Megan is hosting a brunch for all of us on Sunday in honor of what would have been Ali’s 21st birthday. We (Megan, her dad and his family, Craig, Luke and I and Ali's friends Max, Kayla and Gaby) will eat Megan's specially prepared breakfast casserole and Ali's favorite "Monkey bread", drink coffee and Mimosas, watch the videos Ali made with her cousins and friends and then go to the cemetery.

I think she would like that.

I don’t talk about Megan much here, basically because no 23 year old wants their business bandied about on their mom’s blog. I guess it is not too intrusive, however, to say that she has moved from what could best be described as an all girl “Frat house” (much too messy for a sorority) and has found a new apartment in downtown Goshen with a roommate and three cats and is currently working for her dad. She is also the stage manager for a play and seems to really enjoy it—that and cooking, which surprises me a little. We talk about every other day and it makes me happy to watch her settle into her life. It’s a nice idea that Megan came up with and I’m glad we will be together. I am proud of her. She is a beautiful and talented young woman.

And happy 21st Birthday my dear Ali. We gratefully celebrate your spirit, your life, and your example each and every day.

My best friend in 8^th grade, had a grandmother who strung a velvet rope (like the ones in movie theatres) across the entrance to her living room in order to protect her stark white carpet and sofa-- from people.  I thought she was nuts.  I bring this up, because there was a time when the tracks the sweeper made in the living room carpet had to be straight and free of footprints or I couldn’t relax.  If little feet dared to trample over it, out came the sweeper and a lecture.  I wonder why it never occurred to me that I was nuts.

In addition, my cereal boxes were aligned by height and my spices were arranged in alphabetical order.  Laundry was done on Mondays, toys were picked up before bed and when I canned jelly in sweet little jars with handmade flowered labels—it bothered me when someone removed one from the shelf to actually use. 

I inherited these things from my father, who often smelled more of Comet and Pine Sol than Old Spice.  Knick-knacks on our dressers were kept to a minimum and you didn’t do anything in the kitchen without first putting a paper down on the counter (it really did provide much easier clean-up).  Although, I always cringed when I heard dad coming up the steps to check on our cleaning progress, I always felt a greater sense of calm when everything was in its place.

I thought about these things the other day when I finally rounded up all of our DVDs, which number well over a hundred and put them in a single cabinet where I arranged them alphabetically-- by category.  I had to say—it felt good. 

Organizing my environment and having it clean and neatly arranged, was how I garnered control in my life.  This, combined with my first-born perfectionism, allowed me to look at Martha Stewart and believe that gold-leafing the ‘powder-room’ trash can was both normal and highly desirable.

Then one day, all of the control I thought I had, flew out the window.  I was put in my place and I quickly realized that alphabetizing your spice drawer was no protection against chaos; it was just a way to find Cream of Tartar in a hurry.  In those days, I was lucky to have had the forethought to purchase cereal—let alone make sure the boxes were in descending order.  For two years in a row, my Christmas trees were up until nearly February—and the scary thing is they were live trees (well, until mid-January anyway).

Four moves in three years did not help either.  Each time I unpack there are fewer and fewer things.  I managed to keep track of ten boxes of books, however, I still have no idea where Grandma’s waffle iron went, but I sure would like to have it back. 

I have absolutely no money to my name and I still sleep at night.  Where once that would have sent me into apoplexy, I find that I have become quite at home living on the edge.  For a while, I thought that the edge was a better place to be—after all, lower expectations saves you from bigger disappointment and sheets wrapped in bundles and tied with ribbon will never be your saving grace. 

But, now, after coming to the conclusion that I have developed deep-seeded commitment issues, I realize that desiring too little control in your life is just as counterproductive as an overabundance of it.  It’s like daring life to catch you, so you continue to run away from what feels good because you know how quickly it can all turn bad. Numbing yourself is not an answer, it’s just a less obvious way to try and grasp some control.

It is a long process, trying to ease yourself off of the edge and tiptoe past the guilt that comes from carrying on.  No one gives you a formula because it is different for everyone.  I am still working things out, but I will confess to you the following:

I have been looking at antique engagement rings and picking out paint colors.  I once again feel much better about life when the house smells of Murphy’s Oil Soap and cranberry candles.  I like the blankets neatly folded and I refuse to believe that it is a character flaw to find contentment in a well thought out DVD cabinet or by the smell a pie baking in the oven.  Unfortunately, this has not yet filtered down to an alphabetized spice drawer or a gold-leafed trash can, but who knows what the future holds.

We are all irrational in some way—it is how we cope with a scary world.  Some of us put ropes around our living room and some of us put ropes around our hearts.  

When we last left off,  it was a stormy night on Mackinaw Island and I was walking on a dark, lonely path with woods on either side.  I should have probably turned back, but for whatever reason, I didn’t.  There were small street lights but they were extremely spread out and in between it was pure darkness.  Occasionally I would come to a fork in the road and have to decide which one was the correct path back to the hotel.  I have to admit, that while I convinced myself that the Island was a very safe place to be, I was extremely frightened and feeling very vulnerable.  

At one point a group of teenage boys on bikes flew over a hill and nearly ran me over—one at a time, because they couldn’t see me until I was right in front of them.  My heart was beating wildly and I found myself nearly frozen in place--but that didn’t seem to be a good answer either.  As I didn’t own a cell phone yet to call and have someone talk me through it, I had to find a way to talk myself through.

I decided that I would take ten steps and then breathe.  Just ten.  So, I walked and I counted.  One…two…thr ee…four…fiv e…six…seven …eight…nine …TEN.  Deep breath.  Ok, now ten more.  For whatever reason, it worked.  My heart stopped racing and I developed a sense of calm.  I had a goal and a plan to achieve it.  I continued in this manner for over a mile and a half—one…two …three—and then I saw them.  The lights to the hotel glowed in the distance and now I was giddy.  When I was nearly there, I heard a horse and carriage coming up behind me—and I marveled at the timing of it all. “Do you want a ride,” the driver asked.  “No.  I’ll walk, thank you.” 

And I finished what I started. 

The following morning was my last day.  When I woke up I realized that I had come to no conclusions and I was filled with a growing sense of frustration and confusion.  I didn’t expect that I would have found all of the answers, but a sense of direction would have been nice.  I took a carriage into town and picked up coffee, a muffin and the paper and walked over to a park-like area and sat down on the grass.  As I was reading the paper, I heard the sound of bagpipes playing a melancholy song and looked up to see a man in full Scottish dress, standing in the early morning fog.

I lay down on the grass, closed my eyes and just listened.  And in that moment, I felt a profound sense of contentment and peace well up inside of me.

A short time later, I began my walk back to the hotel to pack.  Today the path was full of people and in the light of day I almost felt foolish at having been frightened.  Behind me I heard voices speaking in French and I turned to see two young women in maids uniforms.  Like the bagpipe experience earlier, I found myself once again part of something incredibly simple yet memorable and wonderful. And all of a sudden, I burst into tears. 

Not one for public displays and despite all of my efforts, I couldn’t stop crying, all the way back to the hotel. I realized I had found my answer.  Walking along the same path that filled me with such fear the night before, I understood that I had the strength to walk through my fear of the unknown.  I was capable of taking care of myself and that I could survive whatever life threw at me.  At the time, my frame of reference was a divorce; little did I know what else was right around the corner.

When we found out about Ali’s cancer, I remember standing with her at an escalator in the mall that we passed through from the hotel to the clinic.  She was obviously-- and with good reason, panicking from the barrage that had just been thrown at us.  “But, what if…” she kept saying.  “What if I lose my hair?” “What if the chemo doesn’t work…”

Finally I sat her down and re-counted to her my walk through the woods.  “Ten steps at a time, Ali…no more and no less…that is how we are going to get through this.”

For whatever reason, I could tell in her eyes, that this resonated with her and in that moment I saw her will to fight overcome her paralysis from fear. I have told this story before because it changed me.  It was the first step on my path to discovering that I needed to leave fear behind and just be brave.  Sometimes our answers and our strength come from the most unlikely places. When the road is dark and frightening, it is overwhelming to think about how you will get to the other end in one piece. I like to think that Ali counted to ten and jumped into the arms of God.

I am still counting.

Several years ago my marriage was teetering on the edge and I had some decisions to make.  I decided that I would take a trip by myself and think things through without all of the distractions of home.  There is something exhilarating about getting in a car and taking off by yourself; something about having complete control of the radio station, where you stop to eat and the route you take to get there.

I decided to go to Mackinac Island in Michigan.  I took off in the morning in my clean car with my CDs arranged, my change in the appropriate compartments and tea in the cup holder.  It was my first solo trip and I was excited.  I dodged my way across various expressways, sat in construction traffic, sang along with my CDs, listened to Rush and ate fast food without worrying about the calories.

At this point in my life, I was very fearful of just about everything, so even the smallest things stretched me past my comfort zone. Driving across the huge Mackinac bridge was an exciting moment; I then found my way to the Ferry line and took the short trip to the Island.  All of it was new and unfamiliar and I have to say, despite my initial apprehension, I was falling in love with the adventure of it all.

I stayed at a beautiful hotel overlooking the straits, it was peaceful and elegant—and two miles from the more touristy downtown.  There are no cars on the island, so you walk, ride bikes or take a horse-drawn carriage to wherever you are going.  Over the next couple of days I walked, shopped, read by the pool and went horseback riding through the woods.  My most difficult hurdle was eating alone at a restaurant, but that apprehension soon passed.

Two nights before I was to leave, I took the carriage to town against a backdrop of very black skies.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a tornado drop down in front of me.  I ate dinner and then walked to pub for a glass of wine—the thought of going into a bar by myself was quite overwhelming but I held my breath, walked in and ordered a glass—just like a normal adult.  It was still raining after a tremendous storm but the lightening had stopped.  Unfortunately, the horse and carriage business was booming and I was going to have to wait 30+ minutes for one to go my way. 

As I am stubborn and often impatient, I decided to take the two mile walk instead of wait.  I started out fine but about ½ mile in, the streetlights got fewer and farther between.  Once I entered the woods back to the hotel, they were extremely scarce and in between was complete and utter darkness.  So to paint you an accurate picture, here is a fearful homemaker from Indiana, alone on a dark and rainy night on a pitch-black path surrounded on either side by woods. 

And that’s where I will continue this story…

Note:   We have been watching a show called MadMen recently.  It reminded me of growing up in the early sixties…when parent’s didn’t try and protect their children from every pitfall.  It’s refreshing.  It reminded me of a post I wrote a while ago so I’m repeating it.

BAREFOOT IN THE GLASS


When did we stop running barefoot?

There was a time when we would fly out the screen door like miniature lightening bolts and by the time the door slammed shut we were already a block away in Francine McNamara’s avocado green kitchen eating a bologna sandwich and drinking lemon-lime kool-aid. We ran with abandon giving no thought to the possibility of encountering a rock, a jagged piece of glass or an uneven sidewalk.

On which trip around the block did we slow down our pace and start looking for obstacles in our path? When did we decide to throw in the towel completely and start wearing tennis shoes?

When we are toddlers we do not understand danger. If you allow a baby less than four months old to crawl across a bed… they will keep crawling until they fall off. A toddler does not conceptualize a fear of fire until he touches it and it is hot… before that it is just a pretty glowing light. We all need someone to guide us through the pitfalls. But what happens when our desire to protect extinguishes the desire to explore, to take a risk, or to chase after a dream?

There is a very short period of time when we experience ultimate freedom. We are old enough that our parents aren’t constantly following us around, but young enough that we have no fear. Kids play outside in the rain, ride their bikes off of poorly built ramps, and pick gum off of the sidewalk and chew it. My six year old nephew came from playing at the neighbor’s house and informed my sister that they had been playing on the roof of the garage but he didn’t think that she would like it so they decided to play on the roof of the shed instead. He didn’t think about a trip to the emergency room… his goal was the adventure.

Why do we stop embracing this freedom and start embracing fear?

I believe that out of love, we are programmed to fear. It is well-intentioned, but often misguided. We, as parents, come up with all sorts of rules. Some rules, of course, are necessary and prudent…look both ways before crossing the street, don’t play with guns, knives or explosives and don’t drink the Drano.

Sometimes though, we drift from reality and start repeating the things that we heard growing up or stick firmly to a concept that has no real consequence in life one way or another; clean your plate, don’t jump on the bed, get out of the mud or you’ll get dirty, not on a school night, don’t go outside with wet hair-- you’ll catch pneumonia, and don’t run with that or you’ll poke your eye out… in fact, just don’t run at all. Don’t sit so close to the TV, color in the lines, and if you cross your eyes they’ll stay like that.

Taking precautions is wise; it’s when we try to protect them against any threat of danger that we start going off the deep end and begin limiting normal childhood experiences. Children going out to ride bikes are better protected than a NASCAR driver and I was so neurotic that I made my poor children wear batting helmets to watch a semi-pro baseball game.

Why? Because we are under the very false assumption that we have some control and if we stick close enough or have enough rules… my child will be safe… living in a bubble, but safe. We are haunted by the "what ifs". What if they fall off of their bike, what if they freeeze to death because their coat is not thick enough, what if they eat the yellow snow?

When my girls were little, I did not want them to play on a trampoline… period. I didn’t really like them climbing on the monkey bars either—unless my protective hand was under their bottom… what if they should miss a bar and fall? So, I made the trampoline rule and the monkey bar rule. Unfortunately, I forgot about making the "don’t put the mini trampoline INSIDE of the monkey bar because a screw might be sticking out rule". As children do, Megan found a contingency that I hadn’t thought of. It resulted in four stitches to the top of her head.

Megan survived, but not because I protected her. Kids are resilient. My hope is that despite my past affliction with the "what ifs", Megan’s spirit of adventure has also survived. I hope that when my children have the chance to experience something new and exciting they will not hesitate because they see a path filled with rocks, jagged glass and uneven sidewalks.

I will have failed them if their response to life is a litany of "what ifs". What if I lose, what if I fail, what if my heart gets broken? There are so many things that I missed because of self imposed, irrational fears.

Carl Jung said that, “Nothing is a stronger influence psychologically on their environment, and especially on their children, than the unlived lives of the parents.”

I want to be an example for my children and not a barricade. You cannot control what happens tomorrow but you can decide to live for today.  We have a choice to kindle our child’s flame of adventure or extinguish it. Perhaps that means breaking one of our own rules now and then. Yes, dinner may be late, they may get dirty or stay up past their bedtime...they may even require stitches. The world will go on. Sometimes the best gift that you can give your child is to hold your breath, let go of their hand and allow them to run barefoot in a world full of stones. 
 

“Hi, mom.”

There it was…just a girl’s voice on a cell phone.

I was working in the yard and it resonated up the hill and into my ear.

It sounded as if she was yelling up at me.

She was excited to be at the beach and wanted to share it with her mother

her mother, the one who was listening at the other end of the phone.

My heart leapt.  How silly is that—three and a half years and my heart actually leapt.

That is how simple it is to conjure a ghost.

That is how simple it is to resurrect a buried tear.

My grandfather had dementia.  After my father died, my grandpa would come over and ask "where is Jim?" Each time someone would have to tell him that Jim had died and grandpa would relive the grief over and over again. It was horrifying to watch.  Finally, I said that we would just have to tell him dad was sleeping.  That is what it is like to mourn a child. 

I realized yesterday with some trepidation that the gut-wrenching rawness of Ali's death is never going to go away.  You cannot raise a child and then have them taken from you forever and not have your insides rip apart...each time like it is new again.

What does change and will continue to change is the length of time between these moments.  The time between re-living the grief grows longer with the passing of each month and year and this is how you rebuild your life.  In the space between.

This is true for all of us.  There is space between our hardships; for some people it is an expanse of years and for others it is merely seconds.  What matters is what we choose to fill that space with.  Pay attention, look around, find the good and breathe it in.  This is how you will go on.  This is what it means to live.

A cardboard box sits in front of me.  It is approximately 18x18 inches.  Two of the edges are ripped and there is an indentation on top where part of it has been crushed.  It is evident from the many layers of tape that it has been opened and resealed—not often, but more than once.  There are little blue squares to check off—bedrooms, family room, dining room, kitchen, and bath.  There is not a category for this particular box so the squares remain empty.

It is a treasure chest.  It is Pandora’s box.

Written on the top in my sloppy form of cursive are two simple words—Ali’s stuff. Ali’s stuff.  The tangible, physical evidence of a life; a short, exuberant, beautiful life.   Many of the items were put away for her to take with her when she flew from the nest.  Who would have suspected that she would fly so very far away? 

It seems that at this time of year, all roads lead back to Ali.  I stare at the box and dread how I know it will feel to open it, yet, to get through these days—I must open it.  It is like antiseptic in an open wound.  It cleanses and it burns…and it heals, be it ever so slightly.

It is nearly two o’clock.  I have emptied the box and filled it back up again.  In it, I rediscovered the story of a young woman’s life.  A story that I know well but love to read over and over again.  It begins with the inked footprints of a 7lb. 1 oz. baby girl, a blanket worn from use and a stuffed white dog named Marshmallow.  There are grade cards, stick drawings, pumpkins, bowling scores, and a cheerleading uniform.  Cards for her and cards from her—her handwriting scribbled and carefree—punctuated with smiley faces and inside jokes.

There is still a trace of dirt on her soccer shoes and the imprint of her foot in fluffy purple slippers.  A collection of CDs—each is in their plastic pocket just as she left them—some with notes written with a sharpie--her ears the last to hear them. 

There is a wallet, a driver’s license and a movie ticket…and then there is the guest book from a funeral.

After nearly three years, the vividness of her life and her death begin to fade ever so slightly--like the tape on this beaten up, 18x18, brown cardboard box.  My nose is red and my eyes are swollen—as I knew they would be.  Everything has it's cost and it's reward.  Facing the box is not nearly as painful as the possibility of forgetting even the smallest detail of her very large life. 

I traveled seventeen precious years this afternoon.  It was almost like holding her hand…but not quite. 

Craig and I are going away for a few days. Thursday will be the second anniversary since Ali left us. In honor of Ali I just want to feature three links. Her video, her xanga site and our Caringbridge page. Caringbridge is where we updated people on her condition. You need to go to the bottom and read up. I guess that it is a testament to her battle. Her xanga site is a testament to her courage, her caring and her humor. There are a couple of entries where she expresses anger and disappointment, but for the most part, I think you will find her to be an amazing and funny young woman. The video is simply a testament to a beautiful life.  I don't expect anyone to read them really...I just want them out there so on March 1st her spirit is not forgotten.  Thanks for all of your love and support and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

Alison Haley—you are missed more each day. How blessed we are to have had you in our lives for even a very short time. I love you.

CARINGBRIDGE: http://www.caringbridge.org/i...

XANGA: http://www.xanga.com/home.asp...

VIDEO: http://www.dvfsite.com/aliweb...

Flying Home (Brenda's Song) lyrics by CHANTAL KREVIAZUK  (the song on her video)

Its hard to let you go
You've always let me in
And helped with all the endings
And you know where to begin
I need you here for me
Cause you always know my heart
I can't believe we'd change
Or have to be apart

But if you've seen the love that's in her eyes
Then everything is good
And if you know the way she felt inside
She's flying where she should
I never believed we'd ever live to see
An angel being born and flying home

It's good to know your laugh
And you'll always hold my hand
And watch from up in heaven
And always understand
We'll take you down the road
And in everything we do
We'll know how much you love us
A soul that's kind and true.

But if you've seen the love that's in her eyes
Then everything is good
And if you know the way she felt inside
She's flying where she should
I never believed we'd ever live to see
An angel being born and flying home
 

 Well, I am home and the internet is working.  Another crazy week ahead.  I am looking forward to catching up on my blog reading but that's not going to happen today I'm afraid.  In the meantime, I want to share a photo of the new man in my life, Samuel Benjamin.  I must tell you that I am madly in love and I cried like a baby when I had to leave him for the four hour drive home.  A week of midnight feedings and carpool lanes.  It was all quite lovely.

So, someone sneezed two counties over and our internet went out...again.  It has been five days.  So, now I'm at Panera.  In the meantime, I took Coco back to Megan's and spent the night there so I could take my friend Ashli to University of Chicago to meet with a cancer specialist.  Spent a nice evening with my friend Beth. 

Ashli and I were very impressed with the surgeon and finally got some answers.  Basically translated, however, cancer sucks.  It was hard going back to that particular place as that is where we had Ali treated at the last phase of her cancer.  THe last time I went there, well, was the last time we would ever need to go there.  But I did it and I survived so that is that.

It is the countdown to March 1st.  It is a corner to be turned.

I drove through the blizzard to get to Chicago and then back through it to Indiana and then I drove back to Michigan.  It was a bit harrowing even to someone who drove through floods and a tornado to take her kids to a Creed concert.  Anyway...a lot of miles, a lot of snow, a lot of semis.

WOrked the rest of the week and I'm heading to Ohio on Monday for a week to take care of my sister Lisa's new baby Sam.  I'm quite excited.  So, I've had no time for writing or reading or anything else. 

Miss you all...looking forward to catching up.

"To keep our faces toward change, and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate, is strength undefeatable." Helen Keller.

There is still much to work through in my life; a thousand unexplored emotions, thoughts that haunt and thoughts that heal, questions about direction, purpose and meaning.

I made my mind up long ago that I would not spend a day lying in bed and wallowing in pity. I have not done that. I have tried to face these changes head-on and tackle them one-by one. Recently, however, I find that I am stuck. Feet dragging in the mud—stuck.

I’m not sure how much of this is winter and how much is me not snapping back. I finally decided to get some counseling to help me sort things out. To me, this seems like weakness yet, I believe it is not only necessary but crucial.

I see my future in my imagination—it is bright and just around the corner. I am desperate to be there. I have no greater goal than to learn to find joy within the boundaries of my sorrow. But for now as I've said--I am stuck.

The cold gloomy weather made me think about something I wrote two years ago called “Twenty-six months of Winter”. When I read it, I was reminded that despite the gray I feel hovering above me, in reality, I have come very far. I would like to wish myself past this, but we all know you just have to trudge through.

It is so much easier to allow yourself time to heal when the wound is physical. I have been mortally wounded—but it is on the inside. My words are my scars. I wish they were always as bright and colorful as the hope that wraps around this wound.

I don’t want to be pitied. I guess I would like to be understood.

Every day is a leap of faith and sometimes I feel like just stepping out of bed is the bravest thing I have ever done.

Twenty-six months of winter.
02.16.05 (10:54 pm)

The black, white, and gray of winter has seeped in under the doorways and is permeating the house like dense fog. Occasionally, a splash of color will pierce the status quo… a bouquet of red tulips or a foil wrapped piece of candy.

I long for Spring; for green and the smell of hyacinth. I long for resurrection.

I have been travelling this route through Purgatory for over 26 months. I have learned that just because the road you traveled was long, dark and fraught with danger does not guarantee that the next phase of the journey will find you skipping through a field of daisies. Sometimes, the most difficult roads to get through are not those that you anticipate.

For me, the most challenging roads are not where the grade is steep or the terrain is rocky, but the road that goes on for miles, flat and unchanging.

Death has its own agenda. It will not be slowed down any more than it will be rushed. It plays tricks on your mind and tortures you with its uncertainty. In a frenzy you attempt to gather all of your moments and your memories; like trying to save precious photographs from a fire. I love you. I love you. I love you.

A few nights ago Ali woke up and didn’t know me. She thought I was trying to kill her and tried to flee the bed… even though she cannot stand by herself. I had to pull her back in as she repeatedly punched my face and screamed for help. The next day she remembered and apologized, ending with, "I love you, mama". As I looked deeply into her eyes, I realized that while I have been busy mourning the Ali that I see bright eyed and smiling in photographs, I have not fully appreciated the Alison lying in front of me. An innocent, vulnerable, child-like Ali who is fighting for her very life, yet, still has not lost her empathy or sense of humor.

I was challenged by a road that I thought to be flat and unchanging, but, I was wrong. The road was changing, just not in the direction that I was looking for. Sometimes when life disappoints us we let the gray seep in and stop looking for strands of color. By mourning what wasn’t I failed to see the beauty in what I had in front of me.

We had a good night tonight. We laughed together… Ali, Megan and I. It wasn’t like it used to be… but still, it was a burst of color on a very dark night in February.

I know that the time is coming when my mourning will be profound and justified. I am terrified of going there, but I have no choice.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I have endured twenty-six months of winter. Spring can’t be too far away.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening 

by Robert Frost 

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His house is in the village, though; 

He will not see me stopping here 

To watch his woods fill up with snow. 



My little horse must think it's queer 

To stop without a farmhouse near 

Between the woods and frozen lake 

The darkest evening of the year. 



He gives his harness bells a shake 

To ask if there's some mistake. 

The only other sound's the sweep 

Of easy wind and downy flake. 



The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, 

But I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep.

I thought about this poem this morning as I looked out the window over the snow-covered landscape; the trees outlined in a blanket of white that traveled from our front door down to the lake, which looked as if it was made of stainless steel.

I have stood in those woods and lay down on the slope overlooking the frozen lake.  I have felt his weariness and understood the silent allure of the lovely dark and solitary woods.  

The woods are dark, but the snow is beautiful…and as the sound of harness bells shatter the stillness of the night air—he must make a choice.

I am struggling with the concept of being accountable.  I understand that this is not practical or particularly adult of me.  I am searching for a sense of peace in my life…a period of quiet, uninterrupted nothingness.

But that is not entirely true either.

How is it that all of your cells can cry out for solitude yet at the same time so fiercely fear monotony?  There are not a lot of things left for me to fear, but, I do fear that I will die having led an ordinary life.  By this I mean that I do not want my days to simply blend together.  I want to explore and exhaust my potential.  Yet, here I am—motionless between the woods and frozen lake.

I have a lot of ground to cover. For now it seems I am powerless to move.

...the woods are lovely dark and deep... 

Sometimes the most difficult promises to keep are those we make to ourselves.

When my kids were growing up, I was the queen of Christmas. Everything after Thanksgiving was devoted to this merriest of holidays.

Out came the boxes (and boxes) of decorations and the Christmas CDs. We had 20 ft ceilings in the great room so I would have a 12 foot Frazier Fir delivered and put next to the fireplace and in front of the two story window. I would decorate it with hundreds of blown glass ornaments, old glass bead garland and thousands (literally) of little white lights

There were live greens on the staircase, the mantel and balcony railing and it spilled outside to the front door and exterior windows. It was a Christmas house to be sure.

Christmas also included light drives followed by hot chocolate, pioneer night, caroling with my Sunday School class of 5th and 6th graders, piles and piles of presents, homemade cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning, a giant open house for family and friends and reading one of my favorite Christmas stories, “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry.

Circumstances were very different in 2004.

I was divorced and in my beautiful little house in Goshen. We were waiting for Ali’s stem cell transplant and because of the recurrence and erratic medical schedule I had been unable to work since April. My ex-husband made our house payment but after that I had $800 a month in child support to live on. Our gas bill alone was $200-300. Needless to say, I was way behind on bills and had nothing put away for Christmas. I was going to go to Barnes and Noble to work part time to buy Christmas presents but Craig gave me some money to catch up so I would not be away from Ali before this serious and possibly fatal procedure in January.

It was difficult to accept this wonderful gift. I was prideful and I was embarrassed. The road from the 12-foot Christmas tree to digging up change to buy milk and having someone pay bills for me was extremely humbling.

Thankfully, his generous offer got some of the bill collectors off of my back, but I still had little to give to my girls for Christmas. This, of course, to a former Christmas queen, was disheartening. I put a little aside for each of them, scraped together money for a tree—6 feet tall, but beautiful, and tried to include some of our old traditions.

The girls decorated their little tree that they had had since they were 3 and 5. On it, all of the ornaments they made or I collected for them since they were babies. Someone found and old stuffed crow from Halloween and put it on top—it seemed appropriate for the wilder and crazier existence of the past four years.

Sometime in November, the hospital in South Bend had given Ali, Megan and I a ‘survey’ about what we liked to do, stores we liked, etc. I had forgotten about it, but one day in early December when we went in for blood-work, they handed us each a gift from the Samantha J. Hickey foundation.  That night, we went home, sat in front of the tree, made some cocoa and opened our gifts from the hospital.

When we began to open them, I couldn’t even believe what I was seeing. I cannot tell you the number of times that we gasped. Ali had received over $750 in gift cards to her favorite stores. There were cards for me totaling nearly $500 and $400 for Megan. We all sat there in stunned disbelief and then there was some joyful screaming.

The girls wasted no time in going shopping. I was so happy just to watch their excitement. It felt almost like someone else’s normal life.

As much as these gifts were like water in a desert after months of doing without, I cannot say that this alone is what set our Christmas apart.

For most years, we would go to Toledo on Christmas day to be with my family. This year, the Schuster’s were celebrating a week early, so the girls and I, Craig and Lukas celebrated our Christmas on December 18th. We pretended it was Christmas morning. Cinnamon rolls baked in the oven and in a strange turn of events, piles of beautifully wrapped presents sat under the tree.

As we took turn opening presents, there was a sense of awe. The face of the giver, had difficulty holding back a smile…as they had taken special care in picking out each gift.
There were screams of joy and even some tears. Ali bought me a hodgepodge of all my favorite things, Craig bought me the 1965 version of Mystery Date, and Megan actually bought me a little TV and DVD player for my bedroom. Like opening the gift cards days before, there was a continual sense of stunned disbelief.

What became evident by the end of our celebration, was that each one of us had taken our gift cards and purchased gifts for each other. Despite having no extras for months and months, my beautiful girls learned first hand the true meaning of Christmas. It was “The Gift of the Magi” re-written. These gifts were born of sacrifice and were given with a profound sense of love. It showed me that they understood that the greatest gift we have is in each other.

It was a Christmas house to be sure.

Ten days later, we found out that this Christmas would be Ali’s last.

When I think about that morning, I cannot do so without thinking about the brave parents of a beautiful two-year-old girl, who like our Ali dwells with the angels.  Their gift, made my gift possible. Their gesture of kindness blessed us over and over again. It gave us the joy of imagining, me the gift of seeing them smile, and allowed each of us to show our love for each other in a tangible way.

I imagine that’s what the baby came for in the first place.

More and more I have begun to relate to the lake that I see when I look out the window. Some days it is like sparkling glass; smooth, bright and eerily calm. Already this winter, there have been many days when it has come ashore with a fury, an angry procession of dark gray waves and spraying foam, seeking retribution for everything and nothing. It cries out for what it has lost but dissipates for it has nowhere to go.

This is its fate and it must learn to ebb and flow within the boundaries it has been given; that, or erode the landscape trying to peacefully co-exist alongside of it. Little does it know that its molecules are slowly rising upward and will one day rain down in a mist or a torrent upon itself.

I have tried so hard to be strong and light of heart. Pushing, pushing, plodding forward with feet of clay and a heart that has been hastily glued back together.

All the King’s horses and all the king’s men…

Why is it so hard for me to admit that I am fragile and hurting?

Instead, I will only admit that I am impatient. I am impatient and I am restless. I want to feel everything and nothing at all. I am erratic. I am sporadic. I am a danger to those who love me and a danger to myself.

I am like the waves in winter.

I wonder how long Mary wept for her son? Not because she wasn’t confident on where he was but because she simply missed him. She missed his voice over dinner and the way he told a story. Perhaps she walked by a corner where the children played and remembered his little face covered with dirt.

It seems unwise to love so much; to dip your feet into the glassy calm sea unprepared for the riptides. But, being a mother means it is impossible to do otherwise.

I know that none of this makes any sense. I'm pretty sure it never will.