funeral – she was so present, showing grace to everyone who attended. She smiled, she was warm, and her strength was admirable. A couple days after the funeral I walked past the formal living room, she sat, weathered Bible in her lap, and wept. Her tears soaked the red leather cover, her long fingers covering her eyes – she wept in a dark room, alone. In her silent weeping, in her brokenness, I remember seeing the woman I longed to be. I felt warmth in my eyes and a knot in my stomach – watching this woman cry was somehow suffocating and brilliant at the same time.  I missed my Grandpa fiercely, but I hadn’t cried yet…until now. It’s possible I have a robotic way of pushing my feelings aside to appear strong, or maybe I just knew it was his time and I could logically put that emotion in a compartment. Whatever the case, her strength, and poise, her fearlessness moved me. It left a mark. She was an immovable force – stubborn, deliberate, a pistol – Anna Daisy. I like to think she and Grandpa spend their days caring for our lil bird – that Birdie Anna’s namesake is sharing with her the fierceness and independence she taught me. I would not be who I am without them, all three of them are my heart, and I imagine she is theirs.

imaged found via Pinterest

1.25.2015

Three years have passed – I don’t know if it feels like a minute or a lifetime. I am at a loss this year – words are turbulent in my mind yet putting them to paper feels, impossible. I hope we tell her story well; that we are assiduous in living out her legacy, and that we do so fearlessly, profoundly, while always cultivating joy. Hey Lil Bird…we love you, happiest birthday, our darling girl.

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I’ve waited a hundred years
But I’d wait a million more for you
Nothing prepared me for
What the privilege of being yours would do

If I had only felt the warmth within your touch
If I had only seen how you smile when you blush
Or how you curl your lip when you concentrate enough
Well I would have known
What I was living for all along
What I’ve been living for

Your love is my turning page
Where only the sweetest words remain
Every kiss is a cursive line
Every touch is a redefining phrase

I surrender who I’ve been for who you are
For nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart
If I had only felt how it feels to be yours
Well I would have known
What I’ve been living for all along
What I’ve been living for

Though we’re tethered to the story we must tell
When I saw you, well I knew we’d tell it well
With a whisper we would tame the vicious seas
Like a feather bringing kingdoms to their knees

-Ryan Curtis O’Neal – Sleeping At Last || Turning Page