Lists (this one is going to be rough)

Asher loves lists. He can't write yet (although he'll "write" grocery lists), but he loves for us to list things out loud. Lists of silly things ("What happened to this table?" he'll ask. "A giraffe ran into," I respond. "What happened to the door?" "A rhino kicked it down.") cheer him up. We list what kind of animals we are and whether we are nice or bad. We list things we could do - go to the park, fly an airplane, chop down a tree. One of his favorite games is to hide under a blanket (on the bed, on the couch, in the car, place doesn't matter), and he starts, "Talk to Dr. Lyon, Mommy," pronouncing Dr. Lyon, a character from a Richard Scarry book, "Da da Lawny." I follow, "Dr. Lyon, where is my Asher? Did he go to the park? Noooo. Is he taking a bath? Noooooo. Is he playing games with Harper? Noooo. Dr. Lyon, where is my Asher? Oh, there he is." And Asher pops out. Over and over again.

Megan and I joke that liking lists is so first born. Don't I know it. I love lists. I keep a grocery list on my refrigerator door, a list of work things to do (I currently have three of them), and a list of personal things to do. I recently received a list lovers' dream, a notebook with three separate list sections for home, work and play. I like to cross items off, rewrite lists and empty my mind in lists. Lists help to contain information, give all of the many things I want to remember a place to sit, and give a sense of control over my thoughts. So it was on Sunday night, after spending two nights at my friends' house, my brain in a frenzy as I tried to go to bed, that I wrote lists. I wrote:

These were some of the signs (of support, of encouragement, of reminders, of right thinking):
A card from my church Secret Sister on a gift that had been shuffled around for over a week and in different cars to get to me, and happened finally to be delivered on Thursday night, the night I found out. The card read on the front, "Alexa Believe in Yourself."

Michael was out of town on a business trip so I had time and space to figure out what to do.

The Friday newspaper on Alissa's driveway (Alissa is our daycare provider), which has never been in the driveway in the 8 months Asher and Harper have gone to Alissa's, read on the front page, "Christian Band Coming to Niwot." The band wasn't "The Fray," but I was reminded of them immediately.

I had therapy scheduled for Friday morning, an appointment I made three weeks ago.

The Lowe's were home and available (not often the case) so I could stay with them and cry with them over the weekend.

The "Quotes of the Day" for Friday was on "Grandfathers" (my Grandfather Harper is a family rock).

The speech at the Chamber's Friday annual membership luncheon was about the future, about the energy a dysfunctional member of a family or organization takes and the power of making new choices.

Driving home from Fort Collins, anticipating seeing Michael for the first time since Thursday and feeling anxious, alone, my mom called and then Megan called without prompting from me.

When I got home on Sunday, there was a James Avery jewelry catalog in the stack of mail, a reminder of last Christmas when Michael bought a suspicious gift from the company.

This was what I knew by Friday, clearly delineated like a snowflake on a black glove:

• I had to go away for the weekend and be with close friends.
• I had to call friends, my mom and sisters.
• Michael had to move out.
• I had to refile separation paperwork.
• I can not be with Michael (God knows for how long, possibly forever). It hurts to be in the same room with him.
• God can see down the line, and He's showing me a small part of the line part by part (go to the Lowe's, Michael move out, file paperwork).
  

This is what I feel:

• A door closed like I'd been waiting for this to walk through my house, and when it did, I would let it in and then close out its future.
• Anger
• Relief because what I knew to be true was, what I had dreamed was.
• Sadness
• The tree continuing to live, God's hand feeding it with sun and water and emergency gardeners.
• All this is not about me and Michael together but about me and Michael individually, apart.
  
• Disbelief
• A heavily residing pain that feels like it will never get better, though I know His faithfulness.

This is what I did Sunday night, back in my bed, Asher breathing quietly by my side, Michael's king size moved out:
I slept

soundly

peacefully

for the first time in two months.