friday haiku {for Kristin}

two years, grief goes on
I pray for her hope and wings
afraid of nothing

::

Today marks the 2nd anniversary of the death of my dear friend/cousin's husband. I have never been so intimately acquainted with grief in another person and it is not what I imagined. It is not, I believe, what she imagined either. There is a quiet expectation that after caring for your soulmate through a long and painful illness there would be a reprieve, that life would get lighter. But the loss barrels in day after day as you attempt to live a different life alone, to parent small people without a partner, to not be overcome with fear. This is no easy feat. I admire that woman immensely for just getting out of bed in the morning.

A friend of mine wrote an article in the Tribune this week about grief and depression and quoted Tom Zuba, an author and motivational speaker who has suffered incredible losses. His words spoke to me:

"Accompany your friend. Create a safe place for your friend to be with his or her feelings, past, new life and, in time, new dreams," Zuba suggested. "Remember, you don't know how the person feels, but you can ask, 'What is it like to be you today?' And then make sure you set aside time to listen."

Last night on our weekly hangout night, I gave Kristin a framed photo of her girls on which I wrote these incredible words from poet Mary Oliver:

I am thinking now of grief
and getting past it;
I feel my boots trying to leave the ground.
I feel my heart pumping hard.
I want to think of dangerous
and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful
and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

I am thinking now of Kristin and wondering, on this awful anniversary, What is it like to be you today? I really can't imagine. No one can. But we can continue to set aside time to listen, to encourage dangerous and noble things, to bring lightness, to pray for wings and life without fear. That's what I'm praying.

probably not the best way to start lent

If you have given up chocolate or sweets for Lent, you might want to go and read another blog today. But be sure to bookmark this and come back after Easter. You'll be so glad you did. I promise.

We have made these cookies twice this month and I am craving them again. They are incredibly good and surprisingly easy. But I can't take credit other than following the Barefoot Contessa's Shortbread Cookie recipe. I will never make another rolled cookie recipe again. These are truly the best.

For the chocolate, I melted a bag of chips in a 9 x 9 glass dish in the microwave. (Cook in 30 second increments and stir at each break. It takes about 2 minutes for all the chips to melt.) Then I spooned the melted chocolate over half the heart, shook off the excess and let them dry on waxed paper.

:::

Tomorrow morning I leave for Washington DC for Ray's memorial service and a weekend with my sister Liz. A bittersweet getaway, but anticipating a plane flight with no kids, where I am free to read and knit and think, a whole Friday to do as I please and 72 hours with my little sis, I'd say the sweet is outweighing the bitter. Now if I just had one of those cookies...

words

To hurt or to heal, words have so much power. The last several days I have witnessed firsthand their incredible impact. From the words of love and compassion issued by hordes of visitors at Ray's wake... to an incredible, inspiring "love story" tribute delivered by my precious cousin to hundreds and hundreds at her husband's funeral... to the thousands (yes, thousands) of memories, condolences and messages of love and encouragement sent via email... to the mailbox overflowing with cards and letters. The words of love and kindness and healing go on and on and on.

Half the crying I did this weekend was in response to these beautiful words, and it got me thinking, Why do we wait? I'm sure friends and family told Ray that they loved him and that he was a great guy at many points throughout his life, but how many times did he receive a letter in his mailbox that said these things? How many times did someone take the time to compile a list of the things that made him special when he was well?

Over the last three days, not one person I talked to or visited with was focused on themselves. Not one. Every word, every thought, every gesture was of genuine love and compassion for another. In the worst of times we were all corporately, finally, living out the greatest commandment. Why can't we live it out in the best of times?

Recently I read about a father who sent his daughter a postcard every day she was in college. Some were mundane, some were kind of silly, all of them were daily reminders that he loved her. The story 1,000 Postcards is encapsulated in a 10-minute radio segment that is worth a listen. It's a wonderful example of how much five minutes of writing time can mean to the person who receives the card.

The last three days have inspired me in many ways. Maybe the biggest is to start sharing the words in my heart with the people I love. On paper. Just because.

what made him special

With some people, death brings out the best in them, as friends and family can finally put all the bad behind and do their best to focus on redeeming qualities. This is not so with Ray. This guy was an exemplary friend, brother, son, husband, father and relative. There is nothing to exaggerate. He really was all this:

:: He was a t-shirt-and-baseball-cap-wearing guy who really knew how to dance. When Ray and Kristin were dating, I would go to DC to visit. My favorite memory is going to a Christmas party with all the Hill staffers and watching Ray and Kristin float together on the floor. They had an electricity and rhythm that gave the impression they had been dancing that way forever. I was so thrilled that night, absolutely certain that my sweet cousin had found her match.

:: He totally got Kristin and thought she was beautiful from day one. She was his "it" girl. And, being a romantic, I just loved that. They didn't have a long and arduous courtship. They didn't break up and get back together. They weren't just friends. They immediately sparked - and sparkled - intellectually, romantically, and in every other good way. There's not much better than seeing a female you love really being cherished by the guy of her dreams.

:: After marrying Kristin he had, count 'em, eight sisters. No brothers. Then he had three girls of his own. The only man in every house, he was all guy but so tenderhearted and loving. When I visited the hospital after Kristin and Ray's third daughter was born, I expected maybe he'd seem just a little disappointed. Not Ray. He was as proud and pleased as any dad could be.

:: He never complained or felt sorry for himself through his whole cancer ordeal. Not once (that I ever heard of or observed). In fact, he was always full of gratitude and appreciation for everything anyone did for him and his family. Once when I spent the day with them in intensive care and he was so, so sick, he was concerned that my sister's boyfriend had lost his job. Always thinking of others first. How many people do you know who are genuinely like that?

:: Looking back over the relatively short time I knew Ray personally, I cannot remember him ever speaking ill of another person or putting someone down to make himself look good. I do not remember ever hearing him utter a cynical or sarcastic word. This may explain why his many, many, many friends have loved him so long and so loyally.

:: He had a solid faith, strong values and an unwavering commitment to things that were moral and right. But he didn't parade around trying to prove himself. You didn't find Ray engaging in deep discussions of theology and apologetics. You didn't find him praying loud, long public prayers. You just found him living out what he believed.

:: No one, and I mean no one, doesn't love Ray. Really, this guy has friends. The list spans back to grade school. And those guys remained some of his closest friends all throughout his life. The hole that will be left by his absence is huge.

I cannot attempt to understand, Why Ray? All I know is that we are all better for knowing him. And if my boys grow up to emulate some of these godly character traits of Ray Fitzgerald, this mama will be very, very blessed.

Thank you, Ray, for showing us all a better way to live. You will be deeply, deeply missed.

epiphany

My cousin got married on Epiphany eight years ago. As one of the honored bridesmaids, high on the promise of new love myself, I remember the magical day in detail.

Catching snippets of the wedding video this morning as I fed her girls breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen (they apparently had been watching the DVD off and on for the last 24 hours), the palpable joy and excitement of that celebration came barreling back. I had trouble controlling the tears, though, because the contrast seemed too huge to comprehend. On the day after their eighth wedding anniversary, this soul-mated couple that all the elated, sweaty dancers paused on camera to congratulate, were headed to a medical clinic for yet another drug to attempt to hold my cousin's husband's ravaging cancer at bay.

I was relieved when Nora decided she wanted to show Liam High School Musical 2 Karaoke and turned the video off. The widening gap between the then and the now had become a gulf almost too big to cross.

Yet, as I drove home tonight, weeping as I waited for freight train to pass, my son totally lacquered from being chased around by three little girls all day, I recalled a scene from the movie Shadowlands. At the end of the film, C.S. Lewis, played by Anthony Hopkins, is up in the attic with the young son of his new wife who has just died of cancer. They are sobbing. And the boy, in the most gut-wrenching chocks and sobs, says to Lewis, "Why does it hurt so much?" And Lewis says so poignantly, "The pain now is part of the happiness then." I, of course, bawled my eyes out, as I am doing now. Because truth hurts.

The truth is, there is no gulf or gap between the then and the now. The pain and the happiness are inseparable. There is not one without the other. When we choose to live and love fully, vulnerably, outside convention or appearance or approval, we open ourselves up to the deepest pain imaginable. Are we crazy? Why ever do we do it?

In that Epiphany wedding video, I saw my answer. We are made for it. We are made to love and be loved. We are made to rejoice. Just as we are made to suffer. And, as much as any of us may try, this side of the veil, we are not made to understand.

On the first Epiphany over 2000 years ago, the wise men (probably astrologers) did the strangest thing. They followed a star, based on a prophesy, and risked life and limb to do it. Historians speculate it took two treacherous years of desert travel to find the King of the Jews, and they weren't even Jewish. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh, to a baby. And it wasn't for curiosity sake that they made that long trip. They came to worship. They rejoiced. What could they have possibly understood about that journey? They were just doing what they were made to do. They were loving and being loved. Faced with pain and delay, ostracism and danger, doubt and unanswered questions, they followed that star straight to the source.

Then, now, not yet. Pain, happiness. Come what may, it's this Love that keeps us going.

Morning addendum: I have been thinking how incredible that Jesus' most significant visitors were not the religious Jewish leaders down the street. They were the outsiders, some of the least likely on the continent. They traveled from so, so far, with the most astounding faith. They must have looked like idiots. Leaving everything, risking death by defying the most powerful guy in their kingdom, ignoring what their logical brains must have told them. They already had everything. They were rich and smart and respected, and yet they chose a path that would involve suffering because it would lead to love. It was these guys in the story. These guys who found Jesus. This year I understand why.

do not be afraid

This has been a very different Advent. In addition to spending a week of it in 80 degree weather when it hovers near 0 degrees almost daily and rarely ceases to snow here at home, December has been consumed with heartache over Ray, my dear cousin's very, very sick husband. Instead of cramming in all of our favorite traditions the last four days - cutting down a tree and trimming it, paying a visit to Santa, shopping for more than 30 minutes, baking cookies, making ornaments, sending Christmas cards, and happily blogging about it all - I sat in hospital rooms and cared for three sweet little girls in their home while Andrew held down the fort here.

This morning was a mad, mad dash to pull Christmas together. I have been trying to breathe deep, to let go of what I wished we'd done, what we missed, what my kids won't even remember. I have been trying not to worry about other people's expectations over gifts and preparations. Mostly I have been trying to remain focused on what and why we celebrate this season anyway.

It is so easy to pay lip service to Jesus' birth. This year I have really struggled to get my heart around the sentimentality of it all. And, quite honestly, the hard facts often leave me cold. But something happened in church tonight. I heard a different story. A perspective I have rarely considered. Words that reached into the ache, the worry, the fear, the ambivalence, the disappointment and brought me back.

"Do not be afraid."

It is an angel's standard greeting. I knew that, of course. I've heard the story hundreds of times. But this time I had the privilege of being a reader in the service and something about reading aloud, paying attention and longing to hear, I noticed that these words are absolutely essential to the Christmas story.

There is so much pain in the world. For the last four days I have been swimming in it. But the great comforter is telling us, Do not be afraid.

There is so much to worry about every day. From battles with cancer to whether a check will come on time. But the Hope of the world is telling us, Do not be afraid.

There are so many reasons to doubt or flee or choose oblivion. But a personal, loving God is telling us, Do not be afraid.

We have to face the darkness in order to see the Light of the World. But we do not have to be afraid. That, I guess, is heavenly peace.

May your travels through the darkness lead you to the manger, so you can return like the terrified, trembling shepherds, glorifying and praising God for all you have heard and seen. That's where I'm heading.

Merry Christmas.

unsung heroes

I recently read about a "woman of the year"-type contest in a mothering magazine and started thinking about who I would nominate. Truth is, it's tough because I know so many incredible women. But I've decided that I could boil it down to two. Neither of these women would want the spotlight. Although I'm sure both of them would love to be able to hand over the winnings - $35k to the charity of their choice. I would nominate them both.

1 :: Chicago blogger and mom Alysa who I have met twice (as I occasionally work on projects with her husband). The only time I have ever cried reading a webpage - tears literally streaming down my face - is when reading Alysa's blog. And in the past few weeks it has happened almost every time. See, Alysa and her family sponsored a refugee family through World Relief and it has been the most tremendous, heart-rending, real-life story I have followed in a long time, maybe ever. (Read this older post and this recent post and see what I mean!) I love this family! Both Alysa's and her Iraqi refugee family. Nothing portrays a clearer picture of God's love in action. Nothing. I also appreciate that Alysa is totally transparent about the fact that she is not a perfect mom. Woman of the year should definitely not be a perfect mom, because we all know that woman would be lying.

2 :: My precious cousin Kristin. I hardly even know where to begin with this woman. Ubermom of three young girls, incredibly capable, influential political maven, brilliant multitasker, respected and regularly called-upon older sister, who was handed the cup of advocate, caretaker, nurse and prayer warrior for husband with serious, life-threatening cancer. This woman (although I'm quite certain she would argue me) is grace personified. All morning I sat with her in the ICU at Ray's bedside while she confidently and ably questioned, discussed, bartered and advocated with doctors and nurses as brilliantly as any ER resident, and then tenderly rubbed Ray's feet, flipped through her Blackberry to check emails and filled me in on the details of the past week, all after sleeping the night on two hard plastic chairs pushed together. And she still had her girls' day at home scheduled down to the gift wrapped and ready and transportation secured for the birthday party her 6-year-old was attending this afternoon. No one juggles balls while wading through grief and uncertainty - and still finds a way to laugh at mishaps and forgive herself for failings - like Kristin. And on top of it all, she is encouraging us with her daily emails (which can all be read on their family blog) - a phenomenal testimony of her and Ray's incredible faith. And, she's no picture perfect mom either. But she is undeniably real.

I know there are many, many more women-of-the-year in our midst. These are just two of the ones I've become closest to virtually and personally. Get to know an awesome woman in your world. Her blessing is bound to rub off.

a dukes-up dinner

Today I had the pleasure and privilege of creating a cancer-fighting evening meal for my cousin's family. In addition to the gotta-have-em flax seed rolls; a farm fresh, all-organic salad with homemade dijon dressing; the always-winging-it crustless quiche lined with sliced new potatoes and jam packed with sauteed swiss chard; I made a really yummy beet risotto from Everyday Food (one of the many recipes that should one day give Martha Stewart world domination). Risotto is actually quite easy and satisfying to prepare. Plus, you get to eat your beets. Here's how:

Beet Risotto
2 teaspoons olive oil
1 small onion, minced
1 cup Arborio rice
1/2 cup dry white wine
3 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth, room temperature or warmed
1 big bunch of beets, roasted or steamed, skins peeled off and cut into 1/2-inch dice
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Coarse salt and ground pepper

Heat oil over medium heat. Cook onion, stirring often, until golden brown and soft, about 10 minutes. Add rice; stir to coat. Stir in wine; cook until reduced by half, about 3 minutes. Add 1/2 cup broth; simmer, stirring, until almost all is absorbed. Add remaining 21/2 cups broth, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring until liquid is absorbed before adding more, about 25 minutes total. Stir in beets, butter, and Parmesan; season with salt and pepper.

:::
On my way to deliver the meal, I picked up my cousin's two girls, ages 5 and 3, who were playing with friends for the afternoon. As we rode to their house, they quizzed me about the bandaids on my left hand. For a couple days I have had some terrible itchyness in two spots on this hand and today the little bumps I thought might be spider bites turned ugly. A quick visit to the doctor revealed that I accidentally came into contact with poison ivy. So, I explained to my cousin's girls what poison ivy is, how I may have gotten it on my hand, and so forth. Relentlessly, they peppered me with hypothetical questions.

"What would happen if you brushed your leg against poison ivy? What would happen if you rubbed it in your hair? What would happen if you got poison ivy on your face? What would happen if you rolled in poison ivy?"

Then, obviously pulling out the worst case scenario she could possibly imagine, the five year old called out, "What would happen if you took off all your clothes, even your underwear, and sat in poison ivy?"

The three year old chimed in, "Then your butt would itch!" And they both burst out laughing.

I shudder to even imagine it.

someone else's battle

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. -Philo of Alexandria

Yesterday I made dinner for a family from church that I don't know. The woman, who has attended our church since childhood, has been caring for her grandmother who is in the last days of her life. Because I had overfilled my day, I had to call this woman and let her know I would have the meal to her house a half hour later than anticipated. I was a little taken aback by how short and unfriendly the woman sounded on the phone. I was making her a meal, afterall. I expected a little graditude or at least a friendlier tone.

After I mapped the address online, I put the meal in the car and took off. The family lived just 10 minutes south, but a world away. Every small house on the street was a duplex, nearly all badly neglected and needing repair. Windows were propped open with fans; beat-up cars lined the street; not a flower was in sight. I found the address and hustled up to the door. As I handed over the meal to a tired, sweaty, uncomfortable yet grateful woman, I wished I had done more. I wished that I had brought a better meal - the meal that I would have brought a beloved friend - and flowers, too. But more than anything, I wished I hadn't been so quick to judge. C.S. Lewis once postulated that the reason God called us not to judge is because we have no idea how far a person has come to be who they are. Only God knows the heart - and the circumstance and the history and the battles.

My cousin, whose husband is fighting cancer, recently told me how much differently she thinks about what people are going through. She'll be holding her one-year-old daughter in a store or on a soccer field and someone will comment on how cute she is and my cousin will think, "You have no idea. My husband has cancer. My life is not this perfect picture. You just don't know." None of us do.

And so I reconsider: The girl behind the register who isn't moving fast enough for me. The acquintance who's never satisfied with anything but seems to have everything. The woman who could have been just a little nicer on the phone. I can't begin to guess what anyone else's life is like, what their stuggles are, what crosses they bear. But, as I realized driving home from delivering my meal, tears falling, I can help make the burdens lighter. Not by withholding or judging or condeming. But by truly loving my neighbor, wherever, whoever and however they happen to be.

knit, purl, pray

The diagnostic imaging waiting room is a scary place to sit. It's like the whole room is holding its breath, everyone hoping, praying that their unspoken dread won't materialize on screen.

Today I sat with my cousin and her husband as he went in for various scans to determine the extent of his already diagnosed cancer. A few weeks earlier, when oncologists and CT scans and carcinomas were completely out of the realm of conversation topics, I taught my cousin to knit. Although an insanely busy yet extremely capable working mom of three young high-energy girls, she thought it would be nice to have a productive yet mindless activity to do in her "downtime": sitting through one daughter's ballet class, waiting for her plane to board on a business trip, pausing for a stoplight.

Although I have taught probably 20 people to knit in my lifetime, I am not a particularly proficient or productive knitter. I have at least a dozen sets of needles, more than 50 random skeins of yarn and 10-20 half-knitted scarves, sweaters, hats and blankets abandoned and unraveling for one reason or another. I always think I like to knit but once I get into it, I get bored or frustrated or tired. The projects (i.e., scarves) I have finished have all been gifts (save one) and have all been fun to start and grueling to finish.

Part of what I did when I sat with my cousin today was to help her unravel some mistakes in her scarf and restart her knitting. As I sat in that scary waiting room, repairing her project and working some yarn of my own, knitting felt different. Each stitch reminded me of what praying a rosary must be like. Because when you're living in the utter chaos of not knowing, clinging to any scrap of hope you can find, every stitch, like every breath, becomes a prayer.

"Knitting seems like a good way to pray," I said to my cousin as we sat together, fumbling with our stiches, waiting.

"Yeah," she said thoughtfully. "It a lot easier to pray while you knit than it is to pray while you're reading a magazine."

Maybe this is what every diagnostic imaging room needs, not a bunch of People magazines, but a knitting teacher to ease the dread by helping waiters find a better way to pray. All I know is that I plan to keep my knitting out for a while. With all the praying there is to do, I expect to have one long scarf very soon.