Rain

Even more than trees, I love the rain. I love the sound and smell. I love the way it perks up plants, so much better than sprinkler water. I love puddles and mud. I love the break from sun and the clearing in the air. I sometimes think that just by thinking about rain, I can make it rain (I have a pretty good track record). My sister, Clare, reminded me that in high school I used to drop a lot of liquid on the floor before it rained. It started raining here in arid Colorado yesterday afternoon.

When it comes to difficult or just scary things, I have a great ability to charge ahead toward them step by step, logically, overriding the attached emotions until, generally, right before the event. Then I take the stage to read at Ruminate Open Mic night, and my hands start to shake. Then my water breaks unexpectedly, and I'm ready to throw up. Then I'm dressed and ready to drive to the courthouse to file separation papers, and I'm an emotional basket case. I sit on the toilet in the bathroom, hoping for God to speak to me (places with water are sacred), and I cry. "I don't want to do this," I tell Michael. "I don't know if I want to either," he replies, hugging me.

So it is that I went to work yesterday until 2:30. I drove home to drop off some pumped breast milk, driving under trees in amazing spring colors - neon green, purple, white - promising great things to come. I drove to Boulder to meet Michael to go to the district court house (little known fact that you don't want to ever have to find out, you can't file separation papers in Colorado at a county court house). We filed the papers.

And that was it. No sweeping soundtrack. No lightening bolts. No earthquakes. No fainting or "finally having the nervous breakdown I deserve." Handed over the paperwork, signed and walked out.

But last night, the emotions stole upon me again with no logical actions to intervene. It was done. In some sense, Michael and I are done. We are at an end, but, as the trees promised, no doubt also a beginning. It was raining when I was getting ready for bed, and I crouched on the back stoop, smelling the rain, letting cold drops fall on my head, letting wind fall across my face. And I felt God not only caressing me, not only beside me, not only holding me up, but, my Good Lord, crying with me.

"When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, 'Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.' When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. 'Where have you laid him?' he asked. 'Come and see, Lord' they replied. Jesus wept. (John 11:32-35)

It is still raining today. I am fatigued as if I have run a long race. But there are smiles. Harper was lying on the living room floor playing. Asher was playing one of his forms of cowboys-pirates-Noah's Ark-firetruck-mountain climber. I left the room briefly and heard Harper start to fuss. I returned to the room to see Asher holding my coffee mug and coffee (cooled, fortunately) dripping all over sweet Harper's head. "Me give Harper gink coffee," Asher said. Apparently. To my surprised look, Asher responded, "Me want gink."

The Glass in My Foot

When I was in second grade in Saratoga Springs, New York, someone broke a Corel bowl in the hallway at home. My parents swept and cleaned up the shards. With all their efforts, I somehow ended up stepping on a stray piece of the bowl some days later. My foot bled and bled, and my parents couldn't remove the shard. They wrapped my foot in a towel and took me to the doctor. I don't remember the doctor's visit and glass removal, but I do remember my dad picking out my outfit and being mortified at school because my outfit was so embarassing (a red plaid skirt and top that I never wore).

I am a little obsessive about picking up broken glass in my home. I have a routine of picking up all the pieces I can by hand, sweeping and then vacuuming the entire room. To double check that I got all the shards, I kneel down so that my eye is as level with the floor as possible, scanning the floor for any bumps. More vacuuming, more kneeling, until I can call the kitchen cleared. Yet, try as I might, weeks later, I will find stray shards when I'm sweeping the floor.

As I was sweeping the floor yesterday, I found one of these strays in the dustpan, the glitter of glass catching my eye. How fortunate that my broom found it instead of someone's foot. A lie, I realized, looking at the contents of the dustpan, is like broken glass. Try as you might to clean it up, you never know if you got all the shards or when one will end up in your foot.

What I Did Today

I am trying to remember this time last year - the big ticket items. In April 2006, Michael and I were sorting out what we would do as a family because we had recently been told that our church, where Michael was on staff, was being closed by presbytery. I was teaching children's church regularly and part of the church's women's ministry team. I was a stay-at-home mom of a one and a half year old, seven months pregnant with a baby girl, and working from home as a grant writer, bookkeeper and executive assistant. I was soon to find out that my sister possibly had cervical cancer. My father had recently rented a limo and been driven about 3 hours to his brother's doorstep with no belongings, a brother he had not seen in approximately 10 years, and would be deposited at his departed mother's home with in-home care. I missed my husband who had two full-time jobs.

Such contrast today . . . I squeezed in about an hour and a half in the office where I am now a resource development director planning our organization's basketball tournament fundraiser. I am normally in the office all day on Wednesday, but my dear daughter, Harper, has ear infections, a continuing fever and much crankiness. My son, Asher, is spending the day at daycare, which he loves and has already improved his speaking ability. I spend what seems like hours on the phone speaking with the new bookkeeper about procedures, with a long-term care facility in California about finding care for my dad who is in the last stages of Huntington's Disease, with a lawyer, mediator and financial planner about options for filing a legal separation, with the doctor's office about Harper's health, and with Katy Snow, a friend of my friend, Megan, getting updates on Megan's surgery which resulted in the removal of an ovary, six inches of small intestine and part of her colon. I look forward to Michael leaving in the morning for his job at a shoe store and in the evening to Megan's apartment, where he is currently staying, after giving him copies of the preliminary separation papers. I settle in after Harper goes to bed to play army men, cowboys and airplane with my two and half year old.

My self of only one year ago can only ask, where am I? What alternate universe is this? I sent a package of mail to Megan, who has been away for a month now, a vacation that turned into a longer stay with her family due to health problems, with a card addressed to Megan Hyatt, c/o Crazy Train A, Alternate Universe. I am along side her on Crazy Train B. Someone stop the train!

I am blessed with God's grace, how He brought me through the trials of last year and promises to bring me through again. How good it feels to sit on the couch and put my feet up, let my mind wander from all the future questions and decisions to fluttering words.

What day is it?

So for the past few weeks, I have had a lot of trouble remembering what day it is. I may have mentioned earlier that I also can't automatically remember what season it is. Yesterday was no exception. It was Tuesday, and it felt a whole lot like a weekend day (which is kind of nice until I realize it's really only Tuesday). Part of this is all the stuff going on in my life, major life changes that have been nicely slingshotted at me without warning. Part of this, I'm thinking today, is that it's a result of everything being really mixed up. It is as if God took the ingredients of my life, which looked like some really good cake, tore them apart and is busy reconfiguring them. Everything is stirred up, so that, like today, it should be no surprise that first I cry because a close friend gets a scary call from her doctor and has to have more tests done for a serious and mysterious possible infection and then, at the same time I'm getting her text about the visit, I'm crying while watching a video online of a friend's beautiful baby boy being introduced to his family. There is something in me that craves simplicity, that craves a view of my life tree where I can see the tree, rather than being in the midst of all these shaking and blowing leaves on some unfamiliar branch.