Unbroken Promises

One of the most difficult and painful truths I’ve learned to live with is that when we lose someone close along with the loss of the person, there are other losses.  Collateral losses, if you will.  These are the lost future hopes, dreams, plans, and unkept promises.  Not that the departed one did not want to keep their promises, of course.  We all do. Still, intentions don’t change the facts.   For the folks left behind, it means we have to navigate our pain and sorrow, and subsequently, the faint guilt we feel for being sad that the promises never came to be.   For me, one of those promises was, quite literally, he promised me a rose garden.  

It seemed like a pipe dream at the time, honestly.  Before we could plant a rose garden we had to own our own property, and that was way outside our means. Storm was determined that I would look out every window and see a rose bush, however, so he got started.   Over the next several years he set about making that promise true.  

He grew for me, literally, buckets of roses.  Or at least, roses in buckets.  At one point, I had more than 40 rose bushes to care for.  Mostly, we cared for them.  We watered them, fed them, groomed them, and talked to them, all so that he could see me smile, which these roses never failed to do. 

The idea was that one day, some future day that was far off into the “someday,” we would move into our own home, and he would grow me a rose garden.  After he died and I began to plan my escape from our rental, I realized what a huge job all of those flowers were. 

Moving them was hard.  Very hard.  It required two runs to the new house from the old.  It wasn’t just the roses.  It was four trees in galvanized steel trash cans, grapes in a half-wine casket, and a somewhat impressive variety of houseplants.  In that U-Haul went trees and roses and all kinds of dirt and leaves, but somehow, everything that was planted in a planter, bucket, or tire got to my new house, thanks to the help of several strong people. 

That wasn’t the end of it, though.  It was really only the beginning.  Each and every one of those roses, ultimately 21 of them, had to be relocated and re-planted to their permanent home in my front yard.  It seemed overwhelming at the time.  Looking over there at that massive bunch of roses, I knew there was no way that I could do all that work.  The first year, four of them, died because I simply couldn’t keep them all watered.  Many of the houseplants died on my back porch.  I currently only have five survivors.

Still, I had to try.  Last summer, we began the process, but only got three roses moved, for various reasons.  My daughters, Elizabeth and Rebecca, and two of my grandchildren, Panda and Ziggy, helped me get those first three into the ground.  They were the most important roses for me, and I wanted them to get planted.  I waited too long to put a fourth one in, and it never rooted, and died.  I was very sad.

This summer, I wanted the job done.  Period. It was a heavy burden on my heart, and I feared they would all die if I left them there one more year. My daughter Rebecca, and her boyfriend Ian, dug a whole bunch of holes this summer. Into each and every one of those holes went a rose bush.  It was a process.  Each time the hole had to be dug, the bucket had to be hauled over to the location.  The rose had to be coaxed out of the bucket, and then the proper planting procedures (lots of water, please!!) had to happen for each one of the bushes. 

It is done.  It is actually done.  Every single one of the surviving roses is thriving in their new home.

18 in the front!  (Plus the two that already lived here.)

Over the weekend, I told my family that they had to be in by yesterday.  With fall literally right on the horizon, it was now or never. I finally planted the last rose.  Six on one side of the front, 12 on the other, making 18.  One went into the corner by the cherry tree, where it has been quite happy for the past three years, and the remaining bushes took up residence along the fence in the backyard.  I found two baby roses, bonus volunteers, in the buckets with their parents, and these also have gone into the ground, making 23 roses total.  When I get one more, to put into the last open fence panel in the back, I will have an even 2 dozen roses on my very own little property. 

As I walked among them this morning; enjoying the new blooms, checking on the recent transplants, it occurs to me that this is one promise that I was able to bring to fulfillment, even after Storm’s death.  It is one promise that I get to keep for him, through my sweat, strength, determination, and even a little blood.  Also, it happened by asking for help from the invaluable people around me.   

Together, we were able to make it true.

I got lots of other things done this summer.  Other promises brought to fruition…promises to myself, promises to me from him.  I have a garden, and I’ve been eating the food all summer.  I have a place for my dogs, and my trees, and now a place that I can plant new flowers and new trees.  Next summer I will try to have our community garden; a place for the neighbors to come and pick food to eat.  But this summer, this one summer, there is just this still half-wild space, and my beautiful roses, all exactly where envisioned them being. 

The final three

Then it rained.  Not just a drizzle, but a real, wet rain.  I sat in my dining room and ate my breakfast and watched as my Father’s creation took care of itself.  I love the rain.  I know all the songs about the rain.  I used to sing them while I walked in the rain and listened to the beat of it keep time on my umbrella and the whole world around me.  As summer comes to a close, I don’t crave the cold of fall, but I do covet the rain.  As I watched the water fall on my beautiful, completed rose garden, it felt like a special gift just for me.  Like an early birthday gift.  Thank you, Abba.  <3

This is only just a moment on the path, really, to the garden home I see in my mind.  Eventually, the garden will be paths and benches and a sturdy fence and pretty art.  I will have spinny things and plastic flamingos and a place for all the nice things.  I would like to make it a place where people want to come and sit and watch the sun cross the sky and talk about weighty and not so weighty matters.  I want to grow my food all among it, to sweeten the air and make it sparkle in the evening. 

Each day I am more grateful for the people in my life, the blessings the Father continually sends my way, and the lovely, wonderful flowers that will fill my life next summer, and all the summers to come.  May those who help me be blessed for blessing the widow.  Amen.

Song of Solomon 6:2-3 My beloved has gone down to his garden to the beds of spices, to graze in the gardens and to gather lilies. I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine; he grazes among the lilies.

As always, thanks for reading.  😊

Birthdays

Birthdays are an interesting thing in my life.  

I believe birthdays are significant.  As an amateur genealogist, it is important for me to find out when and where a person was born.  This tells me a lot, off the top, about who they are, how they are related to me, and what their life might have been like.  

As a child, mine was the only September birthday in the whole family.  I have a very large and continuously expanding family, so that seems a little interesting to me.  Thinking about it now, other than the son of one of my oldest friends, who was thoughtful enough to be born on my birthday, I can’t think of any other September birthdays.  

Even so, I’ve come to dread my own birthday.  That feels like a real butthole-ish thing to say, in my life.  I am so fortunate to have a wonderful family, who wants me to have a nice birthday.  Not having a nice birthday just seems like a crappy thing to do. 

As a kid, my birthday often happened on the first, two days after my birthday, since that’s when my parents got paid.  I can remember not really minding, except for the impatience of waiting for my gift.  When it happened, my family would make a deal out of it, as my parents tried to do for all of us.  That’s a big thing to do when you have six kids.  

The girl’s birthdays were always so much more important than mine.  I always loved making a deal out of theirs.  Hailli and Rebecca had to share, having birthdays two years and one day apart.  Elizabeth’s birthday always meant a trip to the water park, or the beach.  On my birthday, I could usually expect some construction paper cards, and a lot of hugs and kisses, which was nice. 

Before Storm, I had come to pretty much not care about my birthday.  I don’t think I care so much about it, even now.  It was Storm that cared about birthdays.  Even for people he barely knew, he would move anything to make their birthday cool.  He would borrow money. He would drive them anywhere.  He would shout, “Happy birthday!” in his amazingly loud voice and get everyone at the bar buying that person, and himself, a drink. 

Every year on my birthday, Storm was gonna make it special.  Even in years when we literally had nothing.  I remember each of the eight birthdays I spent with him.  Some of the more fun things we did was go camping at Devil’s Lake state park, in Lincoln City, OR.  It was pouring rain and freezing, but for some reason, he thought it was funny to freeze and camp for my birthday.  One year we drove over just for the day and bought ourselves some very nice Columbia chairs at the outlet mall, and ate brats over a driftwood fire, and drank beer, and watched the sun go down while our dogs slept in the sand.

After we became gardeners, my birthday became the final harvest of the year.  We would go glean everything we could, pile it on the giant desk by the front window, and take pictures.  Then we would make something yummy.  Enchiladas.  One year we canned spaghetti sauce.  We did homemade pizza.  We would use every single ingredient we could.  Even when we had no money, Storm would find me pot.  He would get me a bottle of wine.  

My 47^th birthday is approaching in 26 days.  I already don’t wanna get out of bed.  I’m going to, though.  It will be a Friday, so I am going to want to get ready for Shabbat.  My kids are going to remember, and say happy birthday, and likely I can look forward to having dinner provided for me, by some means.  I’m going to smile.  I’m going to feel happy, even.  And still, every moment of it is going to be spent missing that man with all of my heart.  

There are times I feel it less acutely these days.  In fact, most of the time, I’m pretty good.  There is plenty for me to do.  There’s plenty of love surrounding me, and I am continuously reminded that the Father cares for the widow.  Thanksgiving is continually on my lips.  

My birthday is also more than just my birthday.  All of my difficult days happen within a four-month period, starting with my birthday September 28^th, our actual anniversary November 24^th, our wedding anniversary on December 31, and then his birthday, which was January 3^rd.   Finally, his death day is February 13^th.  Winter was never my favorite season. 

I know that the healthiest thing I can do at this point is try to restructure my birthday in my heart and in my mind.  I have tried doing so, in fact.  I spent my 45^th in Israel, and I think I might try to do something cool for my 50^th, like take a hike.  Yet, even so, that heavy feeling of dread is creeping up on me.  A gathering gray cloud that just gets bigger and bigger. 

At the end of night, it will just be me, and maybe one of my cats, laying in my bed.  It’s the alone-ness that I am so new to.  I feel as if I was meant to be a good wife, and that I’ve squandered my changes.     Now it’s as if I’m just gonna be alone and that’s the way it will have to be.  That always seems to be the hardest part to get my brain around.  

Matchey, sleeping on my bed.  :)

What is "safe" anyway?

There’s a song I like called, “Just Breathe,” by Anna Nalick.  The lyrics go:  “And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd, 'Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud, And I know that you'll use them however you want to.”  Be gentle, Crowd. 

Generally, I think my life is very good and highly blessed.  I can tick off the wonderful things in my life with ease.  My daughters and grandchildren, my huge family: my father, my siblings, and more nieces, nephews and cousins than you can fit on a ship.  I have a wonderful church family I am so blessed to be part of.  I have such good friends that I could sleep on couches around the world.  I’m blessed by my cats and dogs, especially Bear and Miss Match.   I own my own home, and I am actually making progress into making it feel like mine.  I have two closets full of clothes, a kitchen full of food, and the means to keep the lights on.  I could go on and on and on, because honestly, my life is really good, and I can openly acknowledge that. 

Miss Match

Still, there is always this thing inside of me.  This sliver of pain of something missing; an incompleteness.  When I first lost Storm, I just knew that no one could ever compare to him, and that I didn’t ever want to marry again.  I was quite contented in my aloneness, and ready to focus on my life and my children.  I was appreciative that other widows and other people in general didn’t tsk-tsk that idea, though a few have said I was “such a young widow” and that I “can’t possibly mean that.” 

But maybe I did.  Maybe I do.  Maybe I don’t.  I just don’t know.  Inside of me just lately is this constant pull and give struggle.  It’s a circular argument that I can’t win.  There’s a genetic imperative to pair up; to be 1 of 2, and a Biblical ideal which struggles against my own desire to keep myself “safe” from future hurt, and to avoid opening my life to someone new; to begin again.  

The Bible says that man and woman were created to “cleave” together and become one.  There’s an ideal there that these two people who were whole people on their own can come together and be more together.  I never understood that until Storm.  All of my relationships prior, save one, I didn’t feel that oneness; that sameness.  The one other time I did experience it in my younger years, I really didn’t appreciate it for what it was, and I wasn’t able to put my commitment into that relationship.  With Storm, it was like we were the wind in the sail, pushing the same boat, or two parts of the same engine.  The two of us together were more than we could have ever been separate, and both of us knew that was true.

I believe that man and woman were meant to come together, and that through that union fruit will come forth.  As a widow, I constantly miss the little things about being married.  I can’t say that I didn’t appreciate them when I had them.  We actively tried to speak these things into our lives. One thing that characterized our relationship is that we never got tired of reminding ourselves how fortunate we were to have the other person in our lives.  I feel like that kind of fruit is now missing from my life.  Like a rose that never buds. 

I have often said I only ever feel like myself when I am in the company of my daughters.  That is still true.  I can also say that I have never felt like the confident, capable, and sexy woman that I have become until Storm and I cleaved together and became one.  I thought; if this amazing man loves me in the incredible ways he loves me, there MUST be something worthwhile in there.  It seemed like the least that I could do was try to live up to it and be the woman he believed I could be.  One day, I woke up, and realized that I was actually becoming that woman, and I was somewhat shocked to realize that I always had been that woman, and that only my husband could see it and bring it out in me. 

Now that he’s not with me, I feel like less of myself.  I miss his guiding hand at my back, his soft murmur in my ear to tell me something useful, or to tell me how sexy I looked that day, and how every man in the room was jealous that he was going home with me.  And I miss serving him.  I miss finding reasons for him to laugh, because he expressed joy so rarely.  I delighted in baking for him, because he loved fresh bread and muffins.  I miss asking him questions just so that I could listen to his voice.  I miss helping him with a thousand projects, because he valued my critical questions and annoying nerdy logic.  I miss all the little intimacies of being married, and I miss being an honored wife.   I want that back.

But I’m not sure that all this angst translates into action.  In fact, even when I seem to be trying to move forward, maybe consider relationship with any kind of seriousness, I pretty much find myself backpedaling.  I know I’m not supposed to fear.  Yeshua tells us over and over not to worry.  The Bible says “be not afraid” many, many times.  Yet, even when the one person whom I would most like to notice me happens to notice me, I am paralyzed with fear.  It doesn’t help that he seems to feel the same way, and every time I get a little close, he pushes me away.  I wonder, though, if we aren’t the key to one anothers healing, and if we could just get past all of the stuff, we could find ourselves being better together than we are apart.  Probably that is just wishful thinking.

My few forays into dating itself have been less than fruitful.   I have gleaned from them one really good friendship, one shiny new stalker, and a newly created Tinder account that makes me feel vaguely dirty, and for some reason, a little guilty.  Generally, I would say that the single men I know are either too intimidated to ask me out, which suits me fine, or they are not interested, which probably still suits me fine.  Either way, I am sure that I am choosing to spend time with men that are, in one way or another, “safe” to my heart, while avoiding getting to close to the one(s) which might actually touch deeper than the surface.  

So why the quandry?  Stay unmarried.  Simple enough.  Right?  Except, I don’t know if that’s just fear talking.  I don’t want to make any choices from a place of fear.  I hope I have learned to stay humble enough to be wrong; so what if I’m wrong?  Also, what if I miss a big blessing, another opportunity for that real, unselfish love by keeping up the walls?  And if I’m serious about staying single, why do I need the Tinder account, and why does it matter if no one notices me?

Sometimes my prayers are answered in real time.  Today, I prayed for two specific things.  Today, both of those prayers were answered.  Both of them involve me opening up to ideas and experiences that might leave me vulnerable.  One of them leads me to believe that my prayers are being heard, and that I need to be patient.  I was even given a sign.  It is important to believe that a work is being done in me and others, and that at the completion of that work, restoration will pour forth.  I need to let YHVH complete the work he is doing in me, the healing and the comforting, and to have faith in the work he is doing in others.  Some time ago, a question came in my spirit; would I choose the long bet, or the short certainty?  I chose the long bet.  I will have to just be patient and let my Father open his hand in his time. I’m still happy for the sign. 

I suppose, if I ran into some of my Suicide Support group folks, they would say that me just considering a serious relationship is progress in my healing and recovery.  I suppose that’s probably true.   I know they have heard me say that I fear I would only bring anger and bitterness to a marriage, and that I’m not sure it would be right to subject any man to that.  I can say this is almost certainly true, and I pray that when I am healed, it is a complete healing, to where the anger and the bitterness are washed away in a flood of love.  

In the meantime, I’m probably going to delete the Tinder account, and get on with living.  There’s plants to plant, weeds to kill, and grandchildren to love.  I don’t think talking to random strangers is going to bring any special kind of joy to my life.  It’s not as if my life is lacking anything that should make me happy, so I will simply BE happy with the blessings that I am steeped in, and BE blessed by the hope of emerging from this place to somewhere new completely.  I’ll embrace the life that I am living, and let the worries of tomorrow manage themselves.  I trust my Father has a plan, even when I can’t see it.

Amen.  Thanks for reading.