The Hopes and Fears of all the Years

Dearest readers- however few and however far,

This blog has been a wonderful place to vent and muse and develop ideas and tell even silly stories. Each year I commit to writing more and most times I fail. I perfectly realize that without consistent writing, there is not consistent readership and someday when (not if!) I publish my book, I may regret my sporatice nature.

But it was after my last post that I realized how much I need to write and put my words out to the world. The lovely notes and cards and texts after Rain, Rain, Go Away reminded me of the immesurable value of community and sharing.  I was raw and overwhlemed and so many responded with kindness. And those who didn't must have sent my words on because many people read them. And if I was comforted, I trust my words comforted some as well- if nothing else but with the knowledge we are not alone in this life. Our sorrow is the sorrow of being human and the price of Love. But shared sorrow is a gift to the soul.

I'm glad to see 2019 go. It's been a year of great highs and great lows. But it ended on a beautiful high note of shared joy with the marriage of my most beloved sister to a wonderful and kind man. A few of us spent New Year's Eve in front of a roaring fire at my cabin.  My niece and I toasted in the new year with ginger beer in a moment of black skies awash with diamonds. We stood by the porch rail, wrapped in blankets,  with the darkened house behind us. I reminisced about the night her father and I stood in the same spot and gazed at a similar sky.  He had called Janet and I out to see the stars and the wonder in his voice is a sweet memory.  The seasons pass, he rests in eternity and years go by. The stars shoot out their beauty and we are small beneath them.

The next day after they left, I rose and climbed to meet that starlight, hidden by the light of the sun but nevertheless, shining on me.  After our merry band stuffed ourselves on a potluck breakfast, we hiked to the top of the highest peak between the Rockies and the Pyreenes. We tromped in a broken path of snow and over bare rocks, in glorous sunshine to a stiff breeze on the top. I haven't hiked as much as I'd like since my trek to Spain and it felt so good to stretch myself and dig in to accomplish the summit. Single women all, we celebrated our strengths and camaraderie.  We waited for each other and chased a confused dog who bolted back up the trail in search of his mistress. I just met three of the women but as we shared stories and pushed ourselves, we made community.

No camera at the top, but the view, even without know is wonderful. 

 So I sit and muse and try to craft this small story, reminding myself of the joys of new beginnings and new stories to be lived and told. I pray you have a new start toward the light of the stars that always shine down, sending us delight, seen and unseen. 

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 

The silent stars go by

Yet in thy darkness shineth

The everlasting light

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in Thee tonight

 That Light is always shing, deepest sorrows and highest joys. In valleys and on summits, hopes and fears are met with his Light.  Blessings on 2020 as we live in the Light of Love- together. 

Rain, rain, go away...

This has been the hardest September for thirteen years. Well, maybe the first anniversaray of Bill's September death was the worst DAY. Then I had decided to not stay home and be alone. So I went out into an indifferent world and almost had an accident in a parking lot, locked my keys in my car THREE times in that one day and cried in public.  Why didn't I find a friend to share the day? Still acting independent while falling apart.

So it's been thirteen years and I'm totally about sharing life and burdens. But some burdens, even shared ones, just weigh heavy.  The month started with the "train wreck into my chest" of the death of unborn grandbaby, Teresa Irene. Our precious litle girl, so anticpated, so longed for, went straight into the arms of Jesus and left us straining to hold her alive. Aching to hold life. Devasted at loss.
I held my grief for her death as well as the pain of my own beloved children as they mourned.



The waters of sorrow felt high and threatening, from the skies the rain was unrelenting.  We buried Teresa on a hilltop in Bismarck, ND as the wind whipped umbrellas inside out and I wrapped a grieving grandchild in a blanket to keep her as dry as possible. The heavens wept.



I returned home and prepared for company, beloved old friends. But their life is sad, a mother is passing and in that wake, the family cracks are splitting wide open. We hold our arks together as long as we can but life's waters can batter and stress and pull apart a frail craft.   Our visit was full of long discussions and urgent phone calls. I'm glad to be a sounding board but it just keeps raining on my soul.

Then a much, much beloved child, another grandmother's biological child but a child of my heart held his sore belly and it's not a virus, it's not stress- it's a fast growing, agressive tumor. Cancer.. invading his little tummy and filling their world with horror, confusion, terror and great resolve. It's a deluge of pain and helplessness. I'm so far way. I have more guests and obligations. Others respond and the wagons circle around the child but I can only pray from afar and encourage without eye contact or arms. I'm out in the rain and lost my umbrella.

Meanwhile, life happens. I have committments from months ago. I host wonderful, life giving artists for a art workshop and we all try to ignore yet more rain- this late in September it's cold and rain threatens to become our first snow. It's just wet and dark.

 I also have to oversee the construction on my long drawn out "she shed/ guest quarters" project to get it enclosed for the winter. I shop for doors, find lumber- which ends up involving unexpected drives to neighboring towns. I return with a load and the stress hits- I lose my mind and back my big 3/4 ton dually pick-up truck right through the newly constructed wall and patio door. No one is hurt but I am shocked. I'm embarassed. I'm horrified. I wonder, "Could I have a brain tumor- why didn't my foot obey my brain?"

All the rain of water and sorrow flowing mingled down. I've had enough. Will this month ever end? Will I live through the gloom and the heavy skies?

Turns out I take very few pictures of gray gloom and rainy days.
And the rain has given us a magnificent green summer and fall. 

Yes, of course, I will live. Baby Teresa is fully herself and alive with Jesus and her grandfather. The elderly will pass and in their wake, families will be redefined and go on, cracks and all.  All the children with cancer and their families will continue their battle and doctors will do their best. Soon I'll be able to go visit and lend my piece of support in person. My small project will be completed and guests will enjoy the exposed beams and rebuilt patio door.  Life will go on.  But September may always remind me of the storms that buffet our lives and leave us bruised and sore. So many people struggle with sorrow and pain. This is part of the human condition in a broken world.

Today is overcast and we expect snow tomorrow. Winter is coming and I intend to hibernate and sleep. But today I have time with a friend and there's dinner tonight with my prayer sisters. We will gather and hug and support one another. We need each other, we need to know we are not alone in the rain.

Find your people. Love them. Lift up the dying and the "can't die yet" with prayers and blessings and words of life and healing.  Find a hand and hold on tight. Don't let the rain of one season define the year, or a life.