Moving Day

A family down the street is moving today.  One of those huge commercial moving trucks is parked in front of their house, a ramp bowing and bending under the weight of loaded furniture and appliances.  It made me think of all the times we moved when I was younger.  I was born in Alaska, but months later we moved to Seattle.  And then months later after that we moved to Dallas.  When I was in the second grade we moved to Houston, and then back to Dallas when I was a sophomore in high school.  And then there was the move to college, all the moves in Phoenix to different dorms and apartments, and then the move back to Dallas after graduation.  Then came the move to Waco for Grad school, the move to our first place as a married couple and then the move to our house.  The house we first brought our son home to.  Looking back, it seems like my whole life I've been packing and unpacking boxes, looking up apartments, crunching budgets, transferring services, leaving a forwarding address.

But I had another moving day this week, one that I was expecting and dreading.

Cliff has been in the jail in town since November, and I'd gotten used to our arrangement.  I saw him every Tuesday and I brought Gareth to see him on Saturdays - 40mn a week to talk and see one another and share our broken hearts and abiding love.  We knew that he could be transferred to Huntsville at any moment, but we tried not to talk about it.  Tried not to focus on the fact that when he was transferred that we would be limited to one visit a month - a 2 hour visit - but just one.  Tried not to focus on the fact that we wouldn't be able to share long phone conversations anymore.  Tried not to focus on the fact that the miles that separated us would be long and difficult.

Thursday, I got a letter in the mail from the Sherrif's office, notifying me that Cliff had been transferred and that I needed to go pick up his property.

Moving day had come and gone and no one had told me.

I went by the jail as soon as I could and waited while an officer collected Cliff's belongings.  He came out with a big bag, jumbled with Cliff's stuff.  Books and paper, what seemed like hundreds of letters and cards, pictures and Cliff's clothes, his rings, his shoes.  The sum total of my husband's possessions was thrust into a large plastic bag and carried out to my car for me.  When I got it all home I sat in the middle of his possessions and sorted, books from letters, papers from clothes.  I touched everything he had touched, wishing that I could feel him instead of his absence, wishing that I had more of him than legal papers and uneaten candy bars.

I don't know where he is right now.  I've called to Huntsville but he isn't in the system yet.  I will try again this afternoon and every day until I find him - like a treasure hunt where the treasure stays locked away from you even when you discover it.  I won't be able to visit him or talk to him for 30-90 days while he goes through processing.  I will be able to write him and send him money for his commissary account, but I will have no contact until this system works him through and spits him out to his permanent facility.  My husband has been taken from me and hidden within the inner workings of a beast that has no mercy, and all I can do is look for him and wait.  I have no words to describe to you the powerlessness that has gripped me.

The moving truck down the street that reminds me I will be moving soon as well.  Though I am being helped financially by many family members and friends, I cannot live in this house much longer.  The mortgage is too much for my salary.  Once again, I will have to pack boxes, look for apartments, crunch numbers, cancel services, and leave a forwarding address.  And even though I have had my share of grief during other moves, the sadness of leaving behind family and friends, of fearful transitions and unsure future, this move is different.  This grief is more violent, this sadness tinged with anger and frustration, this fear unshakeable and life-altering.

Moving day has come.  Moving day is coming.

Lord Jesus Christ, Have Mercy.  God, Have Mercy.

My resentment

Every day is different for me.  Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I think is "Oh God, I hate this life."  Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I think is "You will survive!"  Mostly, I wake up and the first thing I think is "Why won't my son sleep? I'm TIRED!"

Every day I get up, take Gareth to daycare, get ready for work, and do all the normal things that people usually do.  Eat, facebook, laundry, life.  And that is fine and easy and the "every-day" has stopped being so incredibly painful.

Except...

Except when I see a dad playing with one of his children.  And I resent him.

Except when I see a pregnant woman holding her belly.  And I resent her.

Except when I see a couple holding hands.  And I resent them.

I resent their blind happiness, their unknowing acceptance of their life, their ignorance of the painful paths being tread around them by me, by others like me.  I resent that I appear to be a "normal", that a cursory glance reveals nothing of the devastating wreckage which I am trying to clamber out of.

I wish that Cliff was playing with Gareth out in public.

I wish that I was pregnant again - or could ever hope to be pregnant again.

I wish that I could be holding hands with my husband.

I wish that resentment didn't have such a stranglehold on me.

Please, don't take this as some sort of plea for you to remind me of what I DO have.  I know those things.  I am thankful for those things.  But another thing I resent?  People trying to hurry me out of grief, out of despair, out of the period of mourning that I have damn well EARNED.

Please, don't take this as some sort of passive-aggressive plea for you to hide the joys in your life.  I love that you are pregnant, have children, have a spouse or partner who loves you.  I love that you can play together, and I love that you may NEVER EVER KNOW this kind of pain that has tattooed itself upon my soul.

But right now, resentment is the first feeling I have, the gut-reaction that I must push through to experience anything else.  Resentment is my veil. 

And I resent that too.

One Month Past

Today Gareth is 20 months old - so close to two but still so much a baby.  I must admit, when anticipating Gareth's birth and listening to all of the well intentioned advice from friends and family, I fell for that line that every parent hears before their first child is born:

"My son/daughter/niece/cousin started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks!"

Well, let me tell you, my baby did NOT start sleeping through the night at 6 weeks.  Or 16 weeks.  Or 16 months.  He is STILL not sleeping through the night, though intermittently he will clock in a solid 9 hours of sleep without waking.  I'd gotten used to his sleepless nature because I had a partner to take shifts with.  When I couldn't get Gareth to go down at night, I would pass him off to Cliff and take a breather on the couch.  When Cliff had suffered with Gareth for over an hour in the middle of the night, I would slap in and do my best to calm the wild beast.  But now...now Gareth and I are the only foes who meet at bedtime.  Night, after night, after night.

Today marks a month since Cliff was sentenced and began his long stay in jail.  A month of me discovering all the things I would have to do alone.  Like cooking all the meals.  ALL of them.  And remembering to take the trash out every Friday.  EVERY FRIDAY.  And doing all the shopping, and the bill paying, and the yard work, and, and, and....

But somehow, getting Gareth to sleep is the most difficult task that I have to do alone.  And not just because I'm emotionally, mentally and physically exhausted.  But also because he has started to ask for Cliff at night - "mommy did it, mommy did it, mommy did it..."  Last night I finally figured out what he was saying.  "Gareth, do you want daddy to come in here to put you to sleep?"  ::nod::  "mommy did it."

He's right.  "mommy" (Gareth's name for Cliff) was always the best at putting him to sleep at night.  When I had done my best and Gareth was still struggling against sleep, Cliff could take him to bed and work some kind of daddy-magic and Gareth would go down within 20 minutes.  When this Mommy couldn't do it, "mommy did it."  But thats not an option anymore.

"I'm sorry Gareth, daddy isn't here."
"...NOOOOOO!"

Oh my boy, I know how you feel.

So we're one month out into this new life, this normal that I hate so much.  We're one month in and still I just can't bear the thought that I have years of months left, seemingly countless Januarys, Februarys, Junes, Octobers and more.  Years of Christmases and New Years and Valentines Days and our Wedding Anniversary, all without him, all alone, all having to explain...

"I'm sorry Gareth, daddy isn't here."

"I'm sorry, I guess you haven't heard."

"I'm sorry...."

He isn't here.

One month has past.

And he isn't here.

Update: Gareth

Our son was born on April 19th at 12:22pm at Hillcrest in Waco, TX.

By the next evening, he took his first flight on the Medical Transport jet to Children's Hospital in Dallas, TX.

Yesterday he was prodded, poked, and prepped for surgery.

Today at 8:30am he will go into surgery to repair a Tracheal Fistula and an Esophageal Atresia.

This is not what I imagined when I dreamed about having my first child.

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Here's how you can pray for us:

1) Please pray that the surgeons experience complete success tomorrow morning.  This would mean that they repair the fistula and discover enough esophageal tissue to connect the esophagus and Gareth's stomach.  If they do, his time in the NICU will be much reduced.  If they do not, he will spend a much longer time in the NICU.

2) Please pray that Cliff and I would be continually reminded of God's love and comfort during this crappy time

3) Please pray that Gareth would heal quickly, that his pain levels would be minimal, that he would come off of the intubation in record time, that he will be able to go home sooner rather than later. 

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I won't be posting pictures of him in the hospital.  I just can't bear to commemorate this moment in any way.  I do not want to remember my baby with tubes and wires running off of him.  I do not want to share the painful presence of oxygen machines and antibiotic IV's.  I wish that I was changing his diapers and worrying over his circumcision scar and taking care of his belly button instead of watching professionals do so for me.  It is my prayer that you will never, ever have to know what this scene looks like.

It's April...in case you missed it

Since April began, I've (Elizabeth) participated in a Waco-Disciples Maunday Thursday service, run an Easter Egg Hunt for close to 500 people, baptized two girls (which was very cool to do pregnant), and started prepping in earnest for maternity leave.  Cause I'm almost 37 weeks pregnant and all.

Here's a pic of me from said Easter Egg Hunt:

Hey...she kind of looks like an egg!

Now we're just waiting.  We're 22 days away from Gareth's due date, attending childbirth classes and generally look straight into the gun-barrel of parenthood.  Wow.  Oh and for those of you who enjoy TMI, at my last OB appointment (4/1), I was 75% effaced, our son was already between 6 & 6 1/2 pounds and I had lost 3 pounds.  

Cliff thinks I'll go into labor early, so every time I wince when my pelvis or legs hurt he says "are you in labor? Is it contractions? Do we need to go to the hospital?"  Sometimes I know he's joking, and then there are the times when his eyes are shining in fear and I realize we are into that time period when the questions he's asking have validity.  

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BTW...please don't ever call a pregnant woman fat.  Even if they totally are.  I've gained, total, less than 30lbs, and my doctor is happy with me, and all the weight has gone to the baby, but I still get sensitive when people comment on my weight.  Just say nice things to the 9 month pregnant woman who's pelvis hurts and who's legs spasm and has to pee 100 times a day.  It costs you nothing and it keeps her from attacking people with blunt objects.  And that's a good thing.

In general, let's just make it a rule to not say tacky things to each other, okay?  If you have a bad hair cut or your clothes are mis-matched or you've gained weight, I would NEVER EVER say anything to you unless we had that kind of relationship where you liked blunt honesty.  And even then I would couch it gently and say it only in private.  So if you're ever tempted to say the following things to a pregnant woman, resist.  With every fiber of your being, resist the temptation.

THINGS TO NEVER SAY TO A PREGNANT WOMAN

1) Wow...you're bigger than last time.

2) How much weight have you gained?  Looks like a lot

3) Hey fatty!

4) You look farther along than that!

THINGS TO SAY TO A PREGNANT WOMAN INSTEAD

1) Wow...you look radiant

2) You're so tiny!

3) I'd love to babysit for free

4) Your child is going to be beautiful

You're welcome

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So if you think about Cliff and I any time this month, throw a little prayer out there that our son is born healthy and happy, that we survive the entrance into parenthood with few scars, and that I keep from whacking people who say tacky things to me.

The Sermon I'm working on

I'm preaching about Gideon this Sunday, and so I decided to post some of the introduction for your perusal. This should be a really fun sermon.

Here's my general layout
Thesis: God knows your flaws and uses you anyway.
1st Movement: God knows that you’re cynical
2nd Movement: God knows that you’re small
3rd Movement: God knows that you’re afraid
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I don’t know the Bible as well as I should. College Bible classes helped to rectify some of that, but I still felt scripturally inadequate when I came to seminary. I can’t give you a verse for every life situation, I usually only have a general idea about where you can find the important Bible stories and before my first semester at Truett, the only Old Testament stories that I really knew where the ones that get made into veggie tales movies. I didn’t love the Old Testament. If I’m going to be honest, I didn’t really love the Bible. It seemed….overly idealistic. And then I took Scriptures 1 with Dr. Ngan in the fall of 2006. We started in Genesis and ended in Kings and I came face to face with stories and characters I’d never even known about. Dr. Ngan was right when she told us that she “loved the Old Testament. It’s full of sex and violence.” If you don’t believe me, I can give you some reading assignments later. That class helped me to fall in love again with the Old Testament and even the Bible. Why? Am I just another product of a youth culture that glories in violent stories and over-sexed relationships? I don’t think so. I fell in love with the book again because I realized how honest it is. These people, these heroes of our Sunday school and Vacation Bible School memories are much more… human than I remember. Adam shirked responsibility, Eve was ambitious to a fault, Abraham was a philanderer, Sarah was vindictive, Joseph was spoiled, Moses was a murderer, Samson was a failure who could only vindicate himself by dying and King David was a usurper, an adulterer and a really bad dad. Rereading these stories, I realized the Bible and its authors (both human and divine) had hidden nothing about its subjects. No one in the Bible, no one in the Old Testament is perfect…and that helps me to trust their stories so much more. Trust in the brutal honesty of God and his words.