Death and tomatoes

I've been thinking about my Grandma lately. I always think about her in the summer. I picked my first tomato of the season this evening, and it smelled like 1989, and Ohio, and warm earth that squishes between your toes. Fresh tomatoes will always be Grandma. I grow mine with such pride and joy, even if they fail me, for to grow them is to blossom memories.

My Grandma was a strong, sassy lady. She was a farmer. A school bus driver. A dog lover. A floribunda fighter. A pyromaniac. She was amazing in the kitchen - I loved everything she made except scalloped potatoes. The only good potato, frankly, is a mashed one. My beloved Grandma died from cancer two years ago. Over and over it was said, she simply clings to life as one who does not want to die. She prayed for healing and I think she believed God would grant it to her. She wanted to stay. Even though she knew heaven would be amazing.

When you get the opportunity to wait for death to claim a loved one, your experience is much different than when death arrives unexpectedly. The grieving process begins much earlier, but does not lessen the pain of loss. You live in memories while the person is yet before you, but gradually, with certainty, slipping away. You have the chance to make all the plans, even get input from the person themselves on what they might desire for funeral arrangements. You possibly check off bucket list items. You go places. You talk. You cry. You say all the necessary words. You cry. You say all the words again. I don't think there is a process more physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining than waiting for death.

This is from the perspective of the living.

I always wonder just what is the perspective from the dying. Truly. What is it like to breathe your last? What parts of those final moments do you even understand? If it's painful, do you let go more quickly? If it's peaceful, do you linger a moment more to see the stars come out one last time?

We applaud those who make it back "from the brink." We call them heros - of what I'm not sure. You what, cheated death? No, you simply will face that spector another day. What indeed makes us fight so hard to stay here? To be heros? What reasons do we have to avoid death? One good reason might be fear of the unknown. Truly none of us know what it is to take that last breath. The door to that hallway is big and scary. We love big here. And leaving that behind is also enough to cause us deep pain. This life is good. Painful. And good. We do well to cling so tenaciously to such a gift.

My Grandma pointed me to Jesus, as a child, as an adult, and now in whose presence she is fully healed. She knows more joy today than she ever knew growing tomatoes. She has seen the nail prints that made it possible, and therefore, she now understands fully what love is. I can't imagine how the last two years have flown for her. Eternity is not something we can grasp. But eternity in beauty. In love. In joy. With the God who desires so much to be with us that He provided a story of redemption....

I have no doubt I will cling to this life with all my being when the time comes, because I love my babies, my friends, rain, trees... I hope it will not be painful because I know I would linger to watch the stars...

....and find myself in the presence of the One who created the stars. The One who calls me beloved. The One who traded his life for mine. The One to whom I owe a debt I can't pay.

And somewhere, I'm still so hopeful it will be on a big swing, under a big tree, my Grandma will be waiting to welcome me.

It's A Love Story

I thought my audience might enjoy a throw back post, if you will. A "get to know" read. Sit back and I'm going to share with you the intricate interworkings of all that mushy love stuff.

Ryan. Perhaps we should call him Big Friendly Giant - or as the movie says...BFG? Ryan came to me when I was 17, a college freshman, spending my days studying and selling the groceries to the hungry masses. Not long after I met this bag boy, I moved up to the east side, being promoted to the service desk, where I could better utilize my social skills and keep all those hungry people happy. I honestly do not remember much about those first months, but these are the two impressions I do remember: 1) Most importantly, this boy is a gigantic man-child. An extremely skinny, all legs, super sweet, ultra baby faced, boy. He did not look old enough to work legally. 2) When I would look out the office door and down the cashier line, Ryan would be bent over double grabbing the necessary coins for his customers, because the register drawer popped out at his knees. Truly. I can't make this stuff up.

Soon, he moved into my territory and I moved up to the cash office, virtually becoming his boss. Sorta. Literally. Whatever. We worked a lot of hours together, this man-child and me. I schooled him in the ways of getting those peeps their Pick 3 numbers before the cutoff time. I showed him how to sort and count cash like a drug lord. I was fast. But things at the office did not always go smoothly and, Ryan, that boy, he was very smart. Unbeknownst to me, because I'm pretty oblivious to this type of thing, Ryan had set his heart on pursuing me. He wooed me, Friends, with the hot mustard. McDonalds will rule forever because of hot mustard sauce. I don't care what you say. I had to yell at a few of these NY branches for discontinuing it..(Are you kidding me?! Its your business' only saving grace) Oh. It's back now...fyi. I digress. He brought me the nuggets and the hot mustard sauce at 2100 when I was so busy I couldn't take lunch..(this is a trend in my life). Little by little he worked his way into my heart, becoming my friend.

And such a good friend he was. Our relationship was always completely amiable. We never ran out of things to talk about. But. Let's be honest. That's probably because of me. He eventually went off to some military obligations and then moved south for college. Because I did not seem to return his deeper affection, he pursued other relationships and we didn't speak for a few months. I was on my way to give him what for on 9/11, but never made it. When I did make it, a few weeks later, I looked into the blue eyes of my best friend, and gave my heart away.

This October we will celebrate 12 years of marriage. We live everywhere. We're raising some crazies. We're doing life. He still brings me food to combat the hangries. I cannot hide ANYTHING from this man. And it's amazing. And frustrating. He gets me better than anyone. Anyone. And he still loves me. That is a gift; one not to ever be taken lightly.

I don't have the recipe for marital happiness. But I can tell you that love born from deep friendship is the best kind. When you take away the love drama, (there is always love drama), you are left with your best buddy who knows you need a case of 5th Avenue bars and a game of Scrabble to survive.

Chapters

This might be an unpopular post, but the subject matter is something that is near to my heart. It has been expressed to me on various occasions over the years that I lead a blessed and apparent "trouble free" life; and, while I am a very open person - there is not much information about myself that I would withhold - be assured there are things that I keep very close to my heart. I will not be sharing those today because it is not prudent to let everyone read all the chapters of a life. What you can know is that there are chapters that are dark and very painful. There are chapters that I would rip out in a heartbeat if I were but given the chance. Some chapters I wouldn't even know how title. Some are confusing and the ending that presented itself doesn't quite seem to make sense. Some are still being written and some, some are but a flick of the pen away from beginning. Life is full of chapters, seasons, of time. The book I'm writing has so many pages filled with experiences that define, and often, it is the painful ones that define the most.

It is about these painful chapters, in particular, that I would like to share today. So very, very often I see social media posts, notes, cards that like to share condensed "wisdom" meant to inspire and encourage, but instead, I feel it desensitizes us to the truth. For example, "God will never give you more than you can handle" of course gives the individual the pride of being strong, at least in the opinion of the person who is doling out the encouragement; the statement also suggests that God is purposefully assigning the situation and, frankly, neither of these things are true. God does not say anywhere that you will not have more than you can handle in this life, and while he allows painful things to happen in this world, and in our lives, every situation should not be viewed as a direct test. Bad things happen. It just is.

Here are some of the things that God does say....

In this world you will have trouble... (Mark this well, readers. People will shoot people. People will abuse people. Floods. Hurricanes. Not a bed of roses. Trouble. A direct statement.)

But the good news....

I have overcome the world...
When you are broken hearted, I am close to you...
I am the Father who comforts you in all your troubles...

As the great emoter of our time, the one who might have inspired an emoji, my personal favorite is this one...

One day (Angela), I will wipe away every tear from your eyes.

I have some hard, very painful chapters that I will reread for the rest of my life, dear friends. I know that each of you has the same. Let's be real about it. Let's not give out cheap (false) lines. Let's be honest. Bad things happen. All around us. Multiple times per day. But as they happen, let's take a moment to go on the journey - with ourselves, our neighbors, our friends - that long, often ugly, journey of coping. Let's not put a bandaid of "God gives the hardest battles to his strongest soldiers" (Say what?!) and carry on. Let's share life. Let's try to help one another bring some closure to those tough chapters. Most importantly, let's share truth. Always.

There is no greater truth than this: God's heart is for you, especially during the hard times, dear reader, even if you believe not, and with the empathy God has gifted me, mine is too.

syncmyride

Are you familiar with Sync?

I drive a Ford Escape and love everything about it. It's big, but small, and roomy without increasing the overall size of the vehicle. In my frank opinion it is vehicular perfection and I am so happy I could get one. Here I will take a minute to remind everyone that I drove a Ford Expedition in Utah. That's right, an 8 passenger vehicle had me blending into my surroundings as all wall flowers (yet another apt descripton of me) should; but, I could never do that here. My parking capabilities are limited. Truly. Comparably, I think the East is diminutive to the West. WHY oh WHY are the parking lots so cramped with a million and one curbs and spots for landscaping?! Less trees and more parking please. Cuz the traffic is heavy at the Chipotle. And I need my tacos. Sigh. I digress.

My Escape is equipped with Sync - a hands free device that connects your phone. Viola! Now you can speak on the phone and not break the serious NY law of hand held cellular use while driving, which we learned about the hard way. Ideally, Sync is a cool idea. Click a button and give voice commands to accomplish the task that would normally be reserved for your digits. Talking to talk should be right up Angela's alley, ya? Let me just give you a fly's perspective of how this cutting edge technology actually works for the market user....

Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Angela: Call.
Sync: What name?
Angela: Ryan.
Sync: Say a name, or a line number, or say none of those. Please say a command.
Angela: Call Ryan.
Sync: Please say a line number, or say none of those.
Angela: None of those
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Call Ryan
Sync: Calling "some random person I haven't talked to in years because it couldn't of course be Mom" on cell.
Angela: CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL!!!
Sync: Please say a command.
Angela: Phone
Sync: Try saying a device like phone, climate or if you have a subscription, say Sirrius.
Angela: Phone
Sync: I did not understand you. Please say a command.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Try saying a device like phone, climate, or if you have a subscription, say Sirrius.
Angela: Phone.
Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Angela. Call Ryan.
Sync: Say a line number or say none of those.
Angela: Line 3.
Sync: Tuning to AM1200.

Why, yes, tuning to AM broadcasting is absolutely going to solve this train wreck.

Angela: CANCEL!
Angela: CANCEL!

As the strains of "Stars" reach my ears, I feel that I can proceed with caution to exit the vehicle as by this point I have coasted into the local Stewarts on fumes and a prayer. I leave the radio on because. Hello. Skillet.

I'm fueling. I'm singing. Terribly off key incidentally. Then....

Sync: Phone. Please say a command.
Skillet....
Sync: Calling "I can't hear the name."

!!!

Of course, additional NY rules, or preference, does not allow for the tab to keep the fuel going....probably some verbiage about the crazies who desperately need to reenter and control their autobot....so I must stay put.

"Hello. Hello. Hello?" Click. Skillet. (Reenter vehicle - check phone - Sync called an old Utah friend because of course it couldn't be Mom, yet again. It felt weird to call back and say, "Haha, my "carclearlyautobot" just called you, awkward right, so howyoudoin?")

For the love. I understand that the use of cellular phones impairs drivers; perhaps Sync is not the best resolution for this issue, as the average user, or just me, will seek solace in a glass.

My Escape. Optimus. He still rules.

Parenting

Let's talk about parenting. I cannot name any other task on this earth that requires more effort. To do it well, one must be engaged, but how many other things also require our engagement? Jobs. Church. Extended family. Friendships. Health. Volunteer work. We already discussed my perfectionistic tendancies, so we know that I'm going to struggle with the weight of balancing all these things. I'm pretty certain I'm failing at all of it. Just. Failing. I should definitely be doing more volunteer work, and, yes, I hear that "amen" from the local PTA. I should way more often be #dead whilst the next Tony Horton tells me I'm doing it all wrong. (Shout out to my Tooker.) I should call loved ones more often, because it is amazing how you can miss the sound of someone's voice once you never hear it again. The struggle is real this year, and every year, Friends, but the one task that calls us back again and again is parenting.

From the moment you receive that squalling baby until you breathe your last breath, you should struggle with the weight of your responsibility. Because if you don't struggle, you will find yourself a mediocre 'rent and you do not want to sacrifice your children on the altar of mediocrity. Every stage of parenting is tough. When you're in the baby stage, all you want is sleep, and for the love, a baby that is not a fountain or a liquid poo cannon. (A shout out to both my sons with all the love in my Mommy heart.) When you enter the toddler/preschool years, you're running on physical demand fumes, but adding in the worry about "sensory gross motor skills," when all you want is for the kid to just.eat.this.banana. Elementary rocks, as you send that child off into the world, and you rejoice for moments until you see the world is a tough place for a young one. And so you spend your time soothing, encouraging, pushing, and believing your child into the tween years. And this is the place I'm at, Folks. The tween years. This recent occurrence that you might not know is a thing. It's a thing. I'm standing at the edge, holding tightly to two smallishokaybigish hands and wondering if I can just wing them to the other side. The side where they are responsible, trustworthy, kind, loving, truth seeking men of moral courage. How on earth will I get them there? What will the journey look like? Will they make it? Suddenly bodily fluids seems preferable to character building. Diaper duty for one, sign me up.

While I stand here with these lads, you know, the ones with the smallishokaybigish hands, I do want to throw them to the other side. But. A bigger piece of me is aching, telling them to "Keep holding my hand, watch for traffic" even as I feel their grip loosen. And this is where the rubber meets the road. Parents, this is what we've been preparing for. Take courage, here, for this is the sacred ground. This is the place you must win. You must fight for, yet release, your precious ones. Pray hard. Pray some more. And when that nolongersmallishatall hand leaves yours.... Absolutely completely lose all your cool (read:bawling is acceptable). And know that you did all the hard things. You will not be sorry for the time you have invested in your children versus any other task demanding your attention.

And the seasons they go round and round.... We're captive on the carousel of time....

Broadway

As some of you may know, earlier this year, I crossed a big item off my bucket list. For my whole life I have wanted to see a show on Broadway, and, in recent years, it just had to be Wicked. So, on a frigid weekend in February, I found myself in New York City with the singular goal of taking in all the sights and sounds, essentially to have "one short day," in the Emerald City. The show was amazing. In absolutely every way, from start to finish. The actors. The costumes. The music. Everything was on point. The reward far outweighed the $110 price tag. In fact, on just about any day, I feel very certain I'd drop what I was doing and tag along with someone to the theater. There is something so very special about theater, musical theater in particular. For 2.25 hours, plus an intermission, you get to be somewhere else. You get to BE someone else. This is the part I love the most. Identifying yourself in the story of another. Many times I have made the statement that Broadway is the music of our lives. It is powerful, agonizing, breathtaking, and achingly, beautiful. If we are honest, this summarizes life. We encounter all these moments in an allotted span of days, months, or years; and, for a small sum the writers of plays nicely package this jumble of experiences and take you on an emotionally charged ride, upon which you disembark in the same condition that I hope to be when I am set to leave this world, spent, yet grateful for the journey.

Wicked is my play of choice for I greatly identify with Elphaba. I want to be her. I hope I am her. Through choices that were not her own, she often found herself in uncomfortable positions. She had every reason to be bitter about her lot in life, but, though she is flawed, she is kind-hearted. She wrestles with her past as do I. Underneath the ridicule she endures, in the quiet places of her heart, she is powerful. Strong in the face of injustice. No compromising who she knows herself to be. Quite simply. She learned to defy gravity. Of course, she also learns that life does not always turn out as expected, but the friendship she was fortunate to have forged has forever changed her, and though they part, it will remain a blessing for life. Elphaba is an extraordinary character. Flawed. Strong. Loved. Phenomenal.

I get so absolutely wrapped up in every performance I view. Frankly, I almost prefer to go alone because I can't have people along ruining it for me. You know, asking questions, laughing at inappropriate times, talking, leaving to use the facilities. Seriously. You got to sit down, shut up and leave me alone for the duration. From the time the curtain opens to the last encore, my heart is completely and utterly invested. That being said, Wicked is coming to the local theater next Spring and I am definitely going. I'll invite you along, but only, I mean ONLY, so that you can, without comment, dispense the necessary tissues, and, of course, applaud my vocal range. Oh. Yeah. And take me out for pie.

Fridays

If you have followed me over here from social media, then we have already had the discussion of "genuine," and the black and white world in which I live. I am as pretty close to transparent as you might encounter, for I see no good reasons to be otherwise. If you are new here, or do not know me very well, then consider yourself informed as to the further content of this blog. This is #lifeunplugged and sometimes I cannot #getahandle but I think it is in these moments that we see authenticity is attractive.

Here we go....


It has occurred to me that the idea of "Friday" is novel. "Oh, hooray, we get an evening to celebrate the next two days of off." Or. "TGIF...where would I be without this precious and priceless day of the week?!" I think I can shed some light on the reality of Friday. And its complete and utter un-novel-ness.

I made it to Friday, this most special of all the days. ("Yippee" and "hooray" except I will not have a day off for awhile so it basically means nothing, but that is a note for the sidelines.) I started with the worst headache at approximately 1335 EST. I rarely get headaches, but by the time I picked up my children at 1600, I was in full blown crisis mode. Arriving home, I was desperately trying to get to my bed but persons of a smaller stature are so persistent, myself included. I could not process the questions. Not.A.Single.One. And there were oh-so-many.

 I lay down, close my eyes and think of just the right response.... And then my eyes fly open, I stare at the ceiling, and try to adjust to what is very clearly a tranquilizer situation. My brain is so very fuzzy. "What day is it? How much time has passed? For the love whose kids are making all that racket? Am I supposed to be somewhere? Is it morning? Do I really own that cat?"

 Just on cue, son #2 comes bounding in the room, asking the most famous and morally degenerating of all questions, "What's for dinner?" Oh. I see. Those kids must be mine. Great.

No sooner had the question been raised, then he was gone, and I am left to mentally account for his existence. Was he really just here? Dinner. Yes. I did not eat anything all day. Yes, dinner is a wonderful suggestion. 

Wait. If that child is mine, I'm the mother, which means I need to procure the food. Bummer. 

Wait! Za is most definitely the answer to this random child's question. I can get the za. Yes, I can do this. By sheer force of will I gather my faculties and stand, and, you guys, it is in this moment I realize I should not be operating any heavy machinery. Such as a vehicle. "Do these kids have a father? What's the deal here?" Seriously. Friends. It was the struggle of a lifetime. 

Oh my word. Za was acquired. Everyone lived. My joy in parenthood is restored. Mostly. 

But the moral: the joy of Friday means nothing. You make it to Friday and you cease to function. The end.

PS - Someone might want to make sure that tomorrow morning I know who I am and that I go to work.

PPS- These kids do have a father and he just got home.

PPPS - First blog. Boom.