It seems so silly now. Last night the sky was sooty and filled with trickles of rain that dripped much like a leaking faucet. I had set out on my journey home to discover the trickling rain had caused an epidemic of car accidents. I crept through back streets after a desperately long day that had nearly reduced me to tears.
I sat at the computer, after dinner with friends, desperate and dying to write but unable to because my hands had grown numb from editing a soon to launch intranet site at work. I attempted to read My Life In France but was unable to due to the hand situation. My cat, Button, eventually curled into my lap and peacefully hummed each time I stroked her.
So there I was on the couch with numb fingers, a humming cat and nothing to do but watch tv. My mother passed away 3 1/2 years ago and I still suffer from her loss with acute pain. The shock has worn off; what remains is a desperate need for normalcy. My family disintegrated into separate, disingenuous units. My father became exactly what I always perceived him to be. He’s a man only interested in his own endeavors and who considers yours when he’s bored, depressed or lonely. Father of the year he is not. The worst of it is, he thinks he’s a terrific father. He was superbly fatherly when he left me to fend for myself in Hoboken when I missed the last call for the parking garage and learned that it was closed for the night. The gentlemen at the gate told me I was three minutes late and I’d have to return in the morning. I was late because my friend was crying over dinner, worried her husband was having an affair and asking me if all men cheat. I hesitated to glance at my watch, afraid she’d feel conscience of the time.
At a loss, I called my father who happily stated he was on the couch watching tv. The thought of picking me up never occurred to him. He suggested I take a train to Newark and then Rahway where he’d either pick me up or I could get a cab home from the Rahway station since it’d be after 2:00 A.M. He stated it was getting late. My friend startled and stated, “You can’t do that as a woman at this hour! Newark isn’t safe during the day! Stay with us.” So I did. And the winner of the father of the year award isn’t mine.
As an only child with a father like mine, I’m always tempted to wish for something more. To dream of someone who’d have rescued me in Hoboken, ask me how my day was and plan things together. At the loss of my mother, I decided the best thing for me was to find a nice man who wanted a nice, capable woman and a great home life. That hasn’t happened. I spend holidays with my mother’s best friend, thankfully, and always feel like the orphaned girl who everyone secretly feels sorry for. I’m never at a loss for invites over the holidays. Last night the normalcy need was magically brought to life but I didn't realize how far I've come.
I get angry at myself quite easily for forgetting to clean the cat box, refusing to fold my laundry or "red" up my room. I've learned I'm much happier in an organized life but disdain the "getting organized" part so much that I avoid it all together. Then I start to cry, literally, and wish for my mother and hate my life...blah.blah. My mother was my normalcy. Together we’d head to brunch each Saturday, she’d remind me to wash my clothes and head to bed early. Dinner was always made. We talked three times a day and lived together. Every experience and thought I had was hashed out with my mom. We loved each other with a devotion so deep that even death hasn’t cut it. In fact, the loss has made me understand her even more.
At first I missed the physical things like dinner, watching movies etc. Lately I miss the spiritual. I want to ask her questions like “Why does God allow suffering?”, “Am I meant to be alone forever?”, “What if you give birth to a child you aren’t fond of?” My mother, if she didn’t have an answer, would ponder and pray over it before discussing it further. Then she always would.
I’ve worked at creating my own life’s rhythm. For some reason it’s an insanely difficult thing to do. It’s easy to arrive on time for work each day but quite challenging for me to plan out a week’s worth of menus and cook them after work for my father when I’m exhausted. The fact that he’s never thankful for my efforts only worsens my resolve not to cook. I dread hearing about his day endlessly over dinner. I awaken early in the morning to read scripture and meditate on it. I did that before my mother passed and continued until I met a boyfriend who didn’t believe. I started this up last month and found it to be a key ingredient in my contentment.
Yet, a wand seems to wave, dust disperses into the air and suddenly a lonely fit of tears begins to travel northward from my heart to my eyes. I have a broken heart that seems to refuse to be fixed.
I’ve learned of late to let the tears come and start praying immediately. I pray for help and strength from God and a relief from the feelings. While it doesn’t usually fade of its own accord, my mother’s advice is true. Eat, pray and sleep for relief. I went to bed last night and awakened fully restored. The questions remain but the answer came in the most unusual place. It came from a blog. Here’s the article. Penelope Trunk's 9/11 blog. I agree with her last statement: “And I wonder: Did the World Trade Center cause me to become completely unstable for a time? Or did the World Trade Center give me a framework for creating a different stability that grows better every year?”
The loss of my mother wrecked my life for a time. In fact, that life has completely died. There are no more family gatherings or dinners. With it some hoped faded away too. I’m not going to be daddy’s little girl. Perhaps it's time for me to become my own normalcy, to set the metronome to my own rhythm instead of hers. Her death has forced me to adapt and stabilize myself. I've found stability comes from God. I’ve lost her shelter but His has only widened. The key to your survival is finding your Savior. Perhaps a loss causes the deepest kind of growth. When you lose something or suffer greatly, you’re forced to rebuild and heal. The starting over process creates flexibility, character, compassion towards others and appreciation for what you have. While I may never have the father I hoped for, I’ve been given a career I love, friends who care and a faith that grows stronger each day. I’ve learned that life is a lot about doing what you don’t love to do. Each day you have to do the tasks assigned to you, whether you feel like doing them or not. To avoid the lonely feelings, make a list of things you can do alone. Don’t think of it as being alone while doing them, just do them to keep busy. Find your outlets, read scripture and realize that all of us must spend times alone. Being alone makes makes the company of others that much sweeter.
I can’t be certain of what life holds next but I am certain of one thing. God’s compassion will never fail to help you through it. When all seems lost perhaps it really is. Loss gives way to gain though. You have to be broken to be rebuilt. Perhaps the new thing that’s starting is better than the old ever could’ve been.
Lam. 3:22.
I sat at the computer, after dinner with friends, desperate and dying to write but unable to because my hands had grown numb from editing a soon to launch intranet site at work. I attempted to read My Life In France but was unable to due to the hand situation. My cat, Button, eventually curled into my lap and peacefully hummed each time I stroked her.
So there I was on the couch with numb fingers, a humming cat and nothing to do but watch tv. My mother passed away 3 1/2 years ago and I still suffer from her loss with acute pain. The shock has worn off; what remains is a desperate need for normalcy. My family disintegrated into separate, disingenuous units. My father became exactly what I always perceived him to be. He’s a man only interested in his own endeavors and who considers yours when he’s bored, depressed or lonely. Father of the year he is not. The worst of it is, he thinks he’s a terrific father. He was superbly fatherly when he left me to fend for myself in Hoboken when I missed the last call for the parking garage and learned that it was closed for the night. The gentlemen at the gate told me I was three minutes late and I’d have to return in the morning. I was late because my friend was crying over dinner, worried her husband was having an affair and asking me if all men cheat. I hesitated to glance at my watch, afraid she’d feel conscience of the time.
At a loss, I called my father who happily stated he was on the couch watching tv. The thought of picking me up never occurred to him. He suggested I take a train to Newark and then Rahway where he’d either pick me up or I could get a cab home from the Rahway station since it’d be after 2:00 A.M. He stated it was getting late. My friend startled and stated, “You can’t do that as a woman at this hour! Newark isn’t safe during the day! Stay with us.” So I did. And the winner of the father of the year award isn’t mine.
As an only child with a father like mine, I’m always tempted to wish for something more. To dream of someone who’d have rescued me in Hoboken, ask me how my day was and plan things together. At the loss of my mother, I decided the best thing for me was to find a nice man who wanted a nice, capable woman and a great home life. That hasn’t happened. I spend holidays with my mother’s best friend, thankfully, and always feel like the orphaned girl who everyone secretly feels sorry for. I’m never at a loss for invites over the holidays. Last night the normalcy need was magically brought to life but I didn't realize how far I've come.
I get angry at myself quite easily for forgetting to clean the cat box, refusing to fold my laundry or "red" up my room. I've learned I'm much happier in an organized life but disdain the "getting organized" part so much that I avoid it all together. Then I start to cry, literally, and wish for my mother and hate my life...blah.blah. My mother was my normalcy. Together we’d head to brunch each Saturday, she’d remind me to wash my clothes and head to bed early. Dinner was always made. We talked three times a day and lived together. Every experience and thought I had was hashed out with my mom. We loved each other with a devotion so deep that even death hasn’t cut it. In fact, the loss has made me understand her even more.
At first I missed the physical things like dinner, watching movies etc. Lately I miss the spiritual. I want to ask her questions like “Why does God allow suffering?”, “Am I meant to be alone forever?”, “What if you give birth to a child you aren’t fond of?” My mother, if she didn’t have an answer, would ponder and pray over it before discussing it further. Then she always would.
I’ve worked at creating my own life’s rhythm. For some reason it’s an insanely difficult thing to do. It’s easy to arrive on time for work each day but quite challenging for me to plan out a week’s worth of menus and cook them after work for my father when I’m exhausted. The fact that he’s never thankful for my efforts only worsens my resolve not to cook. I dread hearing about his day endlessly over dinner. I awaken early in the morning to read scripture and meditate on it. I did that before my mother passed and continued until I met a boyfriend who didn’t believe. I started this up last month and found it to be a key ingredient in my contentment.
Yet, a wand seems to wave, dust disperses into the air and suddenly a lonely fit of tears begins to travel northward from my heart to my eyes. I have a broken heart that seems to refuse to be fixed.
I’ve learned of late to let the tears come and start praying immediately. I pray for help and strength from God and a relief from the feelings. While it doesn’t usually fade of its own accord, my mother’s advice is true. Eat, pray and sleep for relief. I went to bed last night and awakened fully restored. The questions remain but the answer came in the most unusual place. It came from a blog. Here’s the article. Penelope Trunk's 9/11 blog. I agree with her last statement: “And I wonder: Did the World Trade Center cause me to become completely unstable for a time? Or did the World Trade Center give me a framework for creating a different stability that grows better every year?”
The loss of my mother wrecked my life for a time. In fact, that life has completely died. There are no more family gatherings or dinners. With it some hoped faded away too. I’m not going to be daddy’s little girl. Perhaps it's time for me to become my own normalcy, to set the metronome to my own rhythm instead of hers. Her death has forced me to adapt and stabilize myself. I've found stability comes from God. I’ve lost her shelter but His has only widened. The key to your survival is finding your Savior. Perhaps a loss causes the deepest kind of growth. When you lose something or suffer greatly, you’re forced to rebuild and heal. The starting over process creates flexibility, character, compassion towards others and appreciation for what you have. While I may never have the father I hoped for, I’ve been given a career I love, friends who care and a faith that grows stronger each day. I’ve learned that life is a lot about doing what you don’t love to do. Each day you have to do the tasks assigned to you, whether you feel like doing them or not. To avoid the lonely feelings, make a list of things you can do alone. Don’t think of it as being alone while doing them, just do them to keep busy. Find your outlets, read scripture and realize that all of us must spend times alone. Being alone makes makes the company of others that much sweeter.
I can’t be certain of what life holds next but I am certain of one thing. God’s compassion will never fail to help you through it. When all seems lost perhaps it really is. Loss gives way to gain though. You have to be broken to be rebuilt. Perhaps the new thing that’s starting is better than the old ever could’ve been.
Lam. 3:22.
No comments:
Post a Comment