Warmth.

I've been listening to a song on repeat lately, and some of the lyrics read,
All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to

 I'm sure I have a lot of lines across my face. And I have a lot of stories to tell. But I would be nothing if not for the people around me. I've written before that I'm no good at being alone. I can spend hours by myself and I'm a very private person, but I need people. I want people. I'm not saying that everyone needs to fall in love and get married, but I have a very hard time believing someone who thinks that they don't need anyone but his/her self in order to be happy. I believe in finding inner peace and happiness, but we are meant to be in community with people. It doesn't matter if you have a husband, best friend, brother, sister, or goldfish. What matters is that you surround yourself with people who love you, people who challenge you, people who support you, people who make you so mad you aren't sure you want to yell and scream or laugh. We are the company that we keep. Why not make the company worth while? Why not be the type of person that others want to be around? 

When I was growing up I always wondered who my parents' friends were. I remember seeing my uncles at our house and a neighbor here or there, but my parents didn't really have a group of friends. They both were close with their siblings, so I guess they didn't see a need in many outside friends. I really don't have an opinion about their decisions except that I know the place my parents most wanted to be was at home as a family. When you're a kid you just want to go outside and play and be with your friends. You don't want to spend nights just being with your parents. You don't understand how precious or important that time might be to them. Now that I'm a grown-up I would give anything to have one more family dinner with all six of us together. 

Throughout both of my parents' deaths, I've thought that a lot. What if I had one more day? What would I say? I just wish I could talk to my mom one more time. I wish I could hear her laugh and feel her warmth. I wish I could let her know that I'm taking good care of my sisters (I think). I wish she could see me in my wedding dress. I wish I could scoop her up into a tight hug like I always did. All I want is one more day. I wish that I could tell my dad that I was listening. I am trying like hell to choose to be happy. I am making the little things count. I wish I could hear him say, "Sleep good, Kar Bear." I wish I could respond, "Okay, Poppa, I'll sleep well."  Above everything, I wish I had one more chance to tell my parents thank you. Thank you for showing me just what unending love and grace looks like. Thank you for the values that you have instilled in me. In all of us. For showing us that your family might take a new shape but it never leaves you. Thank you for the laughter. Thank you for your life. I don't have any regrets with my relationship with my parents. There will never be a day that goes by when I don't wish they were here or think of something I'd love to share with them. I don't have any advice for what to do when those moments arise. Maybe that's the part of me that is the deepest wound right now. I don't know when I will stop wishing my parents were here. I don't know when I'll stop feeling a twinge of jealousy when I hear someone had a successful stem cell transplant or anger towards an incredibly unhealthy person living taking their life for granted. I don't know when I'll stop missing my mom and dad. I don't know how to stop missing them. But I do know how to live my life. I know what matters. I know who matters.

I know that my mom gave everything for her family. She knew that people in town talked about her. Saw Lori trimming her grass with scissors again. Can you believe how she's always out there cleaning? She's crazy. Gotta love small towns, right? Here's the thing. She didn't hang out at the Moose on the weekends. She didn't gossip at the grocery store. Those things didn't matter to her. She wanted me. She wanted all of us. So she trimmed our grass with scissors. I thought she was crazy, but that didn't stop me from picking up a pair and joining her so that she wouldn't work as hard. She cleaned. A lot. Not because she was a neat freak. Okay, maybe a little. But she did it because she wanted us to be proud of where we lived. She wanted us to have a nice place to call home. The greatest job title she ever held was that of mom. My dad was the same. He didn't spend as much time in the yard as her, but his greatest accomplishment was us. He did a lot of great things in his life, but we were who he wanted to come home and see. We were what made him whole. I don't think that I was a kid who never realized this. I didn't really have any teenage angst or mood swings. My dad and I had our disagreements (I can only imagine my brother and my sisters' faces as they read that), but I always knew what they did for us. But I don't think I lived like I did. So that is my mission now. I am living every moment for them. I will hold my head up high and I will treat people with respect and kindness and grace because it's what I got from them. I want to be the person who laughs at silly jokes and cries at sappy movies. I don't want to climb Mt. Everest or meet someone famous. I just want to be happy. I want my life to be an example of grace and dignity. Because I want to and because I'm a representation of my parents and their legacy. Sadness comes. I cried the whole time I was writing this post. And sometimes sadness doesn't leave right away. But happiness also comes. You have to work at it, but true joy is worth the effort. The love that comes from joy is worth the effort. 

The English teacher in me is wondering how I can tie this post together with a neat little bow. But the realist in me knows that life isn't always neat. I guess if you take anything away from reading this it's to surround yourself with good people. People who will build you up and hold you accountable. People who will do silly things with you. Surround yourself with people--or even just a person, who makes you feel joy and comfort. Recognize that there is sadness in the world but that during that sadness all you have to do is look to your right or left. I bet you will be glad to see whomever is there. I have a lot to talk about and a lot think about, but I would be nowhere without the people next to me who are listening. I think that's what I've come to realize through a lot of what has happened. I don't have to be that sad girl. I don't want to be her. Sometimes I am her, but more than anything I want to be that person that you want to talk with. I want to be the person who listens and cares. The person who makes you laugh. I want you to feel my warmth because I was blessed to have felt the warmth of my parents. Sometimes I may want to cry with you, but then we can laugh and have a glass of wine afterward. Be thankful. Be humble. Be graceful. Choose happiness. 

Letting Go.

Forgiveness is a funny thing. It's a funny thing that I've struggled with as long as I can remember. My siblings and I often try and figure out which parent we are more like. Among many other traits, we're all a little crazy and kooky like my mom and we're all a little stubborn (maybe me the most) like my dad. My mom used to say that my dad and I butted heads so much because we were so similar. Most people will say that they were raised in a way that they could tell right from wrong. I've always held myself to such a high standard, and mostly unknowingly, I hold others that highly as well. I treat people with respect and honesty, and I expect others to do the same.

 In the last few weeks before my mom died, I never wanted to imagine the worst. But the worst was coming. As the realization slowly crept into my mind that we would lose her, I clung to my family. I clung to my boyfriend (now fiance). And I clung to my friends. If you know my family, you know that we are intensely private people. I struggled with the creation of this blog at first because I was afraid to let go of some of the personal feelings that only a few know. I let my closest friends know that my mom was gravely ill, and I'm sure they all put the pieces together that she probably wouldn't be getting better. I can't imagine how they felt. Everyone tells me that they don't know how my siblings and I do this. Live without our parents. Well I know that answer, but what I don't know is how my friends do it. I don't know how my fiance does it. I hate that I'm the girl who lost both of her parents, but I know how to be that girl. I've talked all about breathing and smiling and it really does work. You really can heal. But I've never had to be a friend to someone in such intense tragedy. I've never had to try and love someone through their pain. I've never wondered what I could say or do in a situation where there seems to be nothing to say or do. I've only ever been the one who is consoled. I've never been the consoler. I never really realized that until just now.

 When my mom died, I didn't have a checklist of expectations for my friends. They didn't have to provide answers, they didn't have to try and make me smile. The only expectation I had of them was that they would be there. There is a relative term. I knew that not everyone could be at my house in the days following her death. We are scattered across many states, but I needed to feel their warmth. I wanted to feel their love. I was enveloped in the arms of my family, but I still needed my friends. I needed that handful of people who God brought into my life and with whom our friendships are uniquely special. And there they were. In phone calls, in cards, in person, and in prayer. I didn't have to ask them. They were just there. Having my friends there for me could never bring back my mom, but they were a reminder of God's goodness and provision. They were a reminder of love. And they still are. It's funny because when you're in college, you make friends and you can't imagine that you won't be friends forever. Attending a small college, I thought I was one of the lucky ones who really would keep her same group of friends forever. I am one of the lucky ones because a few of them still are. Our friendship has transitioned as we have transitioned. We have grown closer even as the miles between us have grown larger. But one of the most unexpected sadnesses of being the one who needs consoled is when friends let you down.

The realization that a friendship was never built to last and was only superficial hits you like a ton of bricks when you're already sad. I expected to be sad in the days, weeks, and even years after I lost my mom, but I didn't expect the heartache of realizing that friendships are never what you thought. People you thought would be there in an instant suddenly aren't. I was surrounded by family and love, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being let down by some friends. I was angry, I was sad, and I was disappointed. I kept reversing the situation. If it were me, I would be there in an instant. I would write a letter, I would call. It took me a while to realize that my expectations are not what everyone else's are. People don't always do what you think they will. They don't always act the way you want. It hurts when someone isn't there for you. It's not the end of the world, but it hurts.

Realizing that a friendship was never what you thought hurts too. People say that time heals everything. I don't know if I believe that completely. I think time gives you clarity. Time helps you to realize what's important. Friendships end. People don't do what you think they will. You realize that you weren't as close to someone as you once thought. But that's life. Life is too precious to keep anger in your heart. About a year after my mom died, I started to feel peace. The hurt I clung to had slowly faded away, not because it was almost a year but because in that year I realized that I love a lot of people. I didn't think that love would be the theme of this blog, but it's coming up in almost everything I'm writing. I always thought that I wasn't capable of forgiveness because it meant that what you did to me was okay. And truthfully, it probably won't ever be okay, but I'm okay. And I love you anyway. That's not to anyone in general, that's just the peace that I've found. We live in a fallen world. All we can do until the day when Christ returns is surround ourselves with those we love. That's what I've learned through all of this. People can hurt you. People will disappoint you. But people can also make you feel loved. They can make you laugh and make you feel like your day was a little brighter. I am a sinful, imperfect person. But I can love you with all that I am. I will love you with my whole heart. I hope that those closest to me know how much I value their friendship and how their love has brought me peace.

Wed.

I've spent a lot of time in my car the past few weeks. I like to call myself a nomad--travelling from place to place. I'm lucky enough to have some pretty spectacular friends and family who have extra beds and free time to hang out with me. 3 hours trips seem like a breeze to me now. Sometimes I'm belting out Backstreet Boys with my best friend, but for the most part it's just me and my thoughts. And naturally my thoughts are consumed with memories of my parents. I think about the trips I took with them, the places I wish we could all go, but most of all I think about the talks I had with them. I got engaged after my mom died, but there was one day we spent in the hospital where I let my mom ask me all about my wedding--which she was absolutely sure would happen. This was probably 10 months before I got engaged, but I let her drill me with questions about bridesmaid dresses, bridal showers, and wedding locations. I've been seeing a quote a lot lately that reads, "Enjoy the little things, for one day you will look back and realize they were the big things." My mom and I were sitting in a hospital while she got platelets, and wanting to do anything to distract her, I talked about my far off wedding. I thought it was make-believe, but little did I know that that was the first wedding planning session I would have. Every decision I've made for the wedding takes me back to that day with her. I can see her smiling and crying and asking a million questions. I keep that image with me. Not the image of her hooked up to an IV. I never see that. When I close my eyes, I see my mom, giddy with the excitement of planning a wedding. Talk about something little ending up being something major.

It is so hard to believe that I am almost done wedding planning. Really, I am done. I'm in the "wedding executing" stage. I grow more excited every day, but I'd be lying if I didn't say with every detail that is finished I feel a tug at my heart and am reminded what I'm without. I take a deep breath and keep my mom alive in my heart, but some days (well, everyday) I wish she was here. I want to know if she likes the centerpieces. I want to know if she likes all the purple (her favorite color). I want her to see me twirl in my wedding dress. I have a string of pearls that my mom excitedly gave to me for my 23rd birthday. She died exactly one month later. I really wanted those pearls, but they've now become my most treasured possession and the basis on which my wedding look was founded. If my dress didn't go with those pearls, it was not a contender. I tried on many dresses, but it wasn't until after I bought THE dress that I realized it was very similar to a dress I described to my mom that day in the hospital. It also goes perfectly with the pearls. I'd like to think that the pearls were her way of telling my that she would have loved me in my dress.

Planning the wedding without my mom was something I prepared myself for, but getting married without my dad to walk me down the aisle was not anything I could ever expect. He knew a lot of the details. He knew that my first wedding meltdown came in invitation wording. I wanted the wording to be special enough to honor her. Two weeks after crying over how to include my mom, I lost my dad. In the initial hours I thought, "There is no way I can get married now." I had no basis for saying it, but my heart was ripped open for the second time in 18 months. In those bleak moments, I wanted nothing to do with wedded bliss. Death wants to rob you of your ability to hope. It wants you to lie in bed and let the grief consume you. Sometimes it's easier to be sad. Happiness takes work. Worry, fear, and anxiety are more welcome friends than joy and peace. But in the days following my dad's death, I felt peace returning to my heart. I still worried, and I think I always will. But I was at peace that my wedding would not only be honoring my mom but my dad as well. My dad was buried in the suit that he bought to walk me down the aisle. He can now be with my mom on my wedding day. Where he should be. Whether they are together in a pew or together in heaven, I don't think that matters. So, for the second time, I rewrote the wedding invitation wording. Only this time I was at peace with what it said. I wanted to stand at the end of the aisle on my Dad's arm and have him be there when I join my life with my new husband, but he was meant to be there with my mom.

I don't know how I will be on my wedding day. I don't know how I will be tomorrow. Today I was happy, so today was a win. My wedding day is not going to be a memorial service for my parents. It is going to be a celebration of everything. A celebration that we are still standing, a celebration that we are still healing, a celebration that we are still smiling, a celebration that we are still loving. Their deaths don't fit into that. Their lives do. Everyone keeps asking me if I am stressed, but I'm really not. I know a lot needs to be done and maybe the anxiety will come, but I really feel like the peace that I got 9 weeks ago has transcended into the final weeks before the wedding. Maybe that's the gift that my parents are giving me. I worry about a lot. A lot a lot. But I'm not worried about the wedding. It will be beautiful because of the people who surround it. My mom would love my centerpieces because she loves me. She would love my dress because she loves me. At the end of the day, it's all just details. It's all just stuff. People are who matter. Love is what matters. Details are fun and pretty, but details don't make love. Just because my Dad isn't physically there to walk me down the aisle doesn't mean that his love isn't just as real. I want to kiss my mom and see her in a pretty dress. I want to see my Dad in that grey suit and hold onto his arm. But I'd rather have their love above any of that. And I have that love, so that's good enough for me. And the greatest part of the day is that I have the love of a pretty incredible man. And our love is rooted in the greatest love of all. I gave my heart away to him almost three years ago, and he has taken it no matter how battered and bruised it becomes. His love and unending joy has slowly mended me. And his joy comes through his unwavering faith. We are broken souls, but together we are mended in Christ. The greatest gift of all is that we may have hope of a day when there is no more sadness and there are no more broken hearts. A day is coming when there is only pure joy and pure love.

So the little things become the big things. I'd say that's pretty accurate. Phone calls with a friend turned into the most genuine love I've ever felt. Wedding planning is fun, but marriage planning is incredible. I am looking forward to my wedding day. I am looking forward to being a blushing bride. But I am over the moon excited to become a wife and life partner. I have the love of my parents deep in my soul next to the values they taught me. Really, as long as that handsome man is standing there waiting to build a life together, I would marry him in pajamas, on a Tuesday, in the middle of the street.

Running.

I've been travelling lately. A lot. I didn't plan on it, but it was something a bit out of my hands. When my Dad died and people realized that once everything calmed down I would be on my own, I got a lot of offers for company. I love everyone who offered, but I really was planning on being just fine on my own. I have wedding details to finish, books to read, spring cleaning to do, and many other time-fillers. Being by myself is temporary, and I am nothing if not strong and capable of being on my own. At least for a few months. In the weeks after my dad passed, my brother was able to be home a lot. In fact, the first night I ever spent alone in my house came 6 weeks after my dad passed. For 24 years and 6 weeks, I've never slept here alone. Now I'm not afraid of my house. Or at least I didn't think I was. Trying to sleep that night was one of the hardest things I've had to do. It wasn't really the sounds because I know houses creak and the wind blows. It was the silence. I had never noticed how quiet my house was until that night. I was so alert and my emotions were so heightened because I was the only one in my house. I've lived on my own and spent a good deal of time alone, but this time it was different. No one was coming home. Everyone was back to work or school, and I was at home. My dad wasn't coming home from work. My mom wasn't downstairs folding laundry. It was just me. And the silence. And it was awful.

Obviously I survived that night. I lasted in my bed until about 3 am and then I called it quits and slept a few crappy hours on the couch in the living room. The whole time, in between thinking a mass murderer was coming or that my house was haunted, my mind stayed on this thought. My house is not meant to be silent. I am not meant for silence. Even while my mom was sick, our house always had laughter. Even though we weren't fulfilling a "bucket list" or living each day as if it were her last, we still laughed. God blessed us with an incredibly tight knit family. I think a lot of people have seen that, but I lived it. We liked sitting around the kitchen table and joking around. Even after my mom dad, the laughter continued. Even after my dad died, the laughter still continued. But when everyone finally went back to their lives, I was left. And instead of laughter there is silence. Not sadness, just silence. I'm not writing this for pity, just honesty. I think if I moved to a new city and was starting a new life, the silence would be different. I moved to grad school on my own and dealt with the silence the first few days. But this is different. This silence is almost a reminder of what's missing. It's temporary but it's still unnerving.

That first night I was so determined to win the battle against the silence in my house. "This is my house. I won't be afraid. I won't give in to the fear," I kept telling myself. And then when the second night to be alone came a few days later, I told myself the same thing. I need to learn to be on my own. I need to do this. I can't do this. I don't want to do this. And then I realized something. Silence is temporary. Just like sadness and tragedy, love wins. Joy wins. I'm not alone. I am while my sisters are at school and my fiance finishes school, but that's all temporary. The silence is temporary. I have the greatest gift of all. A lot of people love me. One person really loves me. Enough so to marry me next month. And the time is fast approaching when this house will be filled with laughter on a permanent basis. I don't need to prove to anyone how strong I am by staying in my house alone. Yes, I can do it. The night eventually turns to morning and my house isn't so scary anymore. But, I have the opportunity to spend time with the people I love. So I drive. And I spend time with some pretty wonderful people. Sometimes you have to seek out laughter. I'm not running away from the silence. I'm running towards the laughter. This is my house and that won't change, but people are who really make it a home. I would love for my dad to come up the stairs again, and I would love for my mom to be bustling around the house again, but I can't dwell on the fact that they won't. I love them the most, but that love is in a new place. It's in my heart and my wedding and my laughter. So I'm packing it up, putting it in the passenger seat, and hitting the road. For now.