We used to be a bit more innocent. A bit more naive. A bit more trusting. And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two. Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.
My last post was in May. Early May. That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down. I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party. We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family. It was busy, and it was fun.
And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail. It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone. He asked me to call him back right away.
My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car. So I prepared myself for that.
Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."
Robbed. Awesome.
Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken. We also determined our back doors were both toast. And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.
So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen. We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done. And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door. And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them. We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers. And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.
Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace. There are also emotional ones. There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing. There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police. There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank. And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids. Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.
We've installed a security system. And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects. And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.
But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson. Or maybe relearned it. There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God." (Ps 20:7)
And I know He won't let us down. Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal. I trust in the name of the LORD my God.
Showing posts with label sometimes life sucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sometimes life sucks. Show all posts
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Monday, November 26, 2012
Overexposed
This is me. Baring my soul. It's easier to do when I'm sitting at Starbucks and you're wherever you are, and I don't need to look at you.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other randommental disorders diseases conditions, a lot of people don't think I'm telling the truth or think it's just an excuse or something everyone lives with.
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other random
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Enduring Injustice
I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago. As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice. And a lot of pain. But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.
There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice. Life isn't fair. Relationships hurt. We get blamed for things we didn't do. Our relationships end, and our hearts break. We want to rise up and defend ourselves. We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.
Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that. We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions.
But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.
And that's what it all comes down to. When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will. That's the point where you endure.
It hurts to be wrongfully accused. It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter. But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it.
May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan.
May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me. He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives.
And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.
There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice. Life isn't fair. Relationships hurt. We get blamed for things we didn't do. Our relationships end, and our hearts break. We want to rise up and defend ourselves. We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.
Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that. We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions.
But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.
For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God. (I Peter 3:17b-18)
And that's what it all comes down to. When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will. That's the point where you endure.
It hurts to be wrongfully accused. It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter. But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it.
May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan.
May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me. He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives.
And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.
Friday, June 08, 2012
Thoughts On Saying Goodbye
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that. His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died. He was 67. He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group. Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team. I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late. The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello. Because most of the time you just don't know.
As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life. At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects. In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident. In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers. How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents? It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.
There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history. We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone. We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord. And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them. That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death. We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land. So we grieve, even while we celebrate. When we grieve, we grieve with hope. But we still grieve. And it sucks.
I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there." I wonder when Bruce really did die. I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.
Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus. I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial. That is a pain that cannot be matched. Life shouldn't include death. But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times. I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.
Saying goodbye is a funny thing. We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain. I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too. This is a tender time. And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts.
Bruce Coeling died this morning. He was only 67 years old. But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
400 Days
It's not really that long. It's not the end of the world. It's not forever.
But it is a really long time.
In 400 Days, my daughter went from inside me to walking around and talking. She learned to smile, laugh, sit up, roll over, fall asleep on her own, feed herself, play, talk, walk, run, make up songs, tell jokes . . .
In the next 400 Days, she'll likely be joined by a baby brother or sister (a sister, if you ask her!), maybe she'll learn to potty in the toilet (Mommy's wishful thinking!), she'll turn two, and she'll learn a million more words, jokes, and motions for nursery rhymes and songs.
It's not the end of the world. It's not forever. But it's a long time to miss your grandpa . . . and my daddy.
Be proud of your grandpa, young one. He is going to a place where he'll be in danger . . . where he'll be learning new things and "playing" new games. There will be new people . . . many with guns, many with bombs and IEDs. But they'll be people, sweet thing, and that's why your grandpa is going. Grandpa will live a life no one should have to, and he really will be one of the safest people there. My darling daughter, I don't know if he'll come home. There are no promises. But I do know that the soldiers there--mommies, daddies, grandmas, grandpas, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, daughters--will be lucky to have the man that we are lucky to have. For the next 400 Days you will know your grandpa only through technology. Through email and through webcams. For the next 400 Days Mommy will not curse technology again. Except when it doesn't work. Except when Mommy can't bring Grandpa into your living room for you to love and tell jokes to and sing songs together. Except if that tape erases, and we lose his stories.
My love, I wish that I could make this different. I'm sorry that you have to say goodbye for longer than you imagined. I'm sorry that your sweet "Bompa" will miss the next 400 Days and that you will wonder where he is and why Mommy is sad sometimes. I'm sorry that I can't promise he'll come back to us just because we tie a yellow ribbon on our porch and pray as hard as we can. Just know that Chaplain Bierenga loves you more than he can say. And that he'll do all he can to come back to you and hug you and swing you onto his shoulder and whisper in your ear.
Until then, 400 Days isn't so long. Really. Really?
But it is a really long time.
In 400 Days, my daughter went from inside me to walking around and talking. She learned to smile, laugh, sit up, roll over, fall asleep on her own, feed herself, play, talk, walk, run, make up songs, tell jokes . . .
In the next 400 Days, she'll likely be joined by a baby brother or sister (a sister, if you ask her!), maybe she'll learn to potty in the toilet (Mommy's wishful thinking!), she'll turn two, and she'll learn a million more words, jokes, and motions for nursery rhymes and songs.
It's not the end of the world. It's not forever. But it's a long time to miss your grandpa . . . and my daddy.
Be proud of your grandpa, young one. He is going to a place where he'll be in danger . . . where he'll be learning new things and "playing" new games. There will be new people . . . many with guns, many with bombs and IEDs. But they'll be people, sweet thing, and that's why your grandpa is going. Grandpa will live a life no one should have to, and he really will be one of the safest people there. My darling daughter, I don't know if he'll come home. There are no promises. But I do know that the soldiers there--mommies, daddies, grandmas, grandpas, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, sons, daughters--will be lucky to have the man that we are lucky to have. For the next 400 Days you will know your grandpa only through technology. Through email and through webcams. For the next 400 Days Mommy will not curse technology again. Except when it doesn't work. Except when Mommy can't bring Grandpa into your living room for you to love and tell jokes to and sing songs together. Except if that tape erases, and we lose his stories.
My love, I wish that I could make this different. I'm sorry that you have to say goodbye for longer than you imagined. I'm sorry that your sweet "Bompa" will miss the next 400 Days and that you will wonder where he is and why Mommy is sad sometimes. I'm sorry that I can't promise he'll come back to us just because we tie a yellow ribbon on our porch and pray as hard as we can. Just know that Chaplain Bierenga loves you more than he can say. And that he'll do all he can to come back to you and hug you and swing you onto his shoulder and whisper in your ear.
Until then, 400 Days isn't so long. Really. Really?
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