These Walls Cry

Today was one of those exceptionally hard days that life brings along sometimes. I was called out to the house I grew up in, on very short notice, to say my final goodbyes. My dad told me a few months ago that he was selling it, but I didn't expect it all to happen so quickly. They close next Monday. I guess I was mistaken.

I took two friends with me to go pick up the things my stepmom pulled out of the attic that she thought I might want to keep. I didn't realize this trip would tug at my heart, as I went through boxes with my mom's handwriting on them, and as I went through toys that held mountains of memories. I, of course, played it off as a fun adventure, when really inside my heart was slowly tearing. Losing the place you could take people home to to look at pictures and go through childhood treasures isn't easy. Losing the place where you spent the only 17 years you had with your mother isn't easy. Losing the backyard and closets and hallways you spent hours playing in with your favorite playmate isn't easy. This place doesn't exist anymore.

After I gathered all of my things, I decided to walk through the house one more time. I walked through the room I slept in for 18 years, the room my mother slowly died in, the room my brother and I spent hours make-believing in, and the bathroom my mom and I redid the last summer she was alive. I felt compelled to go get the camera. While none of the bedrooms still look the way they did when my mom was alive, my bathroom still held the same look. I had to take a picture of our last project. I had to keep a memory.

On my way back towards the door, I tried to listen very closely to what the walls would say if they could talk. It wasn't long before I realized that my walls didn't talk. My walls cry. My walls hold years of heartbreak, years of suffering, and whispers of death. These are things that I could hear the echos of in the walls every time I set foot in this house. These are the things I would remember first and feel the most when I came home. These things are finished. These things are no more, and I can leave them here.

While it was so hard to lose the place I lived with the person I miss the most, my dear best friend (nine years my senior) gently reminded me that it's a part of growing up. That it happens to all of us at some time, and that we have to learn to carry the good on with us, and let go of the rest. This is what I will try to do. I will try to leave the hurt and the fear in the house, and never look back. I will try to smile as I remember the joy of holidays spent there and the fun I had with my brother on rainy Saturday afternoons. It's a house, and I don't need it to remember. I have to let go. I have to cry with the walls, and then turn and walk away. Death has come, and taken the house with it. The fear is finished. It has been overcome.

This is part of my story now, and it is part of who I am. What I choose to let live on will forever be held in my heart. What I choose to leave behind is done. I pick up the pieces, and I walk away. It's growing up. It's letting go. And I can do this.

When The Day Is Done...

There has been a strange, scary rash of murders in the greater Nashville area in the past week or so. One of these murders includes the one at a house less than a mile from mine on Saturday night that caused us to lock our doors on Sunday night (something we rarely do). I have to admit, when one of the murders occurred so close by, I was a little afraid to sleep alone. I am the only person that lives in the basement of my house, and there are windows in the room next to mine (a storage room) that I'm not very sure have locks on them (please don't come burglarize my house). My roommate Bryan made a big deal about freaking me out by telling me that no one would even hear me if I screamed, which is probably true, but after I considered the possibility of being murdered (very unlikely, I know), I realized I had nothing to be afraid of.

I realized that I am completely at peace with the idea of dying. I know this sounds morbid, but I think it's a really good thing! I am totally not afraid to die! I know to Whom I belong, and I know where my soul will come to rest when I walk towards the light (if there really is a light). I'm honestly even looking forward to when my days might come to an end this side of heaven, and I get to meet my Saviour. It's going to be a great day, no matter how I die.

I was watching The Today Show this morning (my newest obsession), and Matt Lauer did an interview of Shirley MacLaine about her new book. Apparently she wrote about how she feels about dying and what she thinks of the "afterlife", and when Matt asked her about it, he admitted that he was totally not okay with the idea of dying. I thought this to be sad, because I think it would be great if we were all okay with not being sure we have another day on this earth. I'm at peace with it, and I want everyone else to be, too.

Just for the record, even though I am at peace with the thought of dying, I am totally not done living yet. I just wanted to get that straight :). As my last post said, I believe God has great plans for me. But I did realize today, that when my days are over and my purpose has been served here on earth, I couldn't be more ready to glimpse the face of God. I couldn't be more ready to dwell forever in His physical presence. Take me whenever You're ready, Jesus. Until then, I'll take all I can from right here, right now.

Showing Up

Another sudden death occurs in my life, and again I find myself asking why. Again I am reminded how quickly life can be gone, and how sometimes we just don't expect it. Sometimes it scares me to think how sudden death could come, and I think back on the occasions of my life when people have passed in surprise, and how we have dealt with it. I think about how people reacted, and how tragedies like these have seemed to shape our views and shape how we deal and heal. Another friend my age has died, this time to sudden sickness instead of the car accident we dealt with as seniors, the suicide we dealt with a year later, and the heart attack just months ago. This time I ask myself if I should show up to this one. I worry about who I might run into if I do, or what I would say if I ran into those more torn up about it than I am. But then I remember that I of all people should know that it's not about words and it's not about image. It's just about showing up. It's just about the silent respect shown in taking the time to come and support those who are hurting in a time of loss. It's just about being there.

When my dad took my mom to the hospital that last time, and I found out a few hours later that she would die within the next day or so, I was in too much of a state of covered-up shock to call people. I was afraid to ask my freinds to come and hold my hand because I had always played the strong one, the one that didn't need any support. I could stand alone. Right? Much to my surprise, within an hour my pastor and my best friend at the time, Katie, were both standing beside me in the hallway of the hospital. It was very late at night, and I didn't expect anyone to come. I later went home with Katie and tried to sleep alone through the night (without much success). The next day was one of the hardest of my life. What stands out to me the most, though, is remembering who showed up.

By ten the next morning, about ten of my friends had elected to skip out on church and come sit next to me in the hospital instead. Some sat for an hour, and some sat for two days. My best friend was supposed to leave for Georgia that morning, and I told her that she could go, but she knew me and knew I needed her, and she showed up. My other best friend was on the other end of the state working at a camp, and couldn't get away, but after hours of us crying on the phone, she announced to her supervisor that she was leaving. And a few hours later, she showed up. My best friend from middle school who never came through for me showed up later that afternoon. A friend who was still grieving the death of her father two weeks earlier also showed up. They all came to sit with me in silence. Words were not needed; their presense was. Whether it was two in the afternoon or two in the morning, people just kept showing up. That was what mattered, and that is what I remember.

So when I sit and debate about this funeral tomorrow, I remember how important it was to me that people showed up. I always want to be the person that shows up, and knows that words are not necessary. I pray that I will always have the kind of friends that just show up, because it seems I have been blessed thus far. Death sucks, and it's not an easy thing, and it doesn't always make sense. But we don't have to play strong, and we don't have to stand alone. It's ok to reach for a hand to hold. I'm gonna show up to this memorial service, and I'm gonna hold somebody's hand. Because to me, that's what it's all about. I'll be there, Holly. We will all be there, holding each other's hands, as you stand and watch, holding the hand of Jesus. Rest in peace.

Emotions Trapped Between the Threads

I am moving in a few days, and being the procrastinator that I am I just decided to start packing today. You see, packing for me was going to require going through everything that moved home with me last August that has been abandoned in my empty dining room ever since. No one but me knows why I have left these things abandoned for the last eleven months. No one but me knows the emotion contained in the full boxes that I haven't brought myself to yet touch. For the same reason, there is a five foot by ten foot storage unit just down the road that I pay rent on every month, full of things I haven't touched in two years. This may sound silly, but I truly haven't had the ability to go through this stuff. My things were dumped in these two places in seasons of confusion and pain that I couldn't face. They were placed there to be held until I was ready to deal. They contained emotion and memories that I refused to deal with and instead kept buried. Until today.

This morning at church the message was about healing from the pain we kept buried deep inside. The pain that no one knows about. Oh, the irony. Jamie, my pastor, used the illustration of trying to hold a beach ball under the water. You can hold it down and lay on top of it, but eventually it's gonna pop up and smack you in the face. Yep. And until healing comes, we live in fear and we live trying to control the pain we hide. Yep, again. I consider myself an expert in pain control. But how much easier would it be just to embrace healing instead? How much easier would it be to finally walk through my grief and my pain, and find the Light that heals? The Love that heals? The Truth that heals?

My mother died four years ago. And while it would be so much easier to say that I was over it a long time ago, I would be lying. I have run from grieving for so long. I have held onto the pain, I have held onto that stage of life, and even more inconveniently I have held onto everything that reminds me of her. I have boxes full of everything that causes me to remember, just in case I forget. Today, I think it might be time to let go. Today I realize that people are not contained in stuff, and neither are memories. My memories of when my mom was alive, my memories of happy times (and happy shopping trips) will not be lost if I let go of my material things.

So as I stood in my dining room this afternoon, going through the clothes my friends have been trying to throw out behind my back for years, I realize I am finally ready to let go. And I realize it's ok to let the tears come as I discover the clothes I was wearing the day my mom died, the dress I wore to the funeral, the sweater she bought me that Christmas, or the shoes that she wore before I did. It's ok to be sad, and it's even more ok to throw them in the goodwill pile. Because it's time to grieve, it's time to deal, and most importantly it's time to let go.