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Sentimental Journey

We are marking the end of the school year by leaving town in the only way we know how—noisily, with a lot of fanfare, and overpacked. We are going to Grand Junction, Colorado. It is my hometown, my parent’s home, the place where hubby and I met, got married, had two of the kids, and also the home of a very strong Native American curse I am waiting to kick in. Ask a local—they’ll fill you in and they can also tell you where the swan and St. Bernard live too.

We get to careen through some of the most magnificent parts of Colorado, with a few less-than-stellar miles around a town called Silt. I can hardly wait to sleep under the same roof where I grew, played, talked on my beloved pink telephone, fought with my siblings (especially you, sister-of-mopsy), ate Swiss Steak weekly, devoured locally grown peaches, and grew.

Just like my kids, who are presently growing under this roof.

We are taking a physical journey to sentimental places, but events of this week, with school drawing to a close, have taken me on an emotional sentimental journey. Here’s a list of the things I have added to my already-bulging suitcases and trunks:

1. Today, I picked up Sammy from his last day of preschool. We spent four years there. The three oldest kids each attended. We were very active in the life of the school. Theoretically we are moving this summer, likely far away from the school so we can’t attend. I didn’t anticipate how teary I got when I realized I was cleaning out Sammy’s cubby for the last time, signing him out for the last time, exiting the yard for the last time, driving away for the last time. You know a mommy is weepy when she cries on the last day of school.

When we arrived home, I said “Wow! You are all done with preschool! You’re going to be a kindergartner!”

Sammy looked at me and said “I am a kindergartner now.” I guess so.

2. Ryley had his kindergarten graduation this past Tuesday. During the ceremony each child stated their name and what they want to be when they grow up. Ryley said he wants to be a railroad engineer.

On the way home I said “so, you want to be a railroad engineer?”

Ryley said “yeah, but first I have to get married. There are so many beautiful girls, I don’t know how I will pick one!”

Does the mother of the groom traditionally wear blue, or does she take her cue from the mother of the bride and choose accordingly? Chicken or beef for the rehearsal dinner? I wonder if we should do a buffet? It is so much easier.

3. Aidan’s Brownie troop had its badge and recognition ceremony. Over pizza and root bear we celebrated the accomplishments of these bright and earnest little girls, who spent their school year learning about everything from taking care of pets to environmental restoration. I hope it doesn’t take me 9 months to sew the badges on her vest like it did with last years batch of badges. Yes. Nine. Months.

4. Aidan’s art was on display at Barnes and Noble last night. This is the same piece that was on display at the school district’s elementary school art show. Her school later bought it from her for $10. So much fuss over a really awesome (priceless, to me) picture of an elephant she made using grey and white construction paper cut into basic shapes and brilliantly arranged in a whimsical manner…
elephant pride

One more thing about this weekend…we have decided after 8pm tonight the words “house”, “hunting”, “looking”, “Aurora”, “master suite”, “north-facing driveway”, “ugly yard”, “refrigerator”, “not”, “included” are all banned from our lexicon. We want some temporary distance from the moving and house hunting process.

Who says you can’t get fresh seafood in Colorado?

is it Maine or Mattel?

Courtesy: Joel

Precipice

Disappointment gnaws at the spinal cord, slowly. A nibble here, a nibble there. Disappointment finds the sugary and most tender part until it hears a snap, licks its chops and paws, and slinks off.

Paralysis is the child of the feast. When small things don’t work out—like being late for a barbeque or finding that your favorite shirt fell behind the hamper and didn’t get included in the load—you barely think about it.

When disappointment remembers to bring the machete, you think about it. A lot. You wonder how much connection is left in the back—is it a cord or a string? Is it taut, unraveling, or as strong as ever?

I desperately want to move forward but feel paralyzed, emotionally. This house hunting thing is not just about finding a new place to lose my keys. It isn’t about a new refrigerator for leftovers. Somehow it is inextricably linked with the loss of our baby and I need it to work out. I need something to work out.

Here we are, ready to make another offer and not really feeling sure about it. The only thing I am 100% positive about is that despite everything, despite disappointment-with-a-machete, God loves me.

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On that note, I ended. I had to drive kids to schools. Dishes were calling. I didn’t even have my ponytail yet.

Now that my hair is pulled back, critical chores are done, three out of five kids are in school (the other two are munching on dry Apple Cinnamon Cheerios only feet away), I can complete my thoughts.

What is the precipice? I am keenly aware that our decision regarding the house will seal into place factors that will influence our children for years to come. I am squinting, trying to discern what life will look like while looking back over my shoulder to see where we’ve been. Unfortunately, the things that I want to leave behind cannot be left behind, like the loss. It is the first box I will pack and it will be that way for the rest of our lives.

And I don’t know what to do with it. When I unpack it, do I put it on the mantle? On the front door, like a wreath? Or do I hide it in the basement toilet tank, or under my bed so I can hear it growling at night like a shaggy monster?

It makes people uncomfortable, as if it is contagious. I know that. It made me uncomfortable too.

A few years ago I joined a MOPS group and in the packet of goodies I received there was a copy of the book Where’s God When It Hurts? by Philip Yancey. Not a big believer in random coincidence, I shuddered when I saw it—I knew that someday I would need the book. I put it on a shelf, up high, and didn’t think about it much. It seemed odd to receive a book like that along with scrapbooking stickers and a Veggietales video.

Wasn’t life as a Christian homemaker supposed to be all about potlucks, playdates, and pearls? Until the loss, it was.

The loss was a gift because it plunged me into places I had never been, I felt sorrows I never imagined, I felt lonely to the core. It made me realize that as much as I love my family and friends they can’t go with me to those places, but God can and He did. He resides in the good times of tuna casseroles and brownies at the potluck and the times of despair where everything tastes, smells, feels, and looks like ashes.

The house, the loss, my boxes of life—they are slung together, forever.