The Big Empty

EMPTY NESTER: (n.) a parent whose children have grown up and left home.

 If you know anything about birds, you know those little fledglings don't always make the grand gesture and fly away on wings outstretched.  They take tumbles from the nest before flight is possible. They're kidnapped by orange tomcats named Fabio and left in disarray on someone's back porch. They succumb to mites, disease or starvation.  And roughly half of those that do leave of their own volition will not gracefully soar into maturity but will plummet to earth, victim to other myriad dangers.



Translate those facts to the human world and do the math for our babies.  My babies.  That children even survive childhood blows my mind.  Because it ain't like THEY'RE concerned with their mortality when they attempt to climb bookshelves as toddlers, jump their skateboards over precarious constructions in the driveway, climb out their bedroom window for a midnight joyride, swing from ropes into rock-walled waters, slam shots of cheap vodka at a teen party or carry a wobbly pile of lawn furniture off the back of a moving truck!  And that mini-list doesn't account for those elements of danger outside of their reckoning: childhood diabetes, cancers, dog attacks, kidnapping, house fires and anything you've watched on Oprah or the morning news.

Though our children mature, surrender to hormones and adopt the physical traits of men and women, us parents have only to close our eyes to allow the soft-cheeked faces of our young to slide into focus. While my three are presently in their 20's, I imagine I'll possess the requisite memory to conjure the images of their youthful selves in MY head when the hairs on THEIR heads transition to gray.

But it's that in-between time that can trip up us parents.  Decades stacking upon decade, sandwiching college, careers, marriage, children, travel, travail and adventure into lives carried on in other physical places where mom and dad don't rule the roost.  The new frontier of childless bedrooms where tumbleweeds blow across the quiet floorboards.  A living room of clean air not sullied by the contrails of competing colognes, perfumes and body sprays on weekday mornings.  Cars resting in the driveway, free from the here-and-there obligations of sports, school projects and sleepovers.

And that was just high school.


Adult children in the home presented a host of challenges and developments of an even more complex degree.  Despite my best efforts, treating my kids as grown-ups while they lived out of studio apartments which suspiciously resembled their childhood bedrooms, coming and going on their own schedules, but still retaining that aura of teen daughter and teen son, scrambled my brain AND my emotions -- a big fat pile of UGH!  When the girl who dated her boyfriend for over five, maybe six, years from the headquarters of our home finally wed and moved out, taking her cat and belongings with her, we were ALL more than ready for it.  When the boy who resided in the corner room of the Three Bridge Road fixer-upper boarded a plane bound for a Navy base in Illinois for basic training last November after a year of battling wills similar to a clash of the titans, the entire family heaved a collective sigh of relief!  And lest we forget, the middle child started this slow exodus of our progeny after her first year of college away from home when she married her Army high school sweetheart and joined him on an entirely separate continent.  Talk about flying from the nest!

Jimmy, the Jimster, Jim Bob, my husband of, um, is it 27 years now, babe (where does THAT question mark go?) and I have joined the ranks of the many, the proud, the still somewhat worried but excited, the rather confused and conflicted -- the Empty Nesters.  I don't really know what that looks like.  Except that two adults are rattling about in a spacious home in need of work, where two sweet white dogs and an active kitten wait outside the bathroom doors for us instead of toddlers and adolescents.








While I can't fully speak for my husband, being his wife means I sometimes TRY to speak for him.  Isn't that a stereotype with some merit?  (Insert smiley face emoticon with one eye closed and tongue sticking out here.)





He watches football games without the companionship of true fans sharing the couch.  I try.  But I ask too many questions.  He resorts to singsonging nicknames for Hankie Mutt because "HI! Sarah-A-Ma-a-a!" isn't around to hear hers.  He continues to tease me without mercy but there's no one to applaud and cheer his amusing efforts.  Quite honestly, dad could have used a bit more semi-full nest time.  I know that.




          


And then there's mom, Dolly, Gloria to you folks.



















I believe most young adult children NEED to depart from the nest to really experience those life epiphanies which expand the brain and widen their perspectives.  I think kids develop independence when they must actually BE independent.  Take themselves to work. Buy their own deodorant and toothpaste.  Decide when and what to eat.




Become their own alarm clock, for Pete's sake.  When they don't walk through the front door and hear their parent(s) asking if they made their beds and emptied the trash after they just completed a semester final in biology or clocked-off after eight hours on their feet waiting tables.













It alters the dynamic between the two factions; a dynamic which requires change for the health of both parties.  Clearly, this is brief and simplistic.  I realize it's a process.  Not an instant event with a sharp line of delineation.  But I know of moms and dads who would love for their kids to live at home, or live next door, forever and an extra day after that.  I.  Am.  Not.  That.  Parent.  A-a-a-nd . . . I love, love, LOVE my one boy and two girls in ways both deep and wide.









I miss hugging my kids.  I miss watching my kids interact with each other and with their dad.  I miss face-to-face conversations though FaceTime is a blessing!  I miss the shouts of outrage my girls would direct at their brother when he hid around corners and jumped out when they weren't expecting it!  (How many times can that happen before they develop immunity?!)  I miss how our boy would hold any of our trio of animals like a baby and they loved it . . . and him.  On the practical side, I miss drivers who shopped for me.  Other sets of hands which scrubbed toilets.  Legs that walked the mutts and tossed sticks for them.  Dates for Starbucks with other latte fans.  So, yes, I do miss my children.  And, yes, there resides within me a great joy for the paths upon which they now trod apart from me.  It is the great parental dichotomy.  It's life, L-I-F-E, man.

Before I sign off, let me just say my co-parent and I quite like one another.  We're not strangers who need to be reintroduced.  We didn't live for the children and neglect to make eye contact with the person who helped produce said children.  The spark of attraction remains: the force is strong between us, says Yoda.  Wink, WINK.  Together, we are wending our way through laughter and tears, highs and lows, questions and answers, work, church, surgery, hormones, this big broken but functioning house in the little woods, and realizing that though the physical nest is empty, the heart nest remains ever full.

Just In Case . . .

I'm not a fatalist.  Nor prone to drama.  But what's wrong with a bit of realism?  Nothing, right?  Things happen; we should be prepared -- mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually.  Entertaining a worst-case scenario doesn't mean I want it to happen.  I'm not saying, "Hey! Hi, there.  Come on in and pull up a chair.  May I offer you a cup of Guatemalan cold brew?  A pastry, perhaps?"  No-o-o.  But ignoring the very real fact that things can, and do, go wrong, seems foolhardy.  Burying one's head in the sand merely ensures that you can't see the boot if it drops.  Personally, I'd rather see it coming and have my hardhat firmly in place.

So, why all this talk about reality and boots falling from above?  Well, for only the second time in my life, I'm having a bit of surgery which requires anesthesia and involves parts of my reproductive system.    Eighteen years ago, during the course of tying off my fallopian tubes to thwart those pesky little eggs from crossing the channel, the doc had to knock me out after the spinal block (or whatever that was) failed to keep my nerves from registering the gentle pressure of a scalpel.

Today, at noon-thirty, my overactive uterus will be tamed into submission so as to allow me the option of keeping it firmly affixed within my abdomen.  In my head, where visual imagination and wordplay reign supreme, I see cooked meat.  But in kinder layman terms, the endometrium -- the lining of my uterus -- will be scraped and cauterized.  Thus, halting the process which results in labor-like cramping every 21-25 days for yours truly.  This, however, can actually be performed in a doctor's office without sedation.  The surgical aspect of my deeper foray into better female health involves a visual search of the external surface of my uterus and structures around it for scarring from endometriosis -- a condition which seems to be more common than once realized whereby the tissue of the uterine lining grows outside said organ.  Often the culprit for intense pain, this disease is also capable of severely damaging the fallopian tubes, ovaries, and even other organs, to the point of leaving a woman unable to reproduce as her body should.  Should any scarring or cysts be detected, whatever can be safely burned away will be.  Hopefully, my life, my schedule, my body AND my family will all experience a freedom not hitherto fully realized in more than a decade.  Being held hostage by one's period is not cool.  I endured it far too long, entertaining real and imagined fears which blocked me from moving past my set pattern of being laid up with copious amounts of ibuprofen (which have damaged my stomach after more than a decade of regular use), double heating pads and bed rest.  We won't revisit the PMS/PMDD issues as those have been addressed before now in this blog.

All in all, this procedure ranks low on the totem pole of seriousness.  And boy! am I grateful for that.  I'm fit, healthy and of sound mind (hold your tongue).  But with any surgery, however minor, there are risks.  Patients sign waivers listing said risks: nicks, cuts, perforations, unexpected complications or discoveries.  It's enough to give pause.  Using anesthesia also carries it's own small cadre of unknowns which vary from patient to patient.  I'll be listening intently when the anesthesiologist chats with me later this morning.  The outcome I'm desiring involves an amusing video of my witless mumbles captured on my husband's phone and shared with the Facebook community.  ANYTHING for a bit of attention and a good laugh!

Just in case the good Lord decides I'm needed elsewhere, I'd like to remind each and every one of my loved ones, family, friends, pets, that we are cool.  There's no anger.  Nothing unforgiven.  And I love you with a ferocity and generousness which never fails to astound me.  The ability of my heart to expand and allow entry of new affections, and the continued growth of my present affections, fills me with a gladness which I could never fully express.  Even with all of those wonderful words and concepts at my keyboarding fingertips.  For my children, Coob, Sarah Ami, Zacker-Macker, my legacy is one of faith in Christ, integrity, compassion and family.  For my husband, I would expect a period of intense mourning to rival the power of the sun . . . and then start dating and find yourself another gal.  It's all right!  (However, if you get rid of Hankie Mutt and Gracie Helen, I will haunt you AND your gal!)  For my mom, thanks for the stew and Jello and showing me how to love my fellow human beings beyond the confines of my own self . . . and don't ever stop being the Brazen Hussy that you are!  (hee)  My Earth Divas know where they stand: my gratitude for our special friendship runs like a vein of gold through the cavernous mines of my life.  Dear Ethel to my Lucy, I'll save you a seat. Wifey, stay true to your inner compass; your boys will be more than fine.  LG, GL asks that you work on her life story screenplay with Sarah Ekmanis, who has come into her own with her writing skills.  Michael Lynch, would you edit said screenplay with your keen eye for detail and love of a well-told story?  Sister Reba, you can collect my Oscar for me.  Laurie-Laurel is in charge of planning a grand party with the other sibs to celebrate the win.  And, of course, post all the dress-up pics on Facebook.  Gary and John, talk amongst yourselves about my quirks and endearing qualities, and laugh together.  Often.  I'll be checking in.  Somehow.  Someway.  As far as funereal services go, it's either Rodney Edwards officiating or no one.  Because regardless of what he says about me, I know he'll cry.  Uncle Zopie, as difficult as this may be, I would request 'Amazing Grace' and the song you wrote for me as a little girl.

But enough of all that.  I plan on returning from the MMC surgi-center ready to conquer a new chapter in my existence.  Be ready!  My son just suggested I enter the surgical suite with Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" blasting through my earbuds.  Ain't he smart.

That's all, folks.  Ciao for now.  XOXOXO  Peace out, as my baby bro likes to say.    

Me? Shamed Out Of Sharing? The Absurdity!

I'm coming clean.  Usually this is nothing new.  This gal isn't known for holding back.  Admitting to mistakes, making myself vulnerable, sharing my feelings, and emerging a stronger, better, more rounded person on the other side of all that?  Kind of my trademark.  My life's work.  I live by the belief that openness, a willingness to own one's errors and allow others to know of them, helps us all. 

But something crept up behind me over the past few months and took a huge bite out of my rather ample, but fit, backside.  What was it?  This invader of my security?  This attacking menace to my persona?  This usurper of my inner balance?

Well, to put a not -too-fine a point to it: shame.  Sharp-toothed.  Wide-eyed.  Bad-breathed.  And I didn't recognize it.  At least not in myself.  Guilt I know.  And as my little sister has said often enough, guilt pushes us to change things, while shame leads us to fear which then causes us to hide.  Or something similar.  (I'm not a verbatim kind of girl.  If it ain't in quotes, then know it's the essence of an idea or conversation.  M'kay?)

When my husband lost his job, the very idea of it, the mere happening of being sent home with his tail tucked between his legs for no professional reason, with no professional explanation . . . well, frankly, we were in a state of shock.  Unemployed for the first time in 25 years!  And with our advanced overhead.  Many of you can imagine the accumulation of bills and responsibilities which can stack up with a nice home, multiple cars, health insurance, auto insurance, cell phone service, utilities, three pets with a proclivity for vet-necessary issues, a large yard, tithing, a teen son, a mother-in-law living with us, groceries, toiletries, helping others with serious needs, yada, yada, YA-DA-DA!

My gut response was to rally around my husband.  To protect him from the slings and arrows that were sure to assail his identity, his ego, from within and without.  Because we made the decision to be a one-income household once our son arrived on the scene, his duty was that of provider.  When that was stripped from him, the nakedness of it shamed him.  And that hurt me to the core of my wifely heart.  My daily imperative became more about pulling him into the family and less about pushing him into the world of employment.  He needed protecting.  Telling him he needed a job?  Not necessary.  Reminding him in subtle and obvious ways that this altered state wasn't his fault?  VITAL!

Within our household, other forces were at work, plotting for their own effect and not necessarily for the good of the entire.  From June to the end of August, the internal affairs within the home were deteriorating, without any of us possessing full knowledge of the breakdowns.  The events of that last week in August, piled atop the ongoing stress of no secure long-term employment, just about broke our will to carry on.  Though they were heartbreaks - deeply disappointing failures of human nature - of such an intensely personal nature that they can not be shared in this public forum without hurting others unnecessarily, it is fair to say the selfish behaviors which were revealed abruptly, in a very raw state, left ragged and bleeding wounds which are taking time to slowly heal.  Though heal they will.

Fast forward to November.  Mid-summer finally cooled into fall.  Fall has unwillingly relinquished its seasonal hold to winter.  The teen son resides in Colorado; the mother-in-law moved into her own place.  A 2-month contract position has come and gone.  We continue to pay for health insurance via Cobra: and the Cobra strikes HARD! let me tell you. But not as hard as the haphazard health program which is Obamacare.  (And I'm not even political, folks, but that rollout was pitiful.)  And our money tree has just about dried up.  We've pruned back heavily in certain areas, from phone to cable to car and health coverage.  We're hoping to sell at least one of the larger vehicles very soon.  Is that referred to as liquidation?  Purchases I once looked at as par for the course -- replacing worn tennis shoes, new eyeglasses to correct changing vision, treating myself to a movie at the theater now and again, stocking up on sale items in multiples, a bottle of wine for dinner, that winter moisturizer I use every time the weather goes frigid, thoughtful little gifts for friends just because, shopping for new slacks after purging my closet of almost EVERY pair of old ones over the summer, picking up my mom's small grocery lists every now and again, ordering a package for my Brother Gary in ye olde psychiatric hospital, new hedge clipper blades, original Tide detergent, an impromptu dinner date with the hubby -- now raise red flags on my fiscal horizon.

And we're not even truly suffering yet.  I'm well aware of how much further down the slippery slope of debt and sacrifice we can still slide.  And that's where the shame found its entrance.  That back door to my subconscious mind, where memory still serves to remind me clearly of what hunger, homelessness and hazard look like, feel like.  Since I'm the one with that history, and I'm the one who manages the purse strings, shouldn't I also be the one ultimately responsible for ensuring we have a soft cushion against such elements?  Granted, our credit rating - excellent.  Our debt: only the mortgage and the Ford Focus we purchased to save on gas consumption per Jimmy's commute.  No credit card bills or accounts in arrears.  When repairs and maintenance came a-calling, our savings covered them.  When we planned our big anniversary trip to New York City, we saved for it.  When Germany beckoned with it's once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to travel overseas together and visit our kids, the money was there.  I racked up miles for plane tickets and car rentals to visit Brother Gary over the years.  And we managed to ensure funds were available to attend important court dates in Colorado for my sister's case.  Not to mention birthday parties, two high school graduation celebrations . . . and one swiftly planned-and-executed wedding!  All of which we paid in full without incurring backbreaking interest-bearing debt. 

But while we have one small PERA drawing interest from my husband's time spent working for two Colorado cities, there is no big payoff upon retirement for us.  No 401k or diversified portfolio or CD's.  No rich relatives planning to mention us in their wills.  It doesn't take a financial wizard to read the writing on the wall regarding the future of Social Security, either.  Our legacy is not one of material value.  THAT'S for sure! 

The far-off future has always been a source of uncertainty for me personally.  Easier to do the day-to-day.  Catch a glimpse of next month, even next year, but not decades down the line.  Even in my youth, I couldn't quite kick the feeling that there was something monumental looming off in the not-too-distant horizon, a malevolent presence - war, disease, famine - something so far-reaching and all-encompassing that it would eclipse any planning for a future.  Each time I reached a milestone in my life, from graduation to marriage to parenthood and now grown children and a dream of grandchildren, there was this small voice inside which said, "I can't believe I've made it this far."  

I fear I've cast too wide a net to explain my shame.  Let me draw you back in.  For the past few years, I've sensed that the busy, stretched and packed nature of our lifestyle was taking a toll on our spending habits.  Nothing exorbitant or greedy.  More like allowing one's once taut midsection to fall into flabbiness.  Decisions made out of expediency and fatigue.  Nickel-and-dime stuff, small dollars at a time.  Eventually they add up to a larger whole.  What we needed was to take time out as co-managers of our household and take a hard look at our habits.  But each time we tried to approach the problem, the small fingers of blame began to point, sometimes subtle, sometimes not so much, in the opposing direction.  "You always want to eat out . . . then it's not even good, it's full of fat and salt . . . we wish we hadn't . . . what a waste!"  was one of my pet peeves.  "We can't help or save EVERYONE . . . we can't buy gifts every time there's a birthday or baby shower or hospital visit," was a popular refrain from my husband.  And then we'd just shut up and shut down.  Table the issue until next time.  Not very grown-up of me, I'm afraid.

I'd see the news feature stories on saving enough for a rainy day.  Dave Ramsey and other money experts espoused socking away 3-6 months worth of living expenses against job loss or death or other life calamity which could hit the checkbook.  And I'd think, "We need to do that.  You never know.  We've had enough of the unexpected to expect it can happen . . . "

If I'm being fair to myself, we would have had enough to survive two months without a job, if not for elements of our summer to which I alluded earlier on.  Those things aren't generally considered in financial planning.  You'll have to trust me on that.  As it is, we've reached a position where our house must be sold, sooner than later it appears though we had hoped to hold out until after our eldest daughter's June 2014 wedding date. If no company sees fit to hire my good man, we will find ourselves living with friends or relatives like we did in our newlywed starting-out days.  There's a humbling thought.

In order to meet mid-December bills, we really need to sell at least one of our larger gas-guzzling vehicles.  (Anyone in the market for a single-owner Chevy Silverado truck with Rhino liner and new brakes?  Or a spacious GMC Yukon in champagne and chrome?  Both in good shape and below Blue book!)  And we made the difficult decision to take the tax-penalty on that small PERA in order to prep the house and keep us afloat for a few lean months more.  I misunderstood the release-of-funds procedure: it's roughly 2 months and NOT 2 weeks.  Neither of us thought this forced unemployment would last this long.  The seasonal work I found at our local Kohl's department store for minimum wage is more a gesture of support than anything else. But even earning enough to pay the electric and water bills will feel good after 18 years spent working on the homefront. 

Yesterday presented us with another disappointment that, again, I hadn't contemplated.  My husband tried for a position for which he is over-qualified and which pays 40% less his last salary.  The headhunter basically told him that no business would take the risk of hiring an unemployed uber-qualified guy for a job beneath his experience and pay scale.  They know the moment a suitable offer comes available, he'll jump ship to receive what he desired all along.  It boggles the mind: he can't even get hired for a lower-paying job now?!

Everything I've just revealed is true and accurate.  And most of us don't discuss such things with one another.  It's frowned upon.  Especially if the revelations reveal weakness as opposed to strength.  Often, not even with close family will we fully open up.  It ranks right up there with religion and politics.  But probably even more so.  How we earn, spend and save is so closely tied to our success and identity, that we feel almost a parental drive to protect the finer points of our financial practices from the scrutiny of those around us.  We could be judged.  'They' might find us lacking.  I realized this was the food source for my shame.

And then, in the midst of contemplating all of this, mulling over writing a blog entry but feeling stymied and flat, I selected one of my TED Talk podcasts to keep me company while housecleaning earlier this week.  The title?  Making Mistakes (I urge you to click and listen!).  From the opening lines to the closing comments, I knew I was meant to hear this.  Have you ever seen a woman laugh and sob while vacuuming?  An unusual sight, I'd wager.  But it sure felt goo-o-od.  The shame lifted.  I realized that there had to be other people out there like us.  People caught in this strange middle ground of fiscal responsibility.  And they could be struggling in the midst of the various stages through which we had already trudged . . . or they could be wading in their own murky puddle of shame.

I could do the socially appropriate thing and keep it to myself.  I could allow others to believe we are faring remarkably well as witnessed by our outward happy faces and generally upbeat Facebook posts, all the while frowning with deeply furrowed brows on the inside.  Or I could admit to our perceived successes AND failures and possibly deliver a measure of comfort, assurance and camaraderie to those husbands, wives and head-of-households weathering similar storms.  What's a bothered girl to do?  Well, the following line was lifted straight from one of the stories featured on that TED Talk podcast selection.  I think it says it best . . .   

"Vulnerability is NOT weakness.  It's our most accurate measurement of courage."   

For us, that means letting go and getting on with it.  The history of the world is chock full of people who built and lost fortunes, great and small. Especially America!  This is a time of reinvention for us.  We don't want your pity.  But neither do we deserve your judgement.  Just take this as a cautionary tale.  But also one of forgiveness of self.

Human Limits

To say that this past year has been interesting would be an understatement.  We added (well, to be fair to my husband, I added) a deaf, hyperactive, Aussie pup to the household; we moved in my mother-in-law; my own mother needs me more and I worry that there is less of me; my son started sowing his "You know I'm almost 18, don't you?" oats; my oldest daughter was in a car accident; my youngest daughter has to wonder if her husband could be called into duty in some Middle Eastern hot zone; and my husband lost his job.  Really, I could just stop there and allow you all to step in and carry the narrative . . .

And somewhere in there, I began to understand something about myself.  I have limits.  Limits to my endurance, my compassion, my empathy, my understanding, my discernment, my energy.  You name it, and it's probably on the list.  It appears that I may have been running on empty, or maybe burning through that last gallon of fuel in the tank, and been the ONLY ONE who couldn't see that.  I suppose that I've given myself this repetitive version of a self-pep-talk for too long, "You've been through much worse.  You can handle this.  People need you.  After what you've endured, nothing coming down the pike should even make a dent in your armor.  What good are the lessons of your experiences, all of that pain and suffering, learning and growing, if you don't spread the love?  Share the knowledge?  Give, give, GIVE!"  That all sounds nice, but there's a fly in the ointment.  Maybe a few flies.

Maybe the biggest buzzing fly is this: I needed to help myself a bit more.  Spread that love around my innards, my guts, the deep recesses of my big heart, the ropey yards upon yards of my bowels.  Bathe my brain, perhaps even pickle my brain, in that goopy syrupy-thick compassion that I so generously dole out to others without a second thought.  How can a person be of adequate assistance to others if they literally give everything within them away?  And I don't want to be simply 'adequate' in that department, anyway.  But if depleted reserves are already the source of my strength, then my ability to love on others the way I'm created to love is about to hit a very wide hard wall.  Not only does the giving stop: I stop.  Abruptly and painfully.  Running full-speed into immovable objects, like walls, tend to leave marks.  Or breaks.  I can even see a concussion in my future.

Within the past month, several elements of stress within our household have come to a pus-filled head.  Puerile, swollen, angry-looking, ready to burst if one so much as looked at it the wrong way.  It was inevitable, looking back, reading the signs along the roadway upon which we were all traveling together, yet apart.  Locked into behavioral patterns.  Forming opinions and judgements about one another, whether intentionally or not.  Hoping for better; bitterness setting in when better never happened.  Relationships are tough.  And the ones which live as family beneath a shared roof are oft times the toughest.

Without putting too fine a point on it, my husband and I learned that my son has been experiencing growing pains far more serious and detrimental to his well-being and safety than those which have plagued his knees and legs for years.  Hydration, a cal-mag tablet and an hour with the heating pad won't alleviate the symptoms.  Much less fix the problem.  After much heartache and intense feelings of helplessness, self-incrimination and disbelief, it became apparent that we -- mom and dad -- did not possess what our precious son needed to figure things out.  And because of my history, and the history of my siblings, what I saw in his eyes told me if we did not find a way to be on board with what was feverishly culminating within his boy-man psyche, he would leave us in the most painful tearing-away manner possible.  I know what running away looks like.  And that is what I saw in his eyes, in his spirit.  There is no fighting that with traditional parenting methods.  But, thankfully for us, though frustrating for other family members within the larger perimeter of extended loved ones, we've never been that 'traditional' family.  So, though we yearned for him to remain with us, we made the tough decision to NOT fight him in his leaving.

Almost two weeks ago, early on a Sunday morning of glorious weather after a week of less than stellar skies, we put our only boy on a plane to Colorado.  My youngest sister and her husband, versed in overcoming physical, emotional and psychological challenges that most of us will never have to face, have agreed to become secondary parents to their nephew.  I didn't cry until I was a mile from church.  What better place to lay it all at the altar, before God and man, and surrender to a picture far bigger than the small screen on which my present life was playing.  While the rest of my family returned home to sleep away the fumes of their disappointment, I wept and sang and praised and prayed with a small body of folks who have supported me and my life loves through many a dark day.  And many a bright and shining day, too.

I'm working through grief and loss.  And all of those messy stages of emotion that accompany them.  Off all my children, my son had my heart and my ear from birth.  His personality was naturally loving, easy going, good natured.  He hugged.  He kissed.  He smiled and laughed.  He was not prone to the fits of spoiled temper tantrums which marred the toddlerhood of my eldest, nor the clouds of angst which plagued my middle child through her younger years.  While my daughters and I developed our close bonds on the other side of their addled teen antics, deep emotional ties which bring me great peace and satisfaction these days, my bond with my youngest, my boy, developed before the travails and troubles of adolescence and beyond hit.  His falling away has wounded me far more deeply than I could have imagined.  Though I know he is not dead, what we thought we had in him, what I thought was between us, THAT is dead.  The structure between us all, parents and child, must be dismantled and rebuilt, however long that may take.  Once I move beyond this vale of tears, I must take hold of my hammer, fill my bucket with nails, and begin REconstruction.

I also realized that for the sake of my relationship with my husband, who was already at his emotional cap with the stress of losing his job and still searching for financial security for his family, and my relationship with my mother-in-law (the upheaval in our midst due to my son's problems had leveled her heart, too) it was time to move her from the small room upstairs into a place of her own.  While I had hoped to wait for the dust to settle as we all adjusted to the changes which seemed to have suddenly erupted in our midst with no warning -- though hindsight allows me the bitter luxury of seeing all the warning signs -- circumstances beyond my control didn't allow for such a settling.  Outside influences, meddling where it was thoroughly unwarranted and clearly deliberate in its unkindness, forced my hand.  The heated conversation on our back patio, a triangle of son, mother and daughter-in-law, was intensified by the heat of the late afternoon.  Though it was uncomfortable and barbed, the stale air of months of undercurrents was cleared, as if an enormous window had opened and and an epic wind passed through.

We are simply different people.  Different in ways we can't overcome, despite our huge efforts to try.  Almost diametrically opposed, I'd venture to say.  I love her as a person and as the mother who raised a very lovely man who has stood by my side for almost 25 years through every kind of marital tossing one could imagine.  I want to see her happy, healthy and hanging on to life with both hands full of purpose.  These are my wishes for her.  Right now, she is enjoying a change of scenery at my brother-in-law's house, where the environment is a bit more peaceful and there's a delicate, fluffy, white dog who sees my husband's mother as the center of her canine universe.  That kind of unadulterated pet affection is the ultimate healer.  A concerted effort to find just the right living situation for her needs is underway.  That does my heart good.  I brought her here, across country in that big yellow moving truck, both of us reveling in our open road independence and actually enjoying the journey, so that she could experience love on a daily basis.  I know I did that for her.  I know that she realizes this, too.  That is our common ground.  That . . . and a steaming hot bowl of green chili with homemade tortillas.  We both can agree on the subject of food!

As for the job?  We are in the middle of a two-month contract gig for a tech company in Franklin, Tennessee.  Through the maze of headhunters and online employment sites, my husband's resume has been spread far and wide.  He's casting a wide net.  Will we remain here?  Move to another state?  Sell the house?  Send me off to work?  We just don't know.  It has been day-to-day here.  Sometimes, emotionally, hour to hour.  Good days where hope springs eternal; rough days where hope has to force tiny dry tendrils up through jagged rocks.  Through it all, my man keeps on going.  Hanging in there for all of us.  I love him for that even as I hurt for the loss of his identity in the midst of the chaos.  I sincerely believe that whatever he rediscovers about himself will make it clear to him that he is a far better man than he currently realizes.  And I'll be waiting to absorb that realization with him, with a big ol' "I told you so" kiss!

Physical therapy has helped my eldest regain mobility in her neck.  Insurance settlements are ongoing.  She now has a spanking brand new Honda Civic 4-door, along with a car payment.  It figures that she'd pay off her first car and then it would be totaled in a fender-bender of someone else's contrivance.  In this instance, two teen girls texting as they pulled into a major roadway from a parking lot.  We were out of town when it happened.  In fact, one of my brothers, the ag engineer with the curly blond locks and sweet wife, had flown both me and my husband to California so I could visit Brother Gary at the psychiatric hospital and BOTH of us could take a break from the stress at the beach.  And it was actually at the compassionate behest of his wife that the trip became a reality.  Now THERE'S a peach to spite the pit!  And the uncle who helped in my raising, along with HIS dear of a wife, provided us with the funds to enjoy ourselves on the trip.  Two examples of the people who love on me with no strings attached.

My European kids, the redheaded Army man and his full-time working, college-attending wife, find themselves in the same boat as every other military family in active duty for our nation at this time.  Enough said there.  If I say anything more, they'd have to kill me!  (Joke, Uncle Sam.  JOKE!)

For my own equilibrium, I try to visit my mom's comfy couch as often as possible.  (At least I do that right.)  The best naps occur on those soft cushions.  They pull me in, smooth my brow, and lull me into hours of hardcore slumber.  My concerned mother is pleased to offer this creature comfort to her daughter.  Earlier this week, I had an overnight at her place, chauffeured her to the neurologist for that uncomfortable injection at the base of her skull, wended my way through Smithville's little Wally World store with her, and later cleaned the floor mats in her car before heading back home.  It felt good to do those things for my Earth Mama.  To chat a bit with the other older folks who live in her building.  To know that she has a safe haven for her days and nights.

The deaf pup is still deaf.  No surprise there, eh?  The kitchen walls have come under attack, as well as the table and chairs and corners of certain cabinetry.  Good Will supplied me with cheap teddy bears which I promptly threw out to our little lioness with the freaky blue eyes so that she can disembowel them at her leisure.  She's a strange little thing, our Gracie Helen.  Her behaviors definitely rank high on the oddity list.  But that's an entry for another day.  We love every frighteningly weird square-inch of her petite Aussie frame.  And she likes to lick every square-inch of us.  Eww.

And what about me?  Well, I've consumed ice cream every day for three weeks.  Ben & Jerry's.  Haagen Dazs.  Bryers.  Kroger Private Selection.  McDonald's soft serve.  Hence, I've put on a few pounds which I'm starting to battle thanks to the buddy pass to Gold's Gym Earth Diva Melissa surprised me with.  I've never considered myself a gym rat, but I definitely see the benefits of working out away from the pull of my home and the countless distractions which chip away at my exercise time.  Amazingly, the two times I've gone, that little hamster wheel in my brain quit squeaking!  Quite freeing, that.  And on the writing front, a friend of mine is creating a regional magazine.  I accepted his offer to get on board with the enterprise and have several sections to which I must contribute.  To boot, he surprised me by asking that I write the first two months-worth of cover stories on local women of interest.  I have one interview and 2/3 of that article under my belt; Earth Diva Gayla is in charge of the cover and layout photos.  The research is stimulating; the challenge of writing and learning new skills, rather satisfying.

My heart still hurts.  A little less each day.  The acids in my belly have been roiling more than is usual or welcome.  But my faith is strong.  There is an inner peace I have, and rely upon, based on the promises and grace of Jesus Christ which sustain me, though my externals continue to knock me about.

That . . . and an occasional glass of Sauvignon Blanc before bed.  I'm only human.  And, YES, I did just say that.  Hold your applause.  Send money, instead.





           

Blindsided

Most of us with more than a few years of life beneath our expanding waistlines have endured those surprises of the ill-received kind.  Not the smiling-crowd-bursting-from-behind-doors-couches-and-stairwells-to-congratulate-the aging-process-or-marital-endurance kind.  Nor the heart-shaped-balloons-with-streamers-and-colorful- cards-and-delectable-3-layer-cake-slices-beneath-a-chilly-scoop-of-vanilla-bean-ice-cream kind.  More like the sudden-burning-of-bile-which-decides-to-crawl-up-the-throat-and-sear-the-tongue- thus-letting-one-know-that-jalapenos-and-onions-will-no-longer-be-on-the-menu kind.  Or the bowel-busting-onset-of-dysentery-which-says, "Hi, there.  I hopped a ride from the Wal-Mart restroom door handle yesterday.  Decided to make myself comfortable for a few days while making YOU uncomfortable!" kind.

It's those blindsided moments I want to talk about.

If I can bring forth a bit of mental cohesion.  Don't know if I can.  Feeling rather blindsided at the moment.

For the first time in 24+ years, my husband is gainfully UNemployed.  Our insurance coverage is set to expire on the 26th.  That is also the date of our final paycheck.  Job prospects in our area and beyond within his field of expertise continue to be few and far between.  Notice the use of the word OUR?  That's because WE are two made one under the marital covenant.  The passing of decades together has melded us into a single entity in myriad ways.  What hurts him hurts me and vice-versa.  It's beyond the financials of the situation -- stressful enough though they are.  The human spirit is at stake here.  You ever seen a giant uprooted tree after a landslide or tornado?  When you picture us, picture that tree.

Being uprooted happens to us all.  Intellectually I know that and accept it.  And my faith binds me to hope and acceptance and renewed mind each and every day.  But the emotional component which comprises a significant aspect of my character?  That part of Gloria needs a boost because it really does not know which way to turn as another week ends: another setting sun within a string of days our family has had free from the financial security of a sound job with decent medical coverage.  Set free by the utterance of a few simple words from one man in charge of a specific department within a certain Nashville company.  Simple words directed at my man in charge on a warm summer morning complete with bright sunshine and happy dogs.  Simple words next conveyed to me in a brief cell phone conversation while that aforementioned summer sun slanted its way through my bedroom curtains and cast lacy leafy patterns on my bedspread and carpet.  Simple words I then repeated at least a dozen times to a dozen different people while the ample sunshine of the encroaching day warmed the air and grew the trees and provided health-affirming Vitamin D to whomever it could.  Simple words which now have me searching for safe neighborhoods with reasonable housing within the parameter of Savannah, Georgia of all places.  Simple words sharpening my senses as I try to foresee any number of possible outcomes in our near future and plan for them all.  Simple words that didn't allow for the high school graduation of my son or the early summer wedding of my first child next year.  Simple words paying no nevermind to the needs of our mothers -- one a half hour away and the other recently moved in with us.  

Simple words.  Oh, the power of simple words.  How they can deliver the promise of a thousand kisses or stings with their formation.  How they hold the power to make or break within seconds.  How they alternately soothe or savage the humanity within.  Maybe that's why I prefer more interesting words of complex syllabic structure.  Or "big words" as some of my friends refer to my vocabulary predilections.

The simple act of blindsiding.  Sigh-h.  It doesn't seem to matter if we've been thus attacked before.  Our reason for relocating from Colorado to Tennessee came about in desperate response to a major blindside of tragic proportions.  One that left my younger sister in a psychiatric hospital and her two children buried in a small town cemetery.  And we survived it.  And even thrived in the ten years spent rebuilding our emotional lives and attaching ourselves to a church, neighborhood and community at large.  So, in theory, anything else making its way down the pike shouldn't have the power to painfully smack us upside our heads.  Right?  Wrong!  We're tougher.  More resilient.  We understand the unexpected.  We can endure excruciating loss.  We know how to bend in strong wind.  But bending in strong wind does NOT preclude snapping under the force of a tornado.  Because we don't quit feeling.  In fact, for me personally, I feel more deeply and strongly in all of my connections to friends and family.  Even animals.  In a way, it is this depth of feeling which has possibly lent power to this recent uprooting of self.  Though I welcome change and know my husband and I can tackle whatever comes our way,  it overwhelms me to again accept the loss of comfort and familiarity which must accompany said change.

But that's life, folks.  It always has been from the dawning of time.  Everything recorded and passed down, spoken and passed down, reflects the constancy of blindsiding and the resultant recovery.  As I've heard many a time, it IS what it IS.  And it could be much worse than it is.

I understand that, too.          

Facebook, Coffee & Faith: A Trinity

A friend recently shared a link with me on Facebook.  Sharing links on Facebook, in and of itself, is hardly a rare occurrence.  But this particular sharing by this particular person ventured beyond the typical family photo album or song-o-the-day or beautiful blog page.  My young friend, Charlie, is a married law student, quite cerebral, given to old-fashioned-martini-dry humor, the son of an Earth Diva (sounds like an oath, huh?) and contributes to the excellent existence of an online/print magazine called Fare Forward, A Christian Review of Ideas.  You'll be challenged and pleased with the content, regardless of your religious affiliation, if you enjoy philosophy, believe in the sharing of ideas and abhor stagnation of the mind.

But that's rather beside the point of this entry.  It's just that Charlie and his cohorts deserved a nod.  So, after reading me, go check them out!  'Like' them on Facebook, too, and up their head count.

Anyhow, the link was an article.  Specifically this essay, Espresso & The Meaning of Life: Embracing Reality Through Everyday Liturgies.  He had me at espresso.  But though I'd heard the word often, 'liturgy' was not a familiar concept.  And what did come to mind involved specific religions and practices not associated with anything within my personal experience.  My online dictionary hunt revealed a similar association: 1) a form of public worship; ritual./ 2) a collection of formularies for public worship./ 3) a particular arrangement of services./ 4) a particular form or type of the Eucharistic service./ and, 5) the service of the Eucharist, especially this service (Divine Liturgy) in the Eastern Church.  

The opening dealt with this view that the modern generation is bored to death, so to speak, and thus busies itself with entertainment and work and this-that-and-the-other to keep this boredom at bay.  Further, he cites a current 'collective existential crisis' which permeates so much of society at large: people 'living disconnected from and unfulfilled by reality, despite being the busiest people in history and having a limitless supply of of entertainment at our fingertips.'  I don't believe Charlie was suggesting I fell into this segment of humanity.  Boredom or lack of purpose don't figure into my life; an overload of busy, however, often does.  I do, however, agree with the overall summation.  For many, it's as if we are a people without a cause, insulated as we are from war and poverty and the need to unite beyond the comfort of our personal borders.  And a great deal of the escapes in which we immerse ourselves allow a deep disconnect from our spiritual core.  

Where the essay really picked up for me was in the filling of this meaty word sandwich.  The author introduced his concept of liturgy in the sense of worship and ritual as a means of sidestepping all of the busy, the distraction, the fluffy nonsense in so much of our days and nights.  An intentional way to infuse what could be a drab moment with bright color, resulting in the SUFfusion  of meaning.  Have I lost you yet?  Let me clarify.  His example centers around the process of making his morning cup of espresso by manual means, from start to clean-up, filling 20 minutes with purposeful activity, instead of relying on a coffee maker or Starbucks to do the job.

In his words, "

liturgical practices are performed not for some external end, but simply for the good of the practice itself, they remind us that human activity is inherently meaningful, that our lives have value over and above the values we choose to assign to them. I take twenty minutes to make espresso not because it kills time or distracts me, and not even because it keeps me awake for my morning meetings. I make espresso because I love it, because it is my way of engaging with and celebrating the goodness of God’s created reality in the here and now. By involving ourselves in liturgy, we realize and express the richness of the present moment. We say no to boredom, and no to nihilism, through our engagement with the ritual before us."  (I intentionally left out his many references to nihilism in this essay to streamline and simplify for my purposes.  Feel free to read and research as you wish.)

That there is beautiful stuff.  Solid writing.  Rife with meaning for me.  Though I don't exhort my faith in my blogs -- my writing reflects my ongoing desire to build on my faith and practice my Christian beliefs but the blogs themselves are not specifically tailored to expand on the subject of Christianity -- I am a practicing, growing, stumbling follower of Christ.  There are plenty of better examples of His grace, strength and oneness with His Holy Father than me, for sure.  I'm not a schooled theologian.  I'm no expert.  I don't profess to offer sound religious advice.  But I love my Lord.  And I don't believe that higher learning and intelligence negate a belief in a higher power.  Nor do they preclude an acceptance of Christ as the son of God.  But that's neither here nor there.

What is here, and out there, is a belief that everything of this world is known by my God.  Created and allowed to exist by God.  Thought, feeling, nature, technology, architecture, humanity, the animal kingdom at large, including spiders (which I admire but many fear), and definitely espresso (I totally admire).  Further, my existence in the midst of all of this is intentional: I have been placed.  Therefore, battle of good and evil aside, one of my directives must be to acknowledge this 'everything' with all of my senses, within the time constraints set upon me by this physical body, within this physical world.  My senses are to be engaged.  My mind contemplative.  My heart feeling.  My spirit open.  And as small as I am in the grand scheme of things, tackling such a directive is easier done in bites as opposed to swallowing it all whole.  

Television, the Internet, phone calls, loads of laundry, countless mundane tasks I perform without clear memory of what I wholly completed in a given day, it can all crowd in and push out that directive.  I'd be lying if I claimed that didn't happen with me.  But I consciously try to rally hard against that force of busy and distraction.  And it's quite nice to now have a nifty language label for that rallying: 'everyday liturgy.'  

I tried the espresso-at-home thing, especially after watching my mom in her morning ritual of black gold brewing, but quickly realized it stressed me more than soothed.  The noise.  The heat.  The trouble I always end up having with kitchen machines.  I do, however, enjoy the drawn-out process of making my low-acid, twenty-four-hour, Rwandan-origin coffee concentrate.  The silken texture of pulverized beans against my fingertips; the rich swirl of aroma as the purified water hits the grounds in my French Press; the soft sound of the plunger separating the depleted solids from the dense liquid; the rich amber beauty of the oil-slicked brew settled invitingly within the clear confines of a quart-sized Mason jar; and, the bright notes of soil and citrus which excite my palate each and every morning.  Just one example of how I practice fully living, and thus totally appreciating, the simplest of things in my daily life.  And how many of us drink coffee, or even tea, every single day?  More than once a day?  Opportunity abounds to amplify the idea that we can 100% engage in reality, and thus celebrate all aspects of creation while fully existing in the moment. 

Plenty of other examples come to mind.  My intentional habit of taking pictures during my walks, thereby admonishing myself not to just hurry along, missing all that surrounds me, in my efforts to stay fit .  My proclivity for recipes which require steps and consideration, thus ensuring I am reminded of what goes into a crunchy bite of biscotti or a mouthful of roasted vegetable salad.  My enjoyment in cleaning the dog's ears, brushing his teeth and coat, trimming his nails, bathing his reluctant self, rubbing his belly, each action tying me to continued care for the living even as my children hurry up and grow up.  My meticulous packing of lunch for the man who has blessed my life with his work ethic, humor and willingness to let me be all me, allowing me the honor of recognizing his everyday life of minutes and hours.  Some days I'm more in the moment than others with these basic liturgies, but I perpetuate their practice, and move along in the motions, knowing they validate the minutes they inhabit.  Minutes which add up to a life of Holy validation, minutiae in the mass of life, but incredibly important all the same.  And I could go on, but must I pound you over the head with the hammer I now hold up for inspection?  Unless you are one of the fruit of my womb and yet in high school, I think not.

You see?  How many times must I point out how useful Facebook is?!  Three degrees of separation from posted link to professed faith.   

Suicidal Ideation, Realized and Otherwise

When I was sixteen, I briefly inhabited a mindset that had me contemplating suicide.  Besides the typical teenage hormones, my life existed in an unstable bubble.  I felt isolated from society.  I detested myself.  I hated my mother.  God ticked me off: surely He had abandoned me long ago.  And I had reached a point where I felt I would never lead my own life, free from the emotional and spiritual chains that were weighing me down, both physically and mentally.

Yet my outer demeanor remained bright and friendly at school, and in the rare social situations in which I was allowed to partake I was often the center of attention.  I could laugh and joke with the best of 'em.  There were aspects of life, of humanity, of nature, and of music for which I held a deep appreciation.  A strong fondness.  But all of that didn't seem enough, as it was more a taste of what I could have than what I actually had.  A reminder of all that thrived and hurried and honked outside of the bubble of my family life.  I had friends.  I was deep in the throes of young love.  The school I attended, it would now be called a magnet school I imagine, allowed me personal and intellectual freedom in my studies and my schedule.  I found it stimulating.  But I couldn't live there 24/7.  And I couldn't escape what was a toxic percolation of anger, fear, frustration and desperation inside me.  That followed me everywhere.

It came to a head one night in the privacy of my bedroom in the converted double-apartment in which me and my three siblings and my mother lived in Anchorage, Alaska.  The physicality of jumping from a bridge into traffic seemed to steep a price to exact on whatever poor driver, or drivers, might hit me or witness it.  We didn't keep a stash of medicines in a cabinet.  I didn't know anyone who used razor blades aside from those in an actual shaver.  Most of my dangerous dalliance with suicide existed as intense thought and scenarios.  All of which were intended to make my mother miss me and realize how much she had hurt me over the years.  I wanted to hurt myself in order to hurt my mom.  Not all that uncommon in a desperate teenage girl with serious unresolved issues.  Our mother's are the world, be it a world of sunlight or a world of darkness.

On that night, deeply distraught, furious with my mother -- she may have found my journal and had words with me over what was written on its voluminous angst-ridden pages -- my deepest desire was to be as far away from her and my crappy life as was humanly possible.  Death seemed the best fit for that.  All I had was Midol for my period discomfort and a bottle of Sea Breeze facial astringent.  I ingested what was left of the menstrual medication; I took several difficult swigs of the bitter cleanser.  There was yet half a bottle to polish off.  But waves of nausea wracked my body, as did waves of regret, and the meager contents of my attempt poured out into the toilet.  What if my brothers or sister found me?  They would be devastated.  And I realized I feared the pain of dying or the possible long-term effects of failure.  As an adult, I am most grateful for that fear and its ability to override my irrational feelings.  Though I continued to stew in my misery for quite some time, never again did I entertain self-inflicted death as the way out of my dilemmas.  As with my failure as a successful bulimic, I was also a failure at suicide.  If one is going to be a failure at something in their life, this would be in the top ten.

Unlike me, there are others for whom suicide eclipses any fear, love, beauty, any human appetite for which we are designed, and seek its finality through all failures until success is attained.  My brother, Gary, is one who has struggled throughout his childhood and adulthood with this.  Especially during his decade-plus long stay in the California penal system.  The worst episode entailed guards finding him on the brink of death, wrists slit, on the floor of his cell.  In and out of consciousness, he could hear the orderlies who lifted him up and away to the institution's hospital wing as they bemoaned his survival.  "Let the losers dies, man."  It wasn't until his body had battled the damage and won that his family learned of what had transpired: he called me after the fact, still weakened, but alive and deeply depressed.  Unless he had actually died, we would not have been notified.  Thus, no cards or letters to encourage him or steel him for what he would face on the other side.  Of all the horrific moments in his incarceration, this chapter was particularly scarring to us both.  Never to be forgotten.  As it stands now, suicidal tendencies are low on his list of issues in need of attention, but his illness and situation, plus the ease with which he'll abuse his body if he needs to do so because his danger parameters are widely stretched, keep it on the radar.  It is something that I've had to accept.  Reluctantly.

Two nights ago, the college roommate of a young friend of mine (a son to one of my Earth Divas) committed suicide after leaving a note on the pillow of my young friend.  "I'm going somewhere quiet to kill myself."  He also left one for his girlfriend of two-plus years.  He was well-mannered, likable, not prone to drama, and exhibited no outward signs of whatever inner turmoil had evidently been plaguing him.  This bothered my Earth Diva pal, as she worried how her son would accept and deal with this unfolding tragedy, because there was nothing to foretell this terrible life-ending decision.  But it is this very facade of 'all is well' that is often employed to mask the agony of the internal.  Whatever had taken root in this boy's mind, his very soul, whatever chemical processes may have occurred (I don't know all of the story at this point and I wonder about certain medications for acne or anxiety or studying that he may have taken which can cause suicidal ideation in otherwise emotionally healthy individuals) he wasn't seeking attention by acting out or looking for help.  He simply wanted to die.  And was quite determined to see it through.  No amount of frantic late-night searching for his whereabouts by police or friends was going to deter him.  He wanted someone to know he would soon be dead.  He did not merely set out to evoke feelings of sorrow or regret or pain and be rescued from his demons in the end.  He desired the end.

I think all of us attached to this, however three-degrees-of-separation that might be, wish to know the absolutes.  We want answers.  We want to see a definite progression, a cause and effect, which brings some degree of sense to the story.  The loose-ends, the unknown, the suddenness, the total and complete shock of it, the awareness of the widening ripples in the pond as the grief and acceptance wash over friends and family and local MTSU fellow students, the kids he helped at his local church, is all way too much in such a jumbled combination.  If the strands could be separated and identified, maybe reconfigured into a neatly braided timeline, a body of explanation with a clear beginning and middle to balance out the untimely agonizing end, maybe then it would be easier to swallow.  I doubt it.  I also doubt that any of us can will clarity into the situation for our own sake.  As much as my young friend will be hurting for some time, those stages of grief through which he will wallow, along with the girlfriend and the family members left to cope, all of us who bear witness and empathize, there is not a one who hurts more than the young man who felt so completely sure that separating himself from his mortality was the clear path down which to trod.

I mourn for society's loss of one who had yet to realize that his absence WOULD be a loss.