Obsessed With Growing

I've fallen in love with gardening over the last several years. 

Flowers, veggies, putting on gloves and digging in the dirt make my eyes light up.

On weekends where there are  no soccer tournaments or family events, 

we head to several farmer's markets, hardware stores and gardening centers

where I spend hours buying local produce, gardening soil, seeds and plants. 

My kids are sick and tired of hearing me say 

"What if we just bought a farm, moved to the country and acted like pioneers?"

To say the least, I am married to and raising city folk.

Sigh.

If gardening was fun four months ago, losing my little brother has turned planting things 

into a full blown passion.

The Hero tells me all the time that I am obsessed with growing things. 

I balked at this statement for a few weeks. 

But after several hours outside yesterday, I looked around to notice I have indeed become

somewhat determined to overflow bare dirt with things that grow. 

Empty pots, flower beds, vases, and bare ground better beware around the Andrews Casa lately.

It's the best therapy for grief I know. 

I am definitely a battle wounded warrior, as are so many others who have lost someone they love.

Living here, fulfilling purpose is about growing, not only ourselves but those around us so that there can be something beautiful, here on Earth and one day in heaven. 

So yes, perhaps I am obsessed with growing things. 

Not only in the ground, but in the hearts and lives of whom I come into contact.

So go grow something today. 

An Honest Answer

I've been prepping clients to testify for litigation for over ten years now. This can be a lawyer's worst trial nightmare if your client is a talker and can't bring themselves to believe that things like "I don't know", "I don't remember" or "Can you ask that again?" are all legitimate answers. When you force yourself to create answer when you really aren't sure can be dangerous ground.

I think it is something inherent in our DNA as people that when we are asked a question, we feel forced to give an answer. In this day of quick "Hi. How are yous?", I don't want to give a  long drawn out answer and the person hearing the response doesn't really want to listen to a dissertation about my problems either. We have settled for frosting covered niceness. Civility without the depth. I use to be a huge abuser of this trait. I would ask "How are you?" and hardly wait for the answer. I find this almost impossible to do anymore.
So I've started taking my own advice.

When I see someone in real life that I haven't seen since I lost my brother and they ask me "How are you?", I say the only thing I know how to say and be truthful:

"I don't know."

It is not a false statement. I really don't know how I am most days. Many mornings are blasted with the humdrum of soccer practice, dirty dishes, laundry, work and the daily functions that keep our little family in a rhythm. My kids need a steady beat of rhythm in normal circumstances. But these days, we all need even more than usual.

Some days are a fight to get out of bed. I want to lay down and cry and scream and break every piece of glass I can get my hands on. There are moments of sheer delight watching my kids throw themselves headlong into summer's glory and yet there are moments when I struggle to be around so much merriment. Moments some days are filled with thanksgiving for small gifts, like a sunrise or a new flower growing and some moments when I list my things for which I am grateful, I stare a blank paper.

The truth is that there is a void in my life. A void that can only be filled by a six foot tall,  gorgeously blue-eyed little brother who use to text me that I needed to cut back on the Twinkies because my butt was bigger than the last time he saw me. I've never wanted to be called fat so badly in all my life.
It is always going to hurt. There will always be a missing piece to my heart and family events will forever be a touch of sweet and sour.

My soul knows all the appropriate things to say to someone going through grief like me.

"He's in a better place."

"You will see him again."

"This life isn't forever."

And there are days that I can give myself a pep talk long enough that it works.

But for the days that I can't stop crying at ridiculous country songs or seeing his things in my house, I've given myself the grace to say "I don't know" how I am today and to believe that it is an honest answer. 

No Greeting Cards For This...A Gift For You This Mother's Day

I stood in the greeting card aisle this morning with all my fellow procrastinators, 

wondering if Hallmark writers had better words to say for my mother, for myself and 

the mom friends I know who are struggling on this celebratory day for mothers.

As I flipped through card after card of dripping sweet sentiments, 

I realized one thing about holidays and Hallmark?

They both really suck when you're struggling.

There is a mom's brunch today.

With some of my favorite moms in this life. 

But the thought of going is like a weight around my neck.

I'm afraid tears will come too easily and I won't be able to cover up my grief.

I'm worried my loss will overshadow the beauty of roses and tea and togetherness.

 Life and holidays and greeting cards continue even though you may be struggling to get out of bed.

Every one's version of grief and struggle and pain are different. 

And you will find no judgement on that here.

Maybe you lost someone this year like me and another holiday without them seems unbearable.

Perhaps your mom has been gone for years but the loss of not having her aches through your soul. 

And days like today that ache burns even harder so. 

Or you're a mom in your heart only who the dream of giggles and squishy toes is being attacked by infertility.

Or you're an adoptive mom who the weight of these new kids and issues are so much harder than you imagined, but you feel ungrateful if you confide the truth in anyone. 

Maybe this day in May is impossible to fully enjoy, as you are filling the role of both parents because the other one is absent. 

Maybe you're a widow a facing your first year or you fiftieth year without your love.

Or you're a mom somewhere on this globe that is missing your daughter, because 

she's been taken from you. 

Maybe you've lost your job, are going through a painful divorce or are estranged from your

 family because of years of abuse. 

Or perhaps you are like every other mom in this tiny globe and you are exhausted, overworked and wondering at the end of each day:

"Did I do it right today?"

Sister, 

Here are my flowers for you today. 

Because you ARE doing it right today. 

Doing this motherhood gig at all is doing it right.

And YES, I do count you as a mother if you are battling infertility or completing an adoption.

Doing life messy and with ragged, exhausted breaths is doing it great.

If I could give each of you something for mother's day it would be a card that says only three words.

It would be in your favorite color and made out of crayons, because that's all we mothers can seem to find to write with when the necessary time comes.

I'd pour glue over the letters  and cover it with glitter so that it would be so shiny you can see it hanging on your fridge, visible across your laundry filled, back pack laden, toy museum of a living room. 

Or hanging over the crib of the baby your heart aches for; or over the place where you grieve; whether it be a closet or a couch.

And on days when you are struggling to exhale without someone screaming your name or your house is so silent you feel mad from the lack of noise, you can look up and be reminded that this day, 

"YOU'RE DOING GREAT!"

There is no handbook for grief. 

They make no cards for loss or pain or for the struggle of a single parent's schedule. 

 I've looked.

Just know that I understand today can be a hard day. 

Because today is another day in life and some of us just want the world to stop for a moment.

Whether it is for a period of years to let us grieve, or even for just a few more hours of precious sleep.

No matter what the world knows of your life from the outside. 

No body has lived it from the inside like you. 

But from one worn out battle wounded woman to you, this is encouragement to keep going.

Even if "going" looks like a snail's pace crawl. 

I'm cheering you on today. 

Happy Mother's Day all. 

Musical Monday: If Heaven Weren't So Far Away

My little brother loved country music. The station in his truck is still set to his favorite country station.

I don't have the heart to change it. 

I may never. 

This song came on the radio today and I just lost it. 

If only heaven weren't so far away.

I would take a day trip all by myself. 

I'd want him to introduce me to Jesus personally.

And we'd spend the entire day with my baby bro telling me exactly how to live the rest 

of my life on earth with out him. 

I'd let Nannie lecture me one more time on how to be a good person. 

And to always remember to trust my gut instinct about all else.

Papa would hug me and say he'd leave a pot of coffee on for me. 

And I would cry all the way home.

At least it would be seeing them all in person.

And not only in my dreams. 

Needing To Break

One of the many reasons why my husband is so good for me is he balances the crazy.

I come to him with ridiculous ideas and he never tells me "No" flat out.

Most times he just redirects my crazy into something productive.

Some thing safer than my original version. 

Grief has been doing a number on me. 

Most days I don't have any tears, 

until I feel them rolling down my face.

Some mornings I want to eat a box of Twinkies for breakfast, 

only to clock five miles on the treadmill in the afternoon.

Screaming, crying, writing, eating and drinking all in excess haven't eased any part of my broken heart.

So I told The Hero last week that I wanted to start breaking things.

I wanted to watch glass hit and shatter and come apart.

Seeing beautifully decorated tables in magazines, leaves me wondering what all that pottery would look like broken on the floor. 

I told him that perhaps watching something else coming undone would help me feel.

Feel what I wasn't sure.

But I told him I needed to break.

In his perfectly, amazing way he came home a few days later with a giant bag of whole pecans.

"It's not plates or dishes, but I thought this would help."
I laughed.

On nights where I struggle most, I release my grip on doing dinner dishes,

grab my bag and bowl and head out to the porch.

A few nights ago, The Hero found me and asked if cracking pecans was any bit of a release for me.

I nodded. 

And then suggested he go by me my own pecan tree.

Being Drug Into Spring

It appears that Oklahoma has officially entered into spring.

Everything is changing colors.

The weatherman reports warmer temperatures are here to stay.

People are out walking their dogs, playing in the parks and buzzing with the hype of impending summer.

We are spending more time outside with soccer and gardening.

The thrill of watching things change and become green is still thrilling to the kids.

Promises of berries and jam, swimming and fun are all they talk about these days.

They have even braved getting in the swimming pool a couple of times already.

I want so badly to replicate their excitement. 

To get lost in the anticipation that comes with changing seasons.

I make myself spend time in the garden every day.

Some days, I just meander through, watering plants and pulling weeds.

Other days, I spend hours planting, pruning, working to utter exhaustion. 

Just so that I can be able to sleep.

But as much as I try, I just cannot bring myself to fully embrace the season change.

The last season you saw was the bitter cold of winter. 

And there is so much of my heart that is frozen from the ache of missing you.

I suppose that I deep down fear that welcoming spring, will mean I forget all about the last winter you lived. 

Then She Shows Up

 

 

 

 

She was one of the first people I told the night we lost my brother.

As The Hero drove to my parents house , I texted my out of state soul sister

begging for scripture and prayers.

 

She was working on both within minutes.

 

She was adamant about flying in for the funeral.

I begged her to stay; I knew we would be unable to just be with everything else going on.

 

She checked on me constantly.

Lifted me up so deeply and fervently I could feel it.

And then came the day she just showed up.

 

In real life.

 

On my doorstep.

 

Four states away from Colorado to Oklahoma.

 

 

 

 

 

With her amazing little family.

All five of them.

Four full days of friendship. 

Friendship that has gone beyond Amy and I and has infected our children and husbands. 

A true blending of hearts and lives.

 

  We played with our kids,

laughed and cried together

and spent an entire afternoon engaging one another while moving two tons of

dirt and mulch in our backyard garden.

 

Our kids were actually begging us to go out again and play in the dirt some more!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She offered to take me out to dinner or shopping

just the two of us on more than one occasion.

 

And while we did get some great "mommy time",

what I needed most in those four days was just the presence

 of my friend and her little family.

To embrace our kids and giggle at kid antics and

sibling quarrels and to be reminded that friendship

is never completely what we bring to a relationship.

It is not only the sum of what we can offer someone else.

 

It is the ebb and flow of what we give to and what we take away

 from one another that makes it deep and pure and yes, even holy.

 

She gave all of herself and I hope she took away a new appreciation for how amazing she is at meeting somebody in their suffering.

 

I gave her a glimpse into my hurt and the hole in my heart and took

from that the knowledge that we are not meant to suffer alone.  

 

An example of Earth as it is in Heaven.

Perfection in my recent darkness.

 

My little family was devastated to see them pull out of our driveway.

We were renewed and revived just by spending time together.

 

Then my amazing friend drove four states home and wrote a blog post about what a gift it was to serve me and mine during our suffering and the meaning 

of just showing up in the midst of someone's hurt.

 

And show up she did.

 

In so many ways, with very little words

and yet in the middle of grieving,

it was everything myself and my little family needed it to be.

 

 

The Anger Side of Grief

I tried to "google" the different stages of grief after my brother's funeral. It just made me mad and I stopped looking to the Internet for answers that will never come. I do remember in my research that there is supposed to be an anger stage of grief. This makes sense to me because I reached the anger stage of grief quite easily on my own. Actually, I believe that I may have taken up residence in this stage.

I had even suggested to my sister that she buy two sets of boxing gloves and whoever had a problem with anything for the rest of forever could meet me in a dark alley and I would be glad to school them. I was angry at every doctor who ever saw my brother, every medication he was prescribed to take instead of investigating the cause of his depression, the funeral director for a ridiculous suggestion for music and various friends and family members who dared to suggest that my brother's death would be a mere event that I "got through". Oh yes. I am quite familiar with the anger side of grief in the past few weeks.

But out of every flash of anger, each rage of emotion that crossed my heart, I never was mad at my brother. Several people have suggested that it will come; that it is customary, acceptable and even appropriate to be angry with those who take their own lives. But I have read my brother's journal, his emails, his text messages and his notes to himself. And there is no way on this side of heaven that in the midst of his depression and loneliness that I could ever be angry with him. Am I devastated by missing him? Absolutely. Angry with myself that I did not know the depths of his sorrow? I will be for the rest of my days. But mad at my baby brother for fighting off demons that I have never understood, nor fought off myself? No.  Never.

How could I be angry at someone who fought so hard to conceal what he battled, so that no one else would know? Why would I, for one second be cross with a soul that would have never harmed another living creature? And how could spend one minute of my given breath being upset that my brother's struggle had ended in any other fashion than him back in the Father's arms?

I may forever be in the angry stage of grief, but it will never be because I am angry with my brother.

 

Grief Doesn't Come With A Handbook

It's a miracle that both of my parents are still sane. Having three kids under five must have been a circus most of the time. Heck, sometimes have two almost five years apart is more than my feeble mind can process. One thing I always remember my mom saying when we got in trouble or we were trying to reason through some family issue was "Maybe that was the wrong parenting move, but you guys didn't come with a handbook on how to parent you."
She's repeated the same thing to me when I became a parent and I would call her about whether or not some behavior issue of mine or my child(ren) was adoption related or a personality conflict.

"Linz, go with your gut because God doesn't bring kids with a handbook."

She wasn't kidding.

Grief is the damnest thing I've ever been dealt. It strikes me in the most inopportune, ridiculous places in a day. A parent screaming during my 5 year old's basketball game sent me into a full blown panic and a house full of guests playing cards, led me to crying in my bathroom. Neither of these instances have any explainable reasoning. Maybe it was the undue pressure parents were placing on their children during the game and perhaps it was the most merriment I had felt in weeks made me feel guilty, but grief is definitely getting the blame.

Just as children don't come with a handbook about parenting, neither does death have a guide for how we are supposed to grieve. Tears will find me in the oddest times and sadness can creep inside my heart while there is still a smile on my face. I sometimes catch myself wondering "is this normal? Am I supposed to react like that?" But then nothing about death and living with the loss of someone you love is normal and since no one has written the handbook on grief, I'm giving myself the grace to muddle my own way through.