Dear Ruth

Dear Ruth--You would have been 35 yesterday.  When I told Joie, she said, "No offense, Mom, but you're old."  


I am old...at least older than you.  I'm old enough that I remember your dark brown eyes, and cute dark brown curls as a baby, and that your hair didn't fall out.  And I'm old enough to remember your huge smile, and how much I adored you when you were born.  I was eight years old when you were born, and I carried you around and called you, "Dolly" because I thought it was horrible that my parents would name such a cute baby, "Ruth."  (I thought Ruth was an old lady name.)

Ruth, it was too soon for you to leave us.  I wish almost every day I could see you again, and hear your voice again--to hear you talk about your girls.  I know they were your world, and I loved the way you told stories about them.  So many times since you died, I've wished I could sit down and talk to you about Joie.

Better yet, I wish you could just be here, being Joie's mom.  When I see her do and say things I tell myself that you're watching, and you know, but it's just not the same not having you here--not seeing your face light up as you watch your beautiful daughter grow.  Sometimes (especially in the beginning) I feel you near, whispering to me what to do.  I feel like I'm raising her with you, even though you're not here, but I wish we could just sit down and talk...and at the same time I know if you were here, we wouldn't be raising Joie.

When Joie was little, I remember you telling me you loved the song, "In My Daughter's Eyes," by Martina McBride.  Now every time I hear that song, I cry because every day I get to look into your daughter's eyes is a gift, but it's a gift I wish was yours.  The song ends with:

When I'm gone I hope you see,
How happy she made me,
For I'll be there,
In my daughter's eyes.


It's almost like you knew, and you were telling me.

I do know how happy she made you, because I could see it in your eyes every time you talked about her, and I do see you (and Nick) in her eyes.  I also hear it in her voice.  She talks like you.  Sometimes it's just the sound of her voice, but it's also in her mannerisms and in the phrases she uses, and in the way she thinks.  It cracks me up sometimes.  As I watch her grow, I know you'd be so proud of her.

Ruth, your life touched so many people.  Yours was a heart of friendship--something I know was a gift to everyone who knew you in the short 30 years you lived on this earth.  After you were gone, that was one thing I heard over and over again about you, and I know it's true.  You had the heart of a true friend.  I might have taken care of you when you were a baby, but when you grew up, you took care of me, through your love, through listening, and through your heart.  I wish I could still talk to you.  I miss our conversations (and my kids miss all the stories you used to tell on me).  Can't you just come back down and talk?  Just once?

I love you, Ruth, and I can't wait to see you again, and to really, really feel one of your hugs again.  Keep watching over us, because I know you do.

Love,
Mary

Hi, It's Me Again

Funny thing about writing...  I need to do it.

Funny thing about writing about stress... It tends to go away.

To stop writing about all of this right when I was finally putting it in words was almost impossible for me.  (So chalk another one up to crazy grief...which I'll say more about later.)  Not writing was like trying to plug a fountain with a finger.

The other day a colleague said to me, "We are harder on ourselves than anyone else ever would be."  He had just made a difficult decision, and was worrying about how his decision would affect other people.

So why do we think so much about what other people think?  I want to be one of those people who doesn't care--not in a cynical, insensitive way, but in a way that is just 100% comfortable in my own skin. And somehow throwing all this out there, and exploring all this with Tim, and letting it float around in my own brain blog is helping.

So as I wrap my brain around the idea that trauma and grief can still affect us this much all these years later, you all can tune in (or not).  Either way, at the end of the day it's me and the people under my own roof that matter most.

And do you know what's really amazing?  They all think I'm amazing.  Right here at home, where it matters most, we're working together to get it right every day just like every other family.

I can get irritated at teen sluggishness, and trails of shoes and clothes all over the house, and 10 minutes later we can all be ok with each other again.

Case in point (because I can't resist a good story)...

Yesterday Nate was in trouble.  And I told him so...  And I told him he had to "dig his way out of this hole."  About five minutes later I was loading the dishwasher (I do that once in a while) and I looked up to see him standing at the back door with a shovel in his hand.  I got it, but I was trying really, really hard not to laugh...because he was in trouble and I'm the mom and I'm not supposed to laugh if they're in trouble, right?  (By the way, I stink at not laughing when something is funny.)  I tried to ignore him, but he just stood there, and when I looked up again, all I could see was dimples...  Then he said, "I was wondering how you dig yourself out of a hole.  Technically, if you're digging, aren't you going in deeper?"

Laughter!

It was one of the best mea culpas I've ever seen.  I hope his wife appreciates that humor some day.

It's moments like that that make me amazed that these six other human beings who I love so much love me back.  At the end of the day all I have to give them is support, time (that's a hard one) and love.  And balance all that with work, home, friends, church...  (Psshht...  No sweat.)

And the best part is this new freedom to fail (which we always knew was a part of life, but just couldn't say it).  And there is relief in that, and even humor because we can say it out loud now and hear how crazy it sounds.  The other day Tim threw out the idea that if we can now fail, can we also fail and failing and therefore succeed?  Obviously, Nate is his son, because I laughed at that one also.

Either way, in the four days since I've said I'm not blogging, all this has been floating around in my brain and needed to be said.  And getting it down on paper helps me make sense it all...sort of.  I know I've said many times since this all happened that you can't make sense of senseless.

And even though I might think I'm the only one who feels this way, I'm sure I'm not.

Funny how just the opposite of what I thought I needed is what I need.

(And some good news...  Tim has day shifts for most of the rest of the summer...and 3 day weekends.  How amazing is that?  Right when we needed the gift of time, we got it.  Blessings.  I love them.)

Just to Clarify

Note to self:  Don't hit publish at 2:00 in the morning.

Warning to everyone else:  Read the previous post with caution.

I do think I might have alarmed a few people with that last post, so just to clarify:  Tim and I are married and in love.

But just to better explain my last post, I thought of an analogy.  On March 11, 2011 there was an earthquake and tsunami in Japan.  Over a  year later, many of us have forgotten the devastation, but were reminded recently as debris from the tsunami started washing ashore half way around the world.  The debris has been floating in the currents of the Pacific, undetected until it washed ashore.  It was mysterious and amazing, as so many things in nature are, and a reminder of the power of Mother Nature that the effects of that earthquake and tsunami could be felt all these months later.  Although people in Japan continued to recover, many of the rest of us have forgotten, and as is human, we focus on our own lives and challenges.

Almost 5 years ago, our family and many, many others were affected by the deaths of Ruth, Nick and Audrey.  The initial effects of this loss were tremendous on all those who experienced it (not just our family, but many, many others).  Within months of this loss, many people had moved on and little by little, so did we.  Then several months ago, Tim and I started to notice debris from this tragedy washing ashore in our relationship.  It surprised us, and caught us off guard, but was a reminder of the power of this kind of tragedy, and the need to continue the healing process.  On the other side of that healing is more family growth, and new and deeper meaning about life and love and family, which makes us thankful again we have each other.

One of the pieces of debris we noticed was our own self-imposed need to get this all right.  No mistakes allowed.  To much was at stake.  It put us in a place in our relationship where we didn't want to burden each other with our worries, fears, challenges, etc. because we understood how much each other already had on our plates.  We were too busy dealing with what was in front of us to worry about the possibility of what might wash ashore later.

It's now later, and it's a relief to us both to be able to be at this point, and yet a reminder of the power of the kind of loss we've been through, as well as the losses our children have been through.  It is likely that grief/loss/trauma debris will continue to wash ashore for years to come.  At this particular point, I just wanted a break in my mind from blogging about it all.

That's it.  Nothing more.

Family.  Forever, for always, no matter what. 

(And Tim--I'm still looking for that guest post.)

Goodbye...Sort of

Has anyone noticed how blog posts are dwindling?   For a lot of reasons, I just don't have blogging in me right now.  I won't say I'm not going to post on here anymore, because you know me...always something to say.  I'm just taking a break from this for now...kind of like a summer break.  

And as fate would have it, something funky happened to my blog formatting last week, and as I was messing with the template to bring our blog back to life, I started reading back over our blog.  I wasn't in a great place that day, and as I kept seeing the word "healing" I kept asking myself what that really meant.

I think at one point I wished it meant there would be a time where we might be able to peel back the proverbial band-aid and magically not see a scar, even though I knew that we'd feel the ripples of tragedy for a lifetime.  

In reality, I've known healing is a journey, and that is where this brings us now...to a new point in our journey.

Recently Tim and I have recognized that in the process of bringing Joie into our family, we both felt a lot of pressure to get this right.  Neither of us felt like we could fail.  

Don't get me wrong...  What we have is beautiful.  It has been an amazing experience to be a part of this journey of Joie's (and now Gabby's) life.  At the same time, it's probably safe to say that no one ever asks to become a member of the grief/loss/trauma club...  Four years and ten months ago, we woke up one morning and were just going about the day...  Then there was that phone call no one wants to hear...  And so it was that we woke up one morning as a family of five and went to sleep five days later as a family of six and during those five days, ripples were set into motion that effect us still today.

Which brings me back to what Tim and I have been recognizing...the pressure to get it right.  

At some point early in this journey, there was an unspoken agreement between Tim and I that we couldn't fail.  Two huge extended families had trusted us to raise Joie, and in our eyes, at the time she joined our family, she was collectively the child of the Campbells and Weavers...not ours.  It still sometimes feels like we can't say "ours."  

Which brings me to another point where it feels imperative we get this right...

We're all hoping to float around on clouds one day with Nick, Ruth, and Audrey, and it would be really, really, really awkward if we all showed up to greet them without Joie.  Can you imagine that conversation?  Uhhh...Sorry guys.  We failed.  It turns out we weren't the right ones to get her through her difficult life.  

And so it goes, on and on...never failing, only getting it right...  (And to Campbells and Weavers and everyone else who supports us, we should clarify we're talking about pressure we put there ourselves in some kind of twisted impression that we had control over any of this during a time when we were grasping at trying to stay in control of something...anything.)    

As it turns out, Mr. Can't Fail has been a sort of invisible, lurking member of our family for a long time, and we're just starting to figure it out.  (For fans of narrative therapy, wasn't that great use of stepping away from the problem?  I even named it...huge pat on the back.)

So what does that have to do with not blogging?  (Yes...there's a long answer.)  

We started this blog as a way to stay connected to people who loved Joie.  Way back when, it was through blogging that we got to know Joie's extended family, who have become like our own extended family.  We love them more than we can say, and have appreciated their support of us in raising Joie.  Also as Gabby joined our family, blogging continued to be a way to let people in Gabby's life know how she was doing.

Then along the way, more people started joining in our little blogging community as our blog was shared on adoption forums, grief forums, and in other more public ways.  I get traffic from everywhere on this blog.  In a way, it was good to share our story, and to know that our story was helping others, and maybe some day there will be another time and place for that...

Meanwhile, at the end of the day, the people under our own roof matter most.  As Tim and I have talked about this pressure we've felt since Joie joined our family, we've also become aware of the effect that unrealistic pressure has on our own relationship.  As a couple, it's hard to be ourselves with each other if we have to worry about getting it right all the time...  (So we went back to talking about our fears last night...and weaknesses...and it felt good to be real again.)

And don't get me wrong.  We superimposed that pressure before we started blogging...but consciously or unconsciously, we're living part of our story through the eyes of other people.  I'm a huge believer in looking up, not looking out or around us as we live life...

(Short break.)

As I was getting ready to post this, I called and read it to Tim over the phone.  He is on his way back from Manti with the kids.  He took them to the Manti Pageant while I worked today.  (Huge bummer for me.)  As I was reading it to him, I could tell he was a little surprised I was doing this.  I asked him what he felt was missing.  As we talked, the take-away was the irony of this situation--something else we would want people to know.  In all our attempts to not fall apart, we really have fallen apart in our own ways...then we put pressure on each other not to fall apart.  Crazy cycle.  Crazy grief.  Crazy trauma.  There is no way but through.

And so it is that we say our sort-of "for now" good-bye.  

For family, we'll take our boring day-to-day blog somewhere else...

For everyone else, thank you for the support and kind words.  There is life after loss.  There is healing after grief.  We know it.  We live it every day.  

Family:  Forever, for always, no matter what.   

P. S.  Stay tuned.  Tim said he had something to post...  And for anyone who remembers, it was breaking news when he read this blog before, and he has left long comments on occasion that should be posts themselves (see links inside the breaking news post).  If I knew taking a blogging break would get him to guest post, I would have done it long ago!

P. P. S.  Today I added a clarification to this post after I successfully alarmed several family members...hope this helps to clarify.

Fruit and Being Forty-Something

Yesterday we picked these from our tree...

And those were just the ones we could reach...about 6 or 7 gallons of cherries.  Most years we only get a few cherries.  One year we had worms.  Many times the frost kills the blossoms.  And since we inherited this tree when we bought the house, we're happy to have cherries when we get them, but usually only a little disappointed when we don't.

And the tree itself has (at one time or another) has been all of the following:  a climbing tree, a home to nesting birds (and other critters, I'm sure), a quiet spot of shade, the canopy over a special flower garden, a great hiding spot for hide-n-seek, and a source of fun piles of leaves in the fall.  It's also been home to a treehouse, and if Gabby can convince Nate to help her, it will be home to another treehouse before the summer is over.  I guess you could say even when it's not producing fruit, it's still a fruitful tree.  We love our cherry tree.

Yesterday was also Tim's birthday...

Tim is no fuss about his birthdays.  He never makes requests (even when I pester him) and we have to sneak in surprises we think he'd like (like the awesomely detailed car he's now driving).  He even managed a little fuss for the sake of celebration, and surprised the girls by taking them to breakfast.  Later we made him his own personal cherry crisp (with a bigger one for us) and he let us sing to him...see how thrilled he is?  He's really a lot happier without the fuss, but he does it for us.

So where am I going with all of this?  As it turns out, this all ties together...

Harvesting cherries on the same day we were celebrating Tim's birthday had me thinking about the connections between how I feel about him, and how I feel about our tree.

In his lifetime, Tim has been a fun, willing place to climb and wrestle; a gentle home to children who need a place to rest their heads; a quiet source of  protection; the canopy over a special, blooming family; and a one-man source of entertainment and play.  I'm not so sure his leaves fall off in the fall, but he is starting to lose some hair.  Does that count?   

But back to fruit...  Yesterday while I was picking cherries, I thought of the phrase, "...By their fruits ye shall know them."  (Matt 7: 16)  In that phrase, Jesus teaches us that you can tell what kind of person someone is by their "fruits," or by the outcome of their life.  Hopefully Tim lives another forty-something years, and God willing, I plan to be  around to enjoy all those years with him, because as much as I love Tim, I also love the fruit of Tim's life.

When I met Tim, my love and admiration for him grew as I got to know him. He talked about some not-so-fruitful years, but above all else he was kind, funny and thoughtful, and I loved the connection we shared.  I had dated a lot of other guys--enough to know that I needed the real, kind, sincere affection that was in Tim's heart, and Tim's heart alone.  I had faith in that loving, kind, generous heart, and still do.  One sister-in-law posted on facebook for Tim's birthday that he is the "heart of the family" and I couldn't agree more.

Again, what does this have to do with fruit?  Yesterday, from the fruit of the tree in our backyard we got this:

And this:  

We also got 8 mostly full gallon bags of cherries for our freezer.  Yum!  (And yes, we own a cherry pitter.  If you own a cherry tree, you must own a cherry pitter.)

And Tim?

In the last week, he has been working midnight shifts...only one word for that:  brutal!  But going back to shift work means we have him here at home again, and not traveling.  He chose family over comfort.  That's just Tim.  And in the past few weeks, his fun energy has actually lead the grumpy teens amazing kiddos in accomplishing a huge number of home and yard work projects.  He's also started remodeling our bathroom (yeah!) and even involved the boys in teaching them how to drywall and mud.  On the second night, he let Nate drywall alone because Nate wanted to try it on his own.  Tim said later to me that he knew he might have to fix it with mud later, but he wanted Nate to learn.  (Turns out Nate is a natural.)  Then to top it all off, on Friday (Tim's last day off before he started another round of midnight shifts), Nate forgot his sleeping bag for camp.  He was at a scout training prep camp near Evanston, and it was supposed to be cold that night.  Tim knew Nate might try to be the tough guy and not say anything to leaders, so while I was working, he loaded the girls in the car and drove Nate's sleeping bag to him.  They didn't get home until that evening, and I was worried the girls might have been upset about having to spend the day in the car, but Joie and Gabby told me later, "Dad said he likes to spend time with his girls," and they told me how much fun they had on their road trip.  

I could go on and on, but I know if Tim reads this he'd also want me to keep it real.  Life isn't all smiles.  Some days we find worms in the fruit.  Some days frost kills the possibility of fruit.  That's life.  And when it happens, of course we're disappointed.  We'd prefer season after season of beautiful blooms and gallons and gallons of fruit...or at least that's what we think.  It seems like it usually takes some bad seasons to make us reach and grow.  

So here's to fruit...

And seasons of what seems like no fruit...

And to trees that are filled with fruit, even when there isn't fruit in the branches...

And here's to Tim...

And many more harvests...

And here's to forever.

Fourteen!

Today this beautiful girl turned 14!

Blossom wants that cupcake!

Tonight Tim is camping with the boys, getting ready to fish early tomorrow morning, but before he left we pulled off an awesome birthday surprise... 

(Hint:  She's wanted a ukulele forever...well, at least since Christmas.)

Grandma Campbell gives grandkids books for their birthday.  Megan asked for books about how to play the ukulele (planning to purchase her own ukulele with her hard earned money).

She's been a happy camper this evening...

Happy birthday, Megan!  We love you!