I Write. . .

Before there was Running Chatter, I wrote.

Before there was a husband and three kids, I wrote.

Before there were pictures, I wrote.

As far back as I can remember. . . I’ve written.

I wrote to see, to feel, to process, to understand.  With each written word the burden was lightened, the story was told.  Some stories were simple, easy, child-like and written in a slim book protected by a tiny lock and key. . .

Dear diary, I’m so annoyed with {my little sister}.  Dear Diary, I have a crush on. . .
As the years moved on the stories became bigger, deeper, more personal. . .

Who am I? Who do I want to be? What do I believe?

Then the stories were prayers. Pleas.  The lock and key were gone and the book was much like a trusted friend. . .carrying each story with understood confidence. 

I think I found ‘the one’. . . Thank you for. . . I’m scared about. . . Help us to. . .

The stories changed with each passing year as I became a wife and then a mama.  The stories changed as I sorted it all out with pen and paper and drank in all the goodness life laid at our feet.  The stories were simple, but good. 

And then there came the day when I picked up the little black book filled cream colored lined paper.  The book was already half filled with my ramblings when I flipped to the next blank page and wrote the words that changed so many things. . . we lost her today. . . today is the day we lost Mom.

The day I wrote those words a different story began–a story I’m still writing. 

Maybe it’s because Mother’s Day is quickly approaching.  Maybe it’s because every other commercial on the radio or ad on Facebook tells me that I need to order flowers yesterday for the woman who gave me life. Or maybe, just maybe, there are times when my foundation feels shaky because the noise in my head is loud and I long to hear the voice of Mom saying, matter-of-factly, it will be okay. . .
I began writing here, nearly four years ago, after our loss.  (I still can’t say “died”.)  It was through writing here, through loss, through pain, and through grief that I began discovering myself and the world.  The beauty that arose from our ashes was beyond what I could have ever imagined. 

Still, there are times when I think to myself, wouldn’t it be nice. . .

There are so many things I would want to tell her, so many things I would want her to see. . .

I wish I could have told her about the day Chanelle dressed up in my wedding dress. . .

Or about how Charlie is playing baseball. . .

I think she would be thrilled to know that we’ve moved to our own little slice of Heaven. . .

And she would be amazed by the beautiful, heart-filled, people her grandson and granddaughter have become. . .

And Meadow?  I wish she could meet Meadow. . .

. . . and all of her eccentricities. . .

Or see the wonderful Dad (and husband) her son-in-law really is. . .

And I wish she could just see and be a part of our everyday moments that are simple, but in the most perfect way. . .

But more than anything? More than seeing Charlie’s baseball games or seeing Chanelle’s intense eyes or seeing Meadow in all her Meadow-ness? 

More than anything,  I just wish she were here.

I just wish she were here.

But she’s not and I do all I know to do. . . I do what I’ve done for as long as I remember. . .

I write.

I think today, if I had that little book with the tiny lock and key it might say something like this. . .

Dear Diary, some days it hurts.  Some days it just hurts.  I miss her. 

And because these last few years have taught me so very much I just might answer myself.

I think I might say something like this. . . 

Summer, it’s going to be okay. . .

And sometimes, writing it down, is just enough to make it feel okay.

Thank you for stopping by and reading today.

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“Emotional discomfort, when accepted, rises, crests and falls in a
series of waves. Each wave washes a part of us away and deposits
treasures we never imagined. Out goes naivete, in comes wisdom; out goes
anger, in comes discernment; out goes despair, in comes kindness. No
one would call it easy, but the rhythm of emotional pain that we learn
to tolerate is natural, constructive and expansive… The pain leaves you
healthier than it found you.” | Martha Beck