I decided to transfer several things over from a social media forum to this location - in case readers were concerned that I somehow had the most intense day of my life today!

At this point, I just consider the full and untouched lunch as extra weight to help build core strength for my child who apparently does not do anything with her lunch beyond carry it around in her backpack.

One year ago there was an early morning phone call on the 23rd; and despite so many trips to the hospital and aid cars and treatments and pain and meds and stress and tears and laughter at the system and doctors and nurses and fears and more; this phone call said "come now." Never had they said "come now" like this.

And I went. We all went. And after midnight on the 24th, my beautiful and strong and handsome and brave and funny and caring and singing and dancing and laughing and serious and sparkling green eyes and furrowed brow Dad left us forever.

And there was emptiness and tears and shouting and exhaustion and fear and shock and anger and acceptance and pain, physical pain.

And there was light. Oh, such light. My father raising his hands in prayer, barely able to talk yet somehow able to say the entire Lord's Prayer. Our family together on this longest yet shortest day laughing and joking and hugging and holding on and absorbing every second. The light of his friends who stood by us that day. The light of one of his truest friends, in the middle of the night, being the last to say goodbye. The light of my friends who called and hugged and shared and supported and loved and prayed and cried. The light of a friend who'd traveled this path and held my hand throughout the day, knowing what was ahead.

So here we are one year later; all of us carrying on. And I'm stunned tonight, tears on my face. For there is a CD that I can never listen to on the road to the hospital from my house. Anywhere else is fine, but that music on that road means I have to pull over. This tells me the pain is still there, tucked away, no matter what I tell myself.

And when I think of that day, I think of the light. The gift of having a chance to say goodbye and the gift of this life we build so that in the time of need and the time of death there is light, pouring back to you, if you accept it. I started this by mentally listing all of those to whom I am grateful for, but I had to stop. There are just too many. And this love, this light, it is so hard to explain but I know so many have felt it.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." John 1:5.

Even with every kissed ouchie, every argument settled, every hug given, I can still never repay my children for the solace they provide me during those middle of the night snuggles. 

Sometimes it feels that the strength I pour into them during those daylight hours is somehow returned to me during those blessed dark hours when you lift that sleeping child and rock, rock, rock to the sound of a beating heart and quiet, even breathing.

When I was a child, I was always surrounded by other children. I remember the laughter, the tears, the angst and the joy that comes from having so many siblings and cousins.

What I miss the most though, is the adventure.

We lived in the woods and splashed in the lake and the creeks and never stopped until it was time for the adults to corral us to the table for dinner. That chaos that the outdoors could handle would take over our homes yet the adults seemed to love it. I miss playing in my cousins' barn for hours, showing them our tree forts, cutting down so many trails through the woods together, and even a truly gross Fourth of July blowing up slugs with firecrackers behind my aunt and uncle's car.

I grapple with many things as an adult and a parent. I'm so glad to have grown up and made my own family - but I wish that those we lost along the way were still here. I miss endless summers and skinned knees and even heartache that felt world-ending. Growing up, when done right, is never a straightforward or easy process.

Over the last several years, one of the things that has made this growing up stuff easier was the joy of reconnecting with one cousin in particular. My cousin had become a leader; down to earth, hilarious and loved. He married a woman who radiates strength and humor, and she threw her arms open to me, pulling me in. She is a woman who makes a home wherever she is; not a house, but a home. The two of them created this life full of crazy kids, true friendships and so much laughter. When they welcomed you in you felt so loved, and I think they only partially realize the impact they've had in this world. I know they feel loved, but I hope they realize it is absolutely a reflection of what they have given out for years. Well, love, and sometimes a well deserved smack upside the head or sarcastic remark. :)

When our kids run wild outside now, I see us when we were kids. It feels like that adventure I miss is back; only now our job is to do the corralling and smile as the jumble of dirty kids rolls in. I wonder what my kids will remember as adults; I hope they remember these days of dirt and chaos and allow their own kids this. I hope that someday, our kids are standing beside each other, looking at pictures and laughing and crying at themselves years earlier.

With fierceness she fights us,

Pushing and pulling away to independence.

Her anger at rules, her rage at her position becomes blinding.

She notes that nothing in this house is really hers, not even her furniture.

She mocks our reminders that she is in control of herself, so angry we control everything else.

And it shocks me at times for I didn’t think this fight would start so young.

But the stubbornness should not surprise me, for it was destined when such an obstinate young man met such a stubborn young lady who both like so much to be right –oh how we like to be right.

But at night, oh at night.

The fierceness subsides and the child comes out.

The child that climbs in our arms and listens to our hearts.

The child that reveals her fears and trusts us implicitly.

The child that is slowly slipping away as the outside world slips in and I yearn for this time to never end.

Will she still come to us later? Will she remember these nights and know we need them as much as she does?

Will this fierceness that burns inside of her allow her to ask for help, will it put up a wall, and when it does will she leave us a door?

I know we will scale that wall if we must.

But I will still pray for a door.
Please, please let her leave us a door.

I feel as if I must find the words to comfort those I love,
Especially a woman I am proud to call family,
For I know she faces a future that was not at all what she planned
When they told each other “I do”
And they held each child for the first time,
And they built the life they wanted piece by piece and day by day,
Until what they had seemed fortress-strong and guarded by warriors.

And in one night the world went from birthday party celebrating to the hospital way of life.

But when your fortress is strong and your warrior is brave, that hospital way of life
does not take over everything.

For there are dinners to make and practices to attend and homework to do and skinned knees to bandage and the warrior lifestyle is not for the weak.

And as the months ticked by and the appointments stacked up and those children got bigger and their love kept growing that fortress never crumbled.

And how do you comfort when you know it will never be ok, but it will be ok. It will never be the same but so much will be the same.

The dinners will get made and the practices will happen and the homework will get done and those skinned knees will get bandaged.

So I think the words I’m seeking keep leading me back to the tireless work it took to build this fortress; for the love and the fellowship and the humor and the spice and the strength and the courage poured into the foundations for when the warrior departed he knew what he left behind him was solid. It is hurting and it is changed but it is solid.

And cousin - please hug our dads up there. I love you and I will see you again someday.

“And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.”
John Donne’s Death, be not proud