For Rebekah

It's your smile I think about most.  And that giggle.

I have never met anyone who loved to laugh more than you.  It was infectious.  No matter what my mood, you could pull a reluctant smile from my face, and I soon found my self erupting in laughter.

I want to say thank you.  Thank you for the cozy, late-night chats, the two of us snuggled in our beds. The darkened room and hushed corridors brought something out of us; a pure honesty, shared unvarnished truths.

We'd laugh, you and me, about our twenty-three year age difference.  How could someone so young be so wise, I'd ask.  You would pull a face, stick out your tongue.  See?  You'd say.  I'm just a kid.

But you weren't just a kid.  You were a soul sister, one who had been through so much and still with that smile.  OH, that smile.

Remember the two of us, duffel bags perched on our laps, heading to the next chapter of our journey with wide eyes?  Wondering what would happen next?  You grabbed my hand, as I recall, and said I'm glad I'm going with you. 

One time, as I schlepped up all those stairs to our room, I heard beautiful music playing.  I paused outside our door, listening.  I thought you had speakers for your iPod, and was going to chide you for keeping them secret.  But no, I saw as I opened the door, it was you playing your guitar and singing. Ethereal and melodious, your talent came from someplace deep inside you, someplace God-given. You sat up, startled, when I opened the door, and blushed.  I'm no good, you said and abruptly threw your guitar to the side, nobody is supposed to hear me. 

I stood speechless for a moment, awestruck.  That was beautiful, I said.  Please don't stop.  True to form, you picked up your guitar and belted out some crazy made-up tune, twangy and funny, and I jiggled around the room in my own middle-aged funky way.

Every morning you got up early.  Every morning.  You weren't going to miss that morning meeting for anything. While I mumbled and grumbled from the comfort of my blankets, arguing in favor of an evening meeting, you be-bopped around, humming.  Get up, girl, you'd say.  I got us a ride. 

You made fun of how all my shirts had stripes.  Is that some middle-aged Mom thing? Or just an Ellie thing? you'd grin.

Interesting coming from you of the eleventy-seven-hundred LOVE PINK sweatshirts, I'd grin right back.

Of all the girls in the house, you worked hardest at getting to meetings, chasing your recovery.  The minute you were eligible to get rides from other women in the program, you hit that pay phone and called and called and called until you got to a meeting.  You wanted this, badly.

Keeping a clean room, however, not so much.  You bounced into the kitchen one morning chirping about how you made your bed, how proud I should be.  Later that day, I smiled to myself when I saw the comforter pulled up over a pile of clothes, lumped up like a tiger sleeping under the covers.

I could make you bust out laughing by trying to be all hip (nobody says hip anymore, Ellie, you'd say).  I'd tell you I was feeling some kind of way, and you'd clutch your stomach laughing.  Sorry, you'd say, it just doesn't work coming from you.  I had to ask you want a 'snipe' was, which you found endlessly funny.  For those of you wondering, it's also called a 'put-out'.  Yeah, I had to ask, too.

A favorite memory is the day we were told to put on a skit about the counselors.  You picked one of the more colorful counselors, and groaned.  I can't act, you mumbled.  I'm not funny.  But then, your big entrance came, and you clacked in on borrowed  high heels, reading glasses (mine, of course) perched halfway down your nose and gave everyone a stern look before breaking into a dance and belting out "Because I'm happppyyyyy!" - a dead-on imitation.  I glanced over to the counselor you were portraying and she was wiping tears from her eyes she was laughing so hard.

And a proud moment:  when we put on a recovery version of the Wizard of Oz, and you bravely played your guitar and sang to the acoustic version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow", facing one of your biggest fears:  putting your talent out there for all to see.  You were, of course, amazing.

You made friends everywhere you went. People were drawn to you, to your light.  Always quick with a hug and a smile, you had an eye for someone in pain.   You made people feel special - you made me feel special, the way you'd light up when you saw me.

Even after we were no longer roommates, you encouraged and inspired me.  We'd text inside jokes, check in on each other.  Your bubbly sweetness flowed through your words:

But nothing - NOTHING - compares to the way you loved your child.  Little Madisyn.  The way she would squirm and wiggle and dance when she saw you, then collapse into your arms and stay there for hours, perched on your lap like a queen ruling her subjects.  And just like her Mom, she would giggle and giggle and giggle, for hours.  Her little face so like your own, big eyes staring up at you with unadorned love.

My sweet friend, you left a gaping hole, a dark space devoid of light, when you left.  You are one of the great ones, those rare people I meet who slip into my life like a pair of comfortable slippers.  I owe you a huge debt, sweet girl, for being there for me during such difficult times, for buoying me up when I was sinking, for making me laugh in spite of - and at - myself when I needed it most.

Mere words fall short of how much I love you.  And I always will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My incredible friend Rebekah died on January 26th of an overdose.  I won't tell her story; it's not mine to tell.  But I know she would want me to say this, because she said it to me over and over:  if you are struggling, please reach out for help.   She posted just those words on her Facebook page only three weeks ago.

It's hard not to stamp our feet and ask why. I get it, because I live in this world.  Addiction is a confounding, baffling and insidious disease.  It doesn't hold back, doesn't discriminate, and it pounces the minute we are weak and alone.  I don't waste time wondering what happened, or why.  I know there isn't any reasoning that will help, or explain.

We have an epidemic in our country.  In my little part of the world - South Shore, Massachusetts - a person dies everyday from an overdose, and countless more are hospitalized, paralyzed, slip into comas.  The more affluent areas are hit the hardest; it starts with pills stolen from medicine cabinets, usually, and it's so addictive it leads people straight to heroin.  And it can be found everywhere.

No child is exempt from its reach: no amount of love, or money, or strict rules can spare a kid from its grip.

What we need is education; parents need to get educated on what is really happening in our middle schools and high schools.  It's so easy to think:  not my kid.  But by the age of 14 or 15 every kid will know someone who has tried opiates or heroin.  They will know where to get it.  They think they are immune from danger, as all teenagers do, and they are vulnerable.

Rebekah's love and light will live on in me and everyone she knew forever.  Her death is so tragic, and it saddens me beyond words, but it fuels my determination to keep on mission, get the word out there that addiction is all around us, and despite all the tragic tales there is so much hope.  But we can't fight something we can't face.

Talk to your kids.  If a friend seems off, ask if they are ok.  If you think someone is struggling with drinking or drugs, they probably are.  Reach out a hand.  If you are struggling yourself, know you aren't alone.

Asking for help isn't weak; it's the strongest thing anyone can do.

The Ghosts We Knew ~ Absorbing Tragedy and Finding Gratitude

I'm not talking about it much. I don't even think I'm actively thinking about it much, but I know I'm more profoundly effected by last Friday's CT tragedy than I'm even letting myself understand.

I sat down to do a holiday post - some funny anecdotes, cute things the kids have said, how Finn still fervently believes and I think Greta knows-but-doesn't-want-to-know.

I couldn't write a word. My head was full of all those people facing this season without their kids.

And I felt scared right down to my bones.

I'm personalizing it a little bit, I can't help it.  Losing my Dad last year brings up all sorts of stuff when sudden deaths hit (not to say this is the same - it isn't - but it's one of the "cage rattling" experiences where you realize life turns on a dime).

This time last year I had just started chemo and radiation and I have so much to be grateful for. SO MUCH.

But still, those families in CT won't leave my mind. I'm praying a lot; even when I don't even realize it.

So I didn't set out to do a "sad" post about loss. It just came.  Anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows what I mean about holidays being a little harder. I start imagining the parents of those children and my brain kind of shuts down - SLAM - and then on some odd level I feel unworthy of happiness. Even though I know that's selfish fear talking, I can't help it.

I'm holding my kids extra tight, praying extra hard, wishing I could have assurances that none of us are ever granted.

So tonight I leave you with this song my Mumford & Sons (please listen - it's gorgeous - but you may want a tissue handy) called "The Ghosts We Knew".  Here are the lyrics, and then down below is a widget where you can listen to them as you read.  Send some prayers to those suffering this year. Wallow in all you have, and hug your loved ones tight.

The Ghosts We Knew, by Mumford & Sons:

You saw my pain, washed out in the rain
Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins
But you saw no fault no cracks in my heart
And you knelt beside my hope torn apart
But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view
And we'll live a long life
So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me we'll be alright

So lead me back
Turn south from that place
And close my eyes to my recent disgrace
Cause you know my call
And we'll share my all
And our children come, they will hear me roar
So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me that we'll be alright

But hold me still bury my heart on the cold
And hold me still bury my heart next to yours

So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
And I will hold on with all of my might
Just promise me that we'll be alright

But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view
And we'll live a long life

Let Me Get This Straight (My New Book!)

I get all my good ideas from Heather.

I just want to get that out there right up front.  She published an ebook with the best of her Just Write posts, and my brain immediately began to tick, tick, tick.

I have wanted to publish my blog posts - a best of compilation - for some time now, but I haven't been able to find an affordable format that a luddite like me could actually use to make a book.

Until now

And it's a real book.  It has a cover and everything (softcover - because I know you all love me but I know  you don't $50 love me).   It looks really cool.

There is a preview that shows you the first 15 pages of the 150 page book.   The posts are in chronological order, from my very first post all the way through this year.  Just the best ones (in my humble opinion). 

You can purchase it as a softcover book, a pdf download or an eBook.  

The softcover price may seem high, but I'm not making very much money on it. I guess that's just what it costs to produce a COLOR softcover book independently.  Did you notice it has COLOR pictures?  

I would love if it some of you would purchase the actual book, and it could, like, sit on your bookshelf looking cool. And you could also, you know, read it. And you could have friends over and point to it and say, "See that book?  Yeah. Friend of mine."  

Because if you've been reading this blog for a while - if you've hung in there through the stories of my drinking and recovery, the loss of my Dad, my cancer journey and the everyday trials and joys of life, you are my friend.

Profits from the book sales are going towards funding my dual heart projects:  Crying Out Now and The Bubble Hour.  I know those sites are making a difference, and I want to keep building them, getting the word out to more people, but I've reached the limits of what I can afford to do on my own.

Besides, it's a GREAT gift idea.  If I do say so myself.  

The title is a play on words - do you get it?  Let Me Get This Straight?  (Straight as in not drunk..) It's a lyric from a song by Griffin House called Ordinary Day, and when I heard the song five years ago when I was newly sober and struggling, I thought: I'm going to name a book that, some day. 

And now I have.

The eBook and pdf versions are only $9.99, so if you don't thirty-two dollars love me (for the softcover ... but did I mention it's really cool?) you can order the electronic copies and enjoy them on your PC (pdf version) or Mac product (eBook version).

Click "play" below for a preview, and then on the links below to go to my online bookstore to purchase whichever version you'd like. 

And, as always, if you could help me spread the word I would appreciate it SO MUCH.

Let Me Get This Straight by The Best of One Crafty Mother (Volume 1) by Ellie Schoenberger | Make Your Own Book

On Shavasana, Stones, Memories and Giving Thanks

I go to an awesome yoga class at the Cancer Support Community near my house.  Due to factors outside my control (Greta's tonsils, a hurricane and my own bronchitis) I hadn't been in a month.

I practically sprinted to class.

At the end of class, we prepared for Shavasana (where you get as comfortable as you can, listen to calming music and meditate).  Gail, our teacher, passed out little flat stones we placed in between our eyes or on our heart, dimmed the lights, and turned on some classical music.

Immediately, my heart jumped into my throat; Pachelbel's Canon in D floated through the room, and I was transported back to my wedding day. My Dad walked me down the aisle to this song.

As I listened to the music, every sense felt electrified.  I could smell my Dad's scent: an Old Spice, manly-yet-fatherly smell. I felt the muscles flexing in the crook of his arm, as I held on for dear life (I was so nervous/excited my knees were shaking).  I tasted a small salty tear on his cheek, even though he was smiling from ear to ear, as I planted a light kiss on his cheek and he placed my hand in Steve's.

Tears started rolling gently down my cheeks; I was grateful for the darkened room.  I miss my Dad so much, and as the holidays approach he's on my mind even more.  Thanksgiving in particular, I think, because I miss his steadfast presence at the head of the table, his strong back carving the turkey with antique utensils used by his own father.  Last year at Thanksgiving we were reeling from my cancer diagnosis, and to be honest I barely remember any of it.  I know I was grieving, but I was also terrified and absorbed in my imminent treatment, so the grief was numbed by fear.

This year, the grief feels loud and pointy.

I lay on my comfy mat, with the cool stone pressing its comforting weight between my eyes, and I cried for a minute or two.  Then I prayed. Instead of indulging too much in my grief, I honored him as best I could.  The tears dried up, and I found myself with a tiny smile at the corners of my mouth as Gail turned the lights back up, slowly, and brought us to a sitting position for a reading.

I was blown away by what she read, and after a year of hardship and blessings, it seemed like she was reading it just to me.  It's called, simply, "Be Thankful", and the author is unknown:

Be thankful that you don't already have everything you desire. 

If you did, what would there be to look forward to?

Be thankful when you don't know something, 

for it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for your limitations,

because they give you opportunities for improvement.

Be thankful for the difficult times.

During those times you grow.

Be thankful for each new challenge, 

because it will build your strength and character.

Be thankful for your mistakes.

They will teach you valuable lessons.

Be thankful when you're tired and weary,

because it means you've made a difference.

It's easy to be thankful for the good things. 

A life of rich fulfillment comes to those who

are also thankful for the setbacks.

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.

Find a way to be thankful for your troubles, 

and they can become your blessings.

I was holding the stone in my hand, feeling how it had warmed from my body heat, when Gail mentioned there is a word on each stone.  

My word made me smile, given that tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  My stone said:  INDULGE.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May your life be filled with the richness of gratitude and love.

-Ellie

Failed Pregnancies, Fear and New Babies in Arms - TRIGGER WARNING

***Submitted by S

TRIGGER WARNING:  this post is about pregnancy loss

I don’t want to talk about being pregnant. 

My pregnancies were not particularly enjoyable experiences. I don’t want to talk about the swelling, the hip pain, or the hemorrhoids; the nausea, the enormous boobs, or the constant fatigue.

I don’t want to talk about the fear of loss, of how it felt to have my tiny baby swish inside me, while being afraid that something might pull us apart.

I don’t want to think about my friend's baby who died late in pregnancy when his umbilical cord wrapped too tightly around his neck, or of the babies who simply fall out through a weak cervix, too young to survive.

The three pregnancies my husband and I lost all happened very early- around week five. The doctor referred to them as “failed pregnancies,” and not miscarriages.

Two of these happened before our first child, Emberly, was conceived, and were for me more about the loss of the title of “mother,” than the actual loss of a child. For the small window of time that I saw two lines on the stick, I had the potential to become something great.

And then that potential was gone, washed down the toilet.

When I was pregnant with Emberly, part of me didn’t want a baby shower. I was afraid that something bad might happen. I didn’t want to have a room full of gifts that I might have to return, reminding me of how close I had come.

The part of me that held onto hope was bigger, though, and I did have one. Afterward, I set up the crib and put away the baby things. 

One friend had brought me some scented pouches that I put in Emberly’s closet. When I think about this time of waiting, with my swollen belly and the hope of new life kicking inside me, I see an empty room, sunlight filtering through the windows, a crib just waiting for a tiny newborn to take up residence, and I smell the warm and powdery sweetness of those pouches.

Emberly came. When the doctor handed her to me, wet, with a towel wrapped around her, she looked right at me. I touched her tiny purple fingers, and rubbed the rough towel against her soft skin to wipe off some of the wetness. I looked into the eyes of my daughter, and in that moment, became a mother.

Later, I birthed a son, Breckin, and became a new kind of mother. 

I have three sisters and no brothers, so I imagined having a boy would be difficult or strange. So far, it isn't. Breckin didn't look into my eyes, but he did started nursing the night he was born, and he and I were able to bond in a way that Emberly and I hadn't.

I didn’t want to talk about these struggles, but I think I needed to. 

They brought me to where I am- a place that is so wonderful, and irritating, and all-encompassing, and that makes me vulnerable to so much more loss- yet that I wouldn’t leave for anything in the world. 

I am a mother. 

And that is something I want to talk about.

Spiky Shadow

Some days I wake up with a hole in the middle of me; my brain a tangled, jangled mess of thoughts and nerves.

 Image found here

Usually it passes after a while, but it dogged me today like a spiky shadow, a hollow feeling topped with edginess, like a scooped out cake frosted with thumbtacks.

My head was pounding; it felt like I was hungover.  Ironically, feeling hungover is a trigger for me, because my former hangover cure was a drink, of course.

The day is spectacularly gorgeous; clear blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Apple cheeked kids playing in soccer games, parents cheering on the sidelines. Finn played in his very first soccer game today, and while I cheered along side everyone else, I could feel that itchiness crawling across my scalp.

They told me this may happen, I thought, as I tried to pinpoint what was wrong. The chemo has kicked me into a chemically induced menopause, or pre-menopause, or something.

I know, though, that it is something deeper, something darker. I don't want to deal with deep and dark, so  I take a nap and wake up feeling edgier and itchier than before.

At 6pm the kids start whining for supper.  I shoot Steve a helpless look. He raises his eyebrows at me and suggests I take a walk while he feeds the kids.   He can feel it, the edgy darkness, and he knows I'm struggling.

I don't feel like a walk; the sun is starting to set and I'm coming up with excuses in my head like contracting the EEE virus or being abducted by weirdos in a carpeted van, even as I'm pulling on my running sneakers and strapping on my iPod Nano.

I eschew my usual workout play list "Run, Ellie, Run" for something more soulful.  This isn't a power walk; this is a 'shake the cobwebs' walk.  So I click over to the play list "Keep Coming Back", crank up the volume and head out the door.

As I round the first corner, into a wooded area, I'm hit with the scents of changing seasons: citronella, freshly mowed grass, wood smoke and the faintest tinge of decaying leaves.  The air has a bite to it that wasn't there a week ago. The sun is sinking low on the horizon, although it isn't yet 7pm.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, and I'm instantly transported back to my childhood. For me those smells carry the promise of new beginnings: the clank of my locker slamming shut, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, the smell of a new pencil eraser.

Sometimes I have a hard time identifying emotions, especially tough ones like anger, sadness or regret.  But the scents in the air hit me like a brick wall and I know what it is, this dark thing that has been crawling around inside my head all day:  I miss my Dad.

It is a gorgeous fall day, and all these new beginnings are happening and he isn't here.

My iPod plays the opening bars to "Windows are Rolled Down", by Amos Lee, and I have to stop, sit down for a moment and breathe deeply to keep from crying. He wrote this song about the loss of a close friend.

Look up child, 
The world is born.
Shoe's untied,
And your soles are worn.

I'm sitting in a cemetery, of all places. I always cut through the cemetery on my walk, usually so absorbed in the infectious beat of Flo Rida that I don't give mortality a second thought.

I think about how I walked through this same cemetery with my Dad, two weeks before he died.  We strolled passed the ancient graves, quietly, each thinking our own respectful thoughts of the deceased.

Window are rolled down,
Sun is setting high.
Window are rolled down, 
I'm fixing to die.

I shake my head clear of these maudlin thoughts, and think of his beaming smile, of the bandanna he tied around his neck for his frequent power walks, of the walking stick he used to truck up steep hills and trails.

It brings a smile to my face, and I walk on.

Is it what you'd dreamed it'd be?
Are you locked up in this fantasy?
Oh, these miles that have torn us apart,
My new found faith, and my broken heart.

I pass a gaggle of pre-teen girls, practicing back bends in their front yard, their lithe bodies stretch impossibly.  A group of young boys ride by on their bikes, casting furtive looks their way.  The girls pretend not to see, but their giggles betray them.

As I head into the final stretch of my walk, to the opening bars of Phillip Phillips' "Home", I feel lighter, freer. The sun has all but set, and the warm yellow lights glowing from the windows of my house soften my heart, clear the final strands of cobwebs from my jangling brain.

Home.

Dad - One Year Later

Yesterday was a hard day.  Today is too.

A year ago my father died unexpectedly of a blood infection, related to having his spleen removed years before when he successfully beat Lymphoma.  If you are new to this site and you want to read about that day (I can't bring myself to write about it again) click here.  

Instead, I want to write about a conversation I had with my six year old son last night.

I tried not to let them see me cry during the day. I kept unexpectedly breaking out into tears. I'm pretty sure they saw me anyway at times.   We were at the beach; it was a sparkling blue day, and his spirit was everywhere.  This is the same beach I grew up on with him, searching for minnows to use as bait, fishing for flounder out of his trusty aluminum boat, which is now our boat.

I did my best to think about his spirit; his aliveness.  The one year anniversary of his sudden passing is full of little knee dropping moments of something close to horror.  The things I saw that day, the memories I wish I could wipe from the screen.

By 6pm I had had it, though.  I wasn't feeling well, my throat still hurts a lot, I couldn't eat much all day, and I collapsed into my bed in a ball of self-pity and tears.  And missing Dad. Missing him SO MUCH.

I didn't hear the bare feet pad into the room, or sense someone climb into bed next to me; that's how hard I was crying. Only when Finn started to rub my back did I realize someone was there.  I thought it was Steve, so I didn't curb my crying. Then, a couple minutes later I hear his little sing-song voice say, "It's okay, Momma," and I rolled over to see his deep brown eyes staring into mine; my own eyes in this little-boy face looking back at me.  

"Do you miss PopPop?" he asked.

"Yes, Bud.  I do. I miss him a lot."  And, because I couldn't help myself, and I know he's only six and this is unfair but I was so desperate for love and attention I said it anyway:  "It's been a long, hard year, and I'm feeling sad about having to go through all of it without my Dad."

He nodded sagely, his wisdom belied only by the careworn paw print blanket thrown cavalierly over his shoulder.

"Maybe now that da cancer is over, at least for now, it will help," he stated.  Not a question, a statement of fact.

I nodded, rubbing my face with a Kleenex and trying to pull myself together.

"But, PopPop is in heaven, right?  So that's not sad." 

All I could do is nod.

He was quiet for a bit, his head on my shoulder, still rubbing my arm, when he said, "when I go to heaven I'm going to shut my eyes, because I'm afraid of heights."  Another pause.  "But not that it will really matter, though, because it will just be my spirit, right?"

I nodded again.

More silence, and then this bombshell, said in the quietest of quiet voices:  "How do we know heaven is real?  What if it's just dark?"

I sat up, and in my most authoritative voice said, while stroking his hair, "Buddy, we know heaven is real because heaven is love.  Think of all the people that loved PopPop, right?"   

He nodded, listening intently, his blanket now crammed in his mouth for comfort.

"Heaven is being surrounded by all that love. All the people who came before you, and all the people still here on earth who love you.  It's beautiful.  It has to be, because it's LOVE."

He thought for a moment, and said, "And God is dere, right?" 

"Yes," I said. "God is there, and he is love, too."

He nodded again, thinking it through.  "Does God let you down for visits, do you think?  I'm the last in the family, so I'll probably be the last to die, and it will be lonely here without all of you."

"Oh, Finn," I said, pulling him in tight, "by then you'll be a Dad and have a family of your own.  It goes on and on and that's what makes it so beautiful.  There is no end."

He smiled.  "But I still hope dere are visits.  Maybe we don't even know about them.  Maybe he sneaks down in the form of a bird or a butterfly and just watches." 

"Yes," I said, "that would be nice. And sometimes I feel his spirit really strongly, so I know he's here, cheering us on.  It's just hard because I'd rather have him - his body, his person, here.  But you can talk to PopPop whenever you want to.  Just close your eyes, and picture his face and say hello.  I bet he can hear you.  I bet he can."

And with that he scrunched up his eyes and fell back on the pillow, silent, talking to my Dad.

I miss you, Dad, with all my heart.  You are in our hearts and minds all the time.   We love you.

Dad and me, circa 1975.

A Letter To My Father

I lost my Dad suddenly on June 11, 2011 due to complications from an infection.  As we approach the one year anniversary of his death, I find myself wishing, desperately, that I could talk to him.  I keep thinking:  a year ago today, he was alive and we were doing such-and-such.  I can't talk to him, but he is constantly on my mind. So I decided to write him a letter.  (And just so this post makes sense, my maiden name is Strong).

~~~

Hi, Dad.

I don't know that you can read blogs from heaven.  If I had my way, you could.

I miss you.  I took a walk yesterday - it was a stunning, clear blue-sky day -  and I passed through the cemetery in our town.  It made me think of another clear blue-sky day almost a year ago, when we walked through this same cemetery together, after the Memorial Day parade, pensive, reading gravestones.

Who would have thought that less than two weeks later you'd be gone?

We've had quite a year.

I'd like to believe that you know, somehow, what is going on in our lives.  Did you know I had cancer?  I think maybe you did, because I felt your presence. A lot.

Remember our family motto?  I think we stole it from the Kennedys, but that's no matter:   When the going gets tough, the tough get going? 

Well, Dad, we got going.  We did it. Together, we made it through. You would be so proud of Mom.  She was a graceful, gentle warrior, constantly by my side.  She was so strong.   We all were.  We got that from you.

I would think of you a lot when I had chemotherapy.  Hours just sitting, looking out the window at the view of Boston. I thought about how you beat cancer.  It gave me strength.

We're Strongs.  Damn straight.

Now we're on the other side of cancer, and life feels bright, shiny - almost surreal.   The other day Greta was talking to me earnestly about something, but I couldn't hear a word she said.  I couldn't take my eyes off the realness of her, how present she was, how beautiful.  I felt such a strong tug in my heart I almost cried.

That happens a lot these days.

Did you feel this way? When they gave you the "all clear"?   I wish I had asked you.  I wish I had asked you so much more about your own cancer journey.  I had no way of knowing I would be facing my own trial, in the not-so-distant future.

Sometimes, I find it hard to trust the diagnosis. Are they SURE?   Did that happen to you?

Mostly, though, I feel a gratitude so profound it almost hurts. It almost hurts to look at my life, at how blessed I am with my strong, healthy family, a roof over our heads and unbelievable friends.  How did we get so lucky?

I want to wrap my arms around everyone, pull them close, keep them safe and warm.

Finn crawled in my lap the other day, for no particular reason, and murmured:  I love you, Momma, you're so warm. 


I squeezed him tight, inhaled his salty boy-scent and told him I loved him, too.  Those words seem way too small for the love I feel, though.

I guess that's the gift surviving cancer gives you, if you let it.  The gift of lucky. The gift of blessed.  The gift of gratitude.  The gift of present.


I don't think too much about the future these days.  Partly, because I'm still a little scared.  I'm reeling from the one-two punch of losing you, then getting cancer.  It's hard to trust the quiet, but I'm trying.   I feel moments, now.  Individual moments that pass in the blink of an eye, but feel like they last so much longer to me.  Because I can taste them.  I can feel them.

It's so much easier this way.  Moment to moment. The bigger picture is just too much, you know?  And we have so little control over it.  For me, fear lives there, in the bigger picture.  So I'm staying here, in the moment, where it feels safe.

I love you.

-Ellie

P.S. - I keep listening to this song, because it sums up how I'm feeling better than I can.  Check it out, you'll like it: 

Tightrope

The kids run ahead of me, clattering up the walkway to my Mom's house.  I trail behind, laden with bags of presents, an ache in the middle of me.

"Happy Birthday, Greta!" my Mom chirps from the doorway, bending down for hugs.

This moment is always hard.

I can see him there, in my mind's eye, standing behind my Mom and grinning his big, proud grin.  

"Hey there, kid" my Dad would say, and give me a wink as he wrapped me in his strong embrace. 

But, of course, he isn't there. 

The absence of him seems impossible, because in my mind and heart he's everywhere.

My Mom and I exchange a hug and a smile; behind the real joy in her eyes I see the sadness, and a silent acknowledgment - I wish he was here, too - passes between us.

Finn scampers away, digging around for toys and snacks.  On the table in the living room is a colorful pile of presents, and Greta flashes me a big grin. 

As my Mom and the kids chatter - how is school, what's your favorite subject, do you like riding the bus - I breathe deep, let the emotions come.   

I picture him standing in the kitchen, "El, can I get you a cuppa?" he'd say, bringing out mugs for coffee.  Then he'd give the kids a mischievous glance and make that funny sound with his mouth, the one that makes them collapse into giggles.

I need this private indulgence, this ghost landscape of what would have been.   I carry memories in my heart, take them out and roll them through my mind like glittering treasure, and through the ache they comfort me.

We move through the day, go through all the usual motions, balancing the profound feeling of loss with happiness, like tightrope walkers.  We're figuring it out as we go along, eyes locked straight ahead, because if we look down we could lose ourselves to the sadness.

As Greta rips into her gifts, Finn slips silently into my lap and leans his head on my shoulder.  I stroke his spiky hair, and place a little kiss on the top of his head.

After a moment, he buries his head into my chest and whispers, "Momma?  I miss PopPop."

"Me too, buddy.  Me too."

~~~~~

This post is part of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's link-up, Just Write, where we free write about our ordinary and extraordinary moments. Learn more about it here, and then click here to join in.

Where I've Been, And Where I'm Going To Be

I can't believe I have only posted four times in July - less than half as often as I usually post.

It's not that I don't have a lot going on, or that there is nothing to say.  It's more like I'm taking an existential pause, keeping things as simple as I can, taking each day carefully and cautiously.

My Dad died six weeks ago.  It feels like a long time ago and the blink of an eye at the same time.

I'm still grieving, of course, but with each passing day my grief shifts, evolves.   Little by little I'm accepting that he is gone.  The sudden nature of his death makes it hard for my brain to process that he isn't here anymore.  It's not denial, exactly, because I know he is gone.  It's just that my brain can't handle keeping that information in the forefront of my brain for very long.   It is as if my brain thinks he is simply away somewhere, and that someday soon this business of him being gone will be over.  Every now and then it hits me - the full force of my grief - and I have to breathe deep, cry a little, or call a friend to talk about how I feel.

It is as if my brain is feeding me grief bits at a time - smaller, more manageable bites that I can process little by little.

I think this is healthy.  I think it's normal.  But I have never been through this before.  I'm just taking it as it comes, feeling my feelings, sitting in the discomfort and pain, and absorbing the moments of gratitude and peace as best I can.

One of the things I am most grateful for right now is the gift of creativity.   I spend hours making jewelry - elaborate beaded patterns that transfix my mind, my spirit, and usher me away from sad, from grief.  

Here are some of my favorites (click on the links below to view in my Etsy shop):

 

Shimmering Silver Squares Bracelet

Turquoise Dream Bracelet

Lovely Lavender Faux Sea Glass Bracelet

I made a bracelet to remind me to keep it in the day, that each morning is a chance to start over, that no matter how bad I feel in any given moment, that it will pass.  I wear it to remind me to keep it in the day, carry gratitude in my heart and not lose myself to fear:



Just For Today Bracelet



~~~~

On another note, I'll be heading to BlogHer '11 in San Diego on Wednesday.  I will be spending a lot of time in the Serenity Suite (click on the link to hear more about it from my good friend Heather), so if you're going to BlogHer please do come by and say hello.

Onward.

Doppelganger

I've gone quiet, and I have gotten lots of emails from people asking if I'm okay.  Thank you for checking in; I will never cease to be in awe of the power of the connections I've made through this blog.

I am okay. I'm doing better than last week, and each day brings a little more healing, a little more perspective.  I haven't been posting because I don't have much to say, and writing about smaller, everyday things feels odd to me. 

I keep waiting to want to post about something else: family, recovery, life. There is certainly a lot to say. But just like there are moments where I can't understand how the world just keeps on going without my Dad in it, I have a hard time finding the right time to switch gears, stop writing about grief and loss when those two things are dominating my world at the moment. 

Not writing about it feels like saying good-bye, and I don't want to say good-bye, even though I know I have to.

So I will start with something small.  A silly thing. 

Who is who?  One is me at eight years old, and the other is Greta, yesterday:

Down The Rabbit Hole

It is possible to be okay and not okay at the same time.

Yesterday I turned 42. We went up to my Mom's condo in NH, which is nestled on a beautiful lake. We went swimming, watched fireworks, went for walks, played games. I didn't really want to celebrate my birthday, but of course we did anyway. It's what you do. You keep on going, no matter what. There is a picture of me smiling over my birthday cake, made by my brother and given some extra flair with frosting by the kids. The smile is real - I'm happy, I'm grateful. And I'm also really, really sad.

People ask me a lot "How are you doing?  You okay?"  I give them a smile and say that yes, I am okay, that I'm muddling through.

But the reality is that I'm struggling.  I am functioning - I shuttle the kids to their activities, go to play dates, the gym, out with friends.  I smile and sometimes even laugh, but underneath it all there is a kind of flatness, a bewildered feeling that I can't shake.

I'm forgetful.  I lose my train of thought all the time; I grope for words and mix up my kids' names.  If it weren't for the reminder alarm on my phone I would forget about Finn's karate or Greta's soccer camp.  I can't hold a thought for very long.   Things that used to light a fire inside me, like making jewelry or writing, barely produce a spark of interest.

It is way more than sad.  It feels more like lost.

I spend as much time as I can with my Mom, who is teaching me so much about grace and gratitude, even as she navigates her grief, takes tentative steps into her new life without my Dad.  They were married for forty-six years.  I am in awe of her ability to be vulnerable and strong at the same time. 

I go about my day, groping my way from one moment to the next.  I am not curling up into a ball.  I am functioning.  But sometimes, just barely.  Every now and then, without warning, the world in front of me seems to shimmy and shift, reality slides off the page, and I fall apart.  But I always pick up the pieces, take a deep breath and keep on moving.

The thing I notice the most is that my old nemesis, Anxiety, has come home to roost.  She perches on my shoulder, a dead weight, and whispers into my ear a constant stream of unwelcome thoughts.  

I have always been an anxious person.  I know now that it was likely at the root of my drinking.  I would self-medicate, drown out the whispering voice of fear.  

But now, of course, I don't have that particular rip cord to pull; I can't simply drop away from myself, numb the sharp edges.  

I don't drink anymore, but I have my own private rabbit hole, a tiny place in my head where I can slip away, even as I robotically go about my day.  I lived here a lot in new sobriety, as I tried to get from one end of the day to the other without a drink.  In my rabbit hole I am safe from the whispering voices of fear.  I know I'm not fun to be around when I'm there; I'm mechanical and flat, going through the motions, phoning it in.   But I'm upright, I'm putting one front in front of the other, and sometimes that has to be enough.  I'm simply not capable of feeling it all.

My rabbit hole provides temporary relief from the anxiety.  I haven't felt anxiety like this in a long time.

There is something wrong with my back.  Perhaps I twisted it or strained it, but I don't recall anything specific.  Maybe it is stress, maybe a combination of both.  When I'm on my game, when I'm not hobbled by grief, an injured back is simply a call to the doctor to make an appointment; something to check off my To-Do list.  

But my brain isn't functioning on all cylinders, and instead of coping I'm paralyzed with fear.  It has to be something awful, it tells me, something incurable.   Instead of picking up the phone to call the doctor, I obsess about all the symptoms, adding brick after brick to my monument of fear.

My stomach churns when my kids aren't with me; I'm convinced - with a lot of help from the whispering voices in my ear - that something tragic is going to happen.  

Now I know that someone healthy, vibrant and alive can just be gone in the blink of an eye.  I always knew that, of course, but now I feel it in my bones, how fragile it all is, and it makes me very, very afraid.

There is a ray of hope, I guess, because I can observe all this, as if from afar.  I understand what my brain is doing; it doesn't want to process my Dad's death, so it is occupying itself by worrying over other things I can't control, like my health, or what happens to my kids when I'm not around.  My brain is like a cat batting around a crippled mouse before going in for the kill.   Needless torture and pain, but it's something to do.

This ability to observe myself, even with my neuroses clanging away, ensures that I will be okay.  I can talk about it, work it through.   On the other side of this is growth and enlightenment.  I know that is true. 

I have to do all the things I did in early sobriety.  I have to keep talking, be gentle on myself, not succumb to guilt that I'm not the best mom to my kids when I'm hiding in my rabbit hole.  I have to put faith in front of fear.  I have to do the next right thing - like call the doctor - instead of allowing my anxiety to grab the wheel and steer the bus off the cliff.  

I have to surrender, let the current take me where I'm meant to go.  My job is simply to keep my head above the water, and let time do what time does best:  heal.

Surfacing

Grief is like being underwater.

One moment you're swimming along effortlessly, your strong strokes slide through the surface of the clear blue water.

Then without warning, you're sinking.  Down, down, into the silence.

You hang there, weightless and still, and you wait.

You know that right above you, shimmering just out of reach, people move about their day, unaware of this silent world-beneath-the-world.

But you?  You are in a state of suspended animation, without even the rush of air filling your lungs to distract you.  All you hear is the steady beating of your own heart; its rhythm is the antidote to the sadness:  I'm.  Still.   Here.

It's nice, in the quiet.  Here you are invisible; safe in your cocoon of grief where nothing can reach you.  Out there in the world light and sound are jarring, rudely poking their noses into your consciousness as you tiptoe from one moment to the next. Out there you have to Smile and Move On.  Here you can simply be.

How odd, you think, that grief is comforting.  Wrapped in its tight embrace you have permission to drop away from the mundane needs of everyday life, to not cope for a while. 

You don't want to let go of the silence, the calm, the reverie.  When you're here you can close your eyes and imagine the world as it felt before.  

But you can't stay, no matter how much you want to.  You are only a visitor here.  Your lungs begin to twitch, aching for air, and you know you have to return.

Taking one last long look around, you smile.  Good-bye.

You tilt your face upwards, and with a few strong kicks of your legs you feel the sun on your face, and hear the sound of your children's laughter from the shore.  "Come see, Momma!"  they shout. 

And you do.  You go see.  

You surface.

For Dad

**This is the eulogy I wrote about my father; I read it at his funeral yesterday.  It is hard to describe how full my heart felt to see almost five hundred people come to his funeral to honor his memory. 

I love you, Dad, and I miss you more than mere words can express.

~~~~~

I have an enduring image of my father.

We’re on a family hike, Mt. Moosilauke, perhaps. There were many family hikes, but my Dad’s outfit never varied. He’s wearing a red “crusher” hat, a blue bandana tied around his neck and wielding a walking stick he fashioned out of “perfectly good” wood he found in the forest. A folded map pokes from his back pocket, and his pack is stuffed to the hilt with anything we could ever possibly need for our climb: a green water canteen, moleskin, more maps, a compass, band-aids, bug spray. And, of course, Gorp – a concoction of granola, peanuts and M & Ms

I’m about ten years old, and it feels like we’re never, ever going to get to the top. My sister and I moan and complain, stopping more than necessary to drink water and pick the M & Ms out of the food bag.
My father is undaunted, patiently leading us on, pointing out the blue trail markers blazed on the trees. “The trick,” he says, “is to pace yourself. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and before you know it, you’ll be there.”

And, of course, we do get there, slowly but surely, and as we hit the summit Dad breaks into a smile. “Isn’t it something?” he says, as we gaze out over the peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. And yes, it really is something.

This image stays with me because it encapsulates so much about what it was like to grow up under his loving, patient, steady guidance.

Words seem too small to describe Dad. To us he was larger than life, a steadfast presence, someone who would always be there to help us along the way. He wasn’t one for lectures or finger wagging; he taught us what we need to know about life by living it. And he always, always put family first.

My Dad worked hard, but of course as kids we couldn’t appreciate what he did for a living. What we knew was that he was home for dinner – every night. He would often have to work late into the evening, or head out again for a meeting, but each night he would walk in the door just as we set dinner on the table.

Family vacations were spent camping, hiking, canoeing, skiing or fishing. Dad loved to get off the grid; some of my fondest memories are of our times out at our beach cottage, bobbing around on the sea fishing for flounder. We would spend days together as a family in tents, paddling down rivers, hiking through the woods. Everywhere he went, Dad brought his unbridled curiosity about the world, and his seemingly endless knowledge of all things natural. Even during our eye-rolling teenage years, we would eventually be swept up in Dad’s quiet enthusiasm.

Dad taught us the importance of hard work, responsibility and balance by embodying these values and infusing everything he did with dedication, humor and patience.

He made us want to succeed in life, but it had nothing to do with prestige, pedigree, recognition or prominence, and everything to do with doing our best, giving back and having a grateful heart.

Perhaps the greatest gift my father gave us was to teach us compassion. He gave back – tirelessly – to every community he served. He gave his time – he gave himself – to his friends, family, church, town, school and to the less fortunate. As children we couldn’t appreciate how special this was, of course. As we grew into young adults, however, we began to understand that Dad’s compassion and dedication to giving back were at the very core of everything he stood for, everything he taught us.

Dad preferred to see the good in people, the possibility. He expressed a limitless curiosity in the things that interested us. Whether it was photography, horses or making jewelry, he wanted to know about our lives, who we knew, what we were doing, and would ask thoughtful questions in his own unobtrusive way. When we strayed from the path, got lost through poor choices or circumstance, he was there to gently nudge us back onto the rails - not with judgment, but with love and encouragement.

He taught us how to navigate adversity by playing to our strengths, rather than dwelling on our weaknesses. His motto would not have been ‘I Told You So’, but rather ‘I Believe In You’.

He wasn’t one for grand proclamations or recognition, and so it is possible that this next statement would have made him uncomfortable, but it is true: he was beloved by everyone who knew him. He was respected by so many because he was, himself, so respectful.

I realize I don’t have to search for words to describe Dad. All I have to do is look around this church, at all the people who have come together today from near and far, to honor his memory. Whether you knew my Dad as a colleague, friend, a co-committee member or trustee; whether you knew him from church, school or around town, from the good old days or only recently, you know what I mean about his authenticity, compassion, loyalty, humor and dedication, because he brought his whole self to every interaction, every relationship.

Dad taught us that you get back from the world exactly what you put into it; if you bring light, love and compassion to the world, then you will get light, love and compassion in return. And when you do? You give it right back again.

And so I carry the image of my father ahead of us on the trail, a walking stick in one hand and a map in the other, patiently beckoning us forward, encouraging us in his own quiet way to put one foot in front of the other, until we get to where we’re all going.

And the view from up there? It is really something, I’m sure.

Father's Day

Today was hard, probably the hardest day yet.

Without the numbing effects of shock and disbelief to cradle me, I felt the loss of my Dad profoundly today. 

Father's Day.

It helps me to write in this space.  Someday soon I won't only write about losing my Dad, but for now writing about how I'm feeling gives me some peace of mind.

I get a daily email from Hazeldon, a recovery organization.  I haven't opened one in a while, but today's reflection hit home:

"Grief may be a pathway to our deepest connections.

People often say, "I don't want to burden you with my troubles, you have enough to worry about." Yet sharing our troubles with our partner or close friends lightens our burden and restores our balance. Telling someone our experiences and how we feel about them helps us find and create the meaning that lurks behind them, even though they at first seem only crazy and random. Sharing with others pulls us out of isolation and brings our friends and mate into the circle of our lives.

We may be surprised to feel the knots in our stomachs loosen when we tell our stories and recount our worries or grief. Grief may make us feel more alone than anything. But it may also be a pathway for our deepest connection with each other. When we reach out and talk with our friends or mate, we break down the wall of isolation and build bridges that connect us."

This has certainly been true for me. I am surrounded by loving friends and family, and as I talk to them I do feel the coil in my gut loosen, the knot in my shoulders unclench. A burden shared is indeed a burden cut in half.

And, of course, life trudges on. Today was a beautiful day; the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and we made our way into the city to honor the other amazing Dad in our lives:  Steve.

I met my mother and brother for a beautiful service at the church where we will hold my Dad's memorial service on Thursday.  It is a big, beautiful old church, one my parents attended together, and praying there brought some measure of comfort and peace.  When they read my Dad's name during the prayers for the departed, I felt a kind of lightness, felt his spirit living on in all of us.

But, oh, how I missed his strong presence at my side.

We prowled around Boston, strolled through Boston Common and took in the sights.

The kids enjoyed a carousel ride, a huge gelato sundae, and a ride on Boston's famous swan boats. 

Their chocolately grins and gleeful ability to live in the moment, as they skipped through the gardens, posed for pictures on statues - all while playfully asking questions - pulled me from my reverie and deep sense of loss for a while. Kids are amazing that way.

We smile a lot, laugh with abandon, hug each other tighter. We muddle through the maelstrom of emotions that buffet us about at random. We mourn, we honor, we love.

How lucky am I to have know two such incredible Dads in my life? One that raised me, and one that is helping me raise my kids.

When we got home, there was the Sunday paper waiting on our front stoop.  My Dad's obituary, even though I knew it would be there, was a jarring reminder of the finality of his death.  

I finally allowed myself to fall apart a little. I went upstairs to our bedroom, crawled under the sheets, and wept.  And then I fell into a deep, dreamless and much-needed sleep.

A couple of hours later, Greta and Finn poked me awake with huge grins on their faces.

"Momma!  You needa come see the show! It starts in three minutes!"

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, took a deep breath, and put a smile on my face. They led me by the hand outside, where Steve was already waiting, and put on an elaborate circus act for us on their swing set.  Finn demonstrated his patented moves:  the "Tangle", the "Bellyflop" and the "Twist".  Greta acted as ringleader, a triumphant smile on her face.  

"TA-DA!" they shouted, as they took a final bow and Steve and I clapped like mad.

And so we trudge forth, our little family, with sadness and gratitude.  And each other.

Here

When someone is taken from you suddenly it changes everything, of course.

Here and then gone. Just like that. My mind reels, struggles to wrap itself around the word:  gone. 

There is an endless ticker tape running through my mind - gone, gone, gone - and it pulls my energy, my thoughts away from the present moment and back through time, as though I can rewind the clock by sheer force of will, zoom back six days to when a day was just a day and he existed somewhere in the world.

Sad is way too small a word to describe how it feels.

Future plans evaporate in the blink of an eye; time grinds to a standstill as each moment creeps by like an eternity. 

We're busy; there are lots of arrangements to make, people to call, decisions to muddle through.  I'm grateful to be in motion.   It is the worst when I pause, pull into myself and remember:  gone.

There are small periods of numbness, almost like forgetting.  I think the body and mind can only handle so much, and the brain shifts into neutral, goes on auto-pilot. 

There are also moments of intense gratitude, grace and even peace.  Even as I fully absorb the loss, I know how blessed I am.  I am one of the lucky ones, to have had a father like him. I wanted more time - OH how I wanted more time - but that longing cannot eclipse how grateful I am that he was my Dad.  Is my Dad.  He will always be my Dad.

Life trudges on. We get up in the morning, brush teeth, eat breakfast. The kids chatter about the day. Finn pulls a funny face and we all laugh.  The ticker-tape whirs on in the back of my brain - Dad, Dad, Dad - but there are school lunches to pack and homework to do and play dates to arrange.   I tiptoe from one end of the day to the other, and when the house falls silent and dark, when everyone is sleeping, I sit on the couch and I think.

I think about the last time I saw him.  It was a beautiful, sparkling day. Memorial Day.  He stood proudly by and watched Greta march in the parade. We walked thoughtfully together in the cemetery, honoring fallen soldiers. We ate sandwiches, lounged on the couch, chatting.  It was a good day. A great day.

I know now how the simple act of the phone ringing, a few uttered words on the line, can bring your world crashing down.  I feel the bewildered suddenness of it all; how someone so vibrant, so healthy and alive, can be snatched from your life without warning. 

It makes me want to hug my family tighter, make every word count.  My stomach tightens into a little ball every time we part.  Bye! Have a good day!  I chirp from the front porch as Greta trots onto the bus, Steve pulls out of the driveway or I drop Finn off at school, but grief tugs at these moments, whispering in my ear: it could be the last time you see them.

I sit on my couch and I think about the fragility of it all.  And then I think about fear. 

I don't want to live my life in fear.

I don't want to scramble to appreciate every moment out of fear that it could be a last moment. I don't want to be grateful for all that I have simply because one day it will be gone.  But how - HOW - in the face of tragedy do you shake off the fear?

I want to soak in every moment simply because it is beautiful - or horrible, or joyful, or sad - just the way it is.  I want the knowledge that it is all so fragile to bring acceptance and love into every interaction, however small.  I want to live not in the fear of dying, but in the light of being. 

This is the gift grief is giving me: a profound appreciation of all that is.  I tuck my kids into bed at night and I fight back the whispering voice of fear.  I bring faith into my heart and I think:  this is good.  Just the way it is.

I know now, too, that the things you remember most are the simple things.  I remember birthdays, Christmases, graduations, of course I do, but mostly?  Mostly I remember the flash of his smile, his strong hands doing dishes, the sparkle in his eyes, the funny sound he made with his mouth that made the kids laugh, and gave him his nickname:  PopPop.

Those simple things are the everyday gifts, and they are everywhere, all the time.  I will remember to look - to see - to appreciate all of it. Not with a heart full of fear, but full of gratitude. 

I will put faith before fear.  I will put faith before fear.  I will.