Sometimes, the missing* rolls in. Like a wet, heavy fog across the desert.

And it fills EVERY PORE OF MY BEING—every crevasse of my parched heart.

I look around. Everyone with their perfect babies, and their perfect pregnancies, and their perfect families. And my heart cries out. Tears stream down my cheeks and fall shamelessly upon my chest.

Life continues. PEOPLE continue. Continue to laugh, and smile, and love. . . and breeeeeeeeed.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. I WOULD NOT HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY. AND—

And the line between my joy for them and my ache for me. . . is at times, imperceptible. My family is still broken. Signs of grief, pain and overwhelming devastation still float to the surface from time to time. Often, they’re overwhelming, other times, they are tender and sweet. . . either way, they keep us connected to what’s true and real about the world, connected to the things that matter most. Connceted to our God and sealed to our faith in His plan for us.

I want to heal. I want to BE healed. I want my family to heal, my children to be made whole.  I desperately want these things. But healing prematurely would equate to lessons lost. And I want the lessons more than I don’t want the pain. As bitter as those words taste leaving my heart, they are true.

Because I don’t just want to live. I WANT TO LIVE!!!!!!! I want to FEEEEEEEEEEEL. I want to BE—alive in my heart, in my understanding, in my influence. I want to be alive in my integrity. I want to say—”LIFE IS GOOD, GOD IS REAL, LOVE IS ALL AROUND US,” and when I do, I want to know it. In every pore. In every breath. In all of me.

I WANT.TO.LIVE.

*Dear You, The line between missing, self pity and overwhelming fear, is often imperceptible. THAT IS OK. Please know that. Sweet you, out there missing, hurting, wishing to be anywhere but here. It’s OK. YOU are OK. I do not judge your hurt. I do not ask you to quiet your pain, or to hide (from) your self pity, or self loathing, or from your desperation (wishing that it could all be different—willing to do anything you can to make it so). “Wherever you are, be there.” This wisdom comes from a heart that knows. A heart that would never judge you. Not ever. Don’t you dare judge yourself. You wake up every morning, and you breathe in and out all day long. Don’t you see the miracle that you are? Are you so clouded and confused that you are incapable of seeing what you are doing? You are walking on water. Despite it all, you breathe in and out all day long. In and out. All day long. You are a miracle. Just as you are. Do not judge that. And know, He “will go before your face . . . on your right hand and on your left, and [His] Spirit shall be in your hearts, and [His] angels round about you, to bear you up.” There are better days ahead. There are.

Here is where it all began.

You. It was you. You started everything.

And I don’t know if I should scream at you, or throw my arms around your neck and never, ever let go.

You died; I was born again.

Little by little, line upon line, and now here I am. Strong. Steady. Vulnerable. Unstable. All of it together, and much, much more.

I love you. I need you.

Stay nearby.

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Above: me, wrapped in my swaddling clothes…

Hello friends!

I’m sorry I’ve been MIA this week.

I’m not going to color coat my life for the blogosphere… I’m in a genuine funk. I miss my brother, I miss my son and all this missing makes me feel like I’m quietly losing my mind.

Every time I close my eyes, vivid memories, horrifying memories flood my consciousness.

Showers are the worst; I didn’t realize how much deep, closed eyed thinking went on during showers.

I’d rather stay dirty, thank you.

I knew this anniversary would be hard, I just didn’t anticipate the person it would turn me in to. I’m grouchy and melancholy, and for the first time in a long time, I actually feel sorry for myself.

Bleh. I hate this version of me.

The happy news is that I respect myself enough to let myself ride this wave. One of the greatest gifts I can give myself through grief is the opportunity to simply be where I am, without frustration, without judgment.
Because this too shall pass.

It most certainly shall…

N

Note: blogged from my phone. Please pardon any crazy formatting or grammatical oversights… Muah!

cell phone picture of a print I found while packing. . . circa 2004

Today.

Today I’m grateful that this anniversary feels very different than all the rest. I finally feel closer to you rather than farther away. I’m four full years closer to seeing you again.  FOUR years. That’s a lot of time. That’s a lot of change. That’s a lot of learning. And that’s certainly a lot of growing. I miss you every day,  but I’m over the hump. I can now see WHY this had to be. I can see what it has given all of us. . . the kinds of people it has molded us in to. . . and I’m grateful. Sad and sorry it had to be this way? Of COURSE! But deeply grateful that God knows best. Grateful that He is willing to parent me in the very best way I need, even if it will cause me tremendous heart ache and excruciating pain. . . because He sees me not for who I am today, but for who I am meant to become, and He loves me enough to do whatever it takes to get me there.

I’m so grateful he’s willing to mold me. Kicking and screaming and fighting tooth and nail, He is still willing to mold me, because He loves me perfectly. I hope to become more like Him, Gavin. I hope to have the courage to parent your nephews in that same kind of way that our loving Heavenly Father parents me, because THAT is eternal love. THAT is love that sees beyond the here and now and into forever, together. I hope that I can follow His example, and with His merciful guidance, do whatever it takes.

Even if whatever it takes moves me away from my beautiful ocean . . .and to the middle of the desert. :)

I love you, Captain.

Sis


Finishing up the packing and about to head out. . .

As of yesterday morning, a new family owns our little white house on Wahinepe’e St.

My heart is heavy and light, all at the same time. I am profoundly happy for the family who bought it, they are remarkable, and so very, very deserving. It’s also a very meloncholy (or should I say melon choly)  feeling to say goodbye to a home that has cradled us as we’ve weathered so.many.storms. I remember my brother‘s room (before he moved out and set up camp on the beach… like a bona fide hobo). I remember where I was sitting (4 years ago tomorrow) when my Dad told me that had died. I remember where the baby‘s crib had been, and how joyous I felt as I assembled it. I remember how sorrowful I was as I broke it down and placed a dresser in it’s place… so I wouldn’t have to wake up every morning and stare at it sitting there, empty. I remember hours on end of laughter, plenty of yelling and madness, and so much friendship and love that I could burst at the seams just thinking about it.

But. . . I keep reminding myself, home is where we are, together. WE are what makes a house a home. Not friendly neighborhood kids in and out of the house all.day.long, not belly laughs, or tickle fests, not dance parties or trampoline wars, not more joyous memories than I can count… it’s us, and we’re sticking together.

Aloha ‘oe beautiful Laie. A hui ho!


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