House on the Rock

The recap is over. Tracing back over journal entries and digging deep into the recesses of my memory has brought us to now, where I’m no longer recounting days past but reporting on the present. I’m not sure which is scarier.

In some ways, I was able to pick out the best and brightest moments of the past. Many of my memories of that season are quite positive, as I’ve let the worst memories fade to gray or pushed them so far out of my mind that I’m not sure they’ll ever return. But writing in the present is going to be harder for that sifting to take place. I’m afraid that writing in the now will mean the filter is gone, the bad-memory-eraser unable to keep up. The feelings are raw, fresh, and real.

But that could be a good thing too. I fear that some may read over my past several months of writing and think, “She’s hardly even sad!” But that’s because I seldom report on the almost-nightly episodes of crying myself to sleep. I fail to mention the panic attacks that happen when my washer and dryer make a sound much like Mom’s machines and IVs. I don’t talk about the gut-wrenching moments, like last Saturday in Yats, when we sat down at a table for six and Cam, out of habit, pulled up a seventh chair at the head. No one said a word, just stared at the empty chair and pretended that our eyes were watering because of the Cajun gumbo and not because we were no longer a party of seven.

And that’s the now. Our new normal. Having mostly good days with sprinkles of hard scattered throughout, sort of like those pop-up showers in Florida when the forecast says rain that will last for a moment, but then you’ll be back in the sunshine. My every day feels like there’s rain in the forecast, but I can usually count on it lasting for only a moment.

Speaking of Florida, we’re basking in the bliss of a Spring Break spent south. Our incredibly generous church family pooled together some funds for Joe and I to get away following a season of so much sorrow. It’s funny, at the funeral, Pastor Terry joked about how Mom always picked the beach over any other vacation destination. We never went out East or to the mountains — when Mom was planning, it was nothing but the beach. In the past month, all of our family has gotten away for different vacations. Christen went on a Spring Break trip to the beach. Cam and Riley honeymooned to the beach. Dad flew down with some friends to the beach. When Joe and I were gifted the funds for this trip, it was a no-brainer: the beach.

I think that’s part of the legacy she left. A deep-seated love for family time. Walks. Hiking. Sunshine. And of course, without question, the beach.

I see so many of her habits in me. Without much thought, I picked PCB as our destination — the place we traveled to time and time again as a family. I think of her as I wake up early and creep onto the balcony where I always used to find her, awake before anyone else, a blanket and Bible in her lap as she breathed in salty ocean air.

I think of her as I stuff PBJs and Pringles into a cooler bag and head for the shore. She taught me how to pack, to plan, to maximize my time in the sand. I think of her as I go on beach walks — never as fast or as far, but tracing her steps nonetheless.

I see myself in her as I snap pictures of the sunset. Her desire to capture every moment is now a gift we get to treasure, as we have thousands of photo memories of all our time together.

We drive past the Calypso Tower, an oceanfront condo complex where we spent our final family vacation. Tears fill my eyes as I look up to the fourteenth floor — to the balcony where she sat, the kitchen where she accidentally purchased coffee beans instead of grounds and we spent hours that one evening trying to pummel them to dust. I remember the beach walks and deep talks and dinner at Harpoon Harry’s, and even though it hurts, I tell Joe we have to go.

It’s a delicate balance, now. Desperately wanting to remember every place we went with her and also wanting to avoid the spots that sting so much because she’s gone. I usually err on the side of bandaid-ripping: going to those spots anyway, crying for as long as it takes, thanking God for the memories and aching to be with her again.

I’m not sure where the blog will go from here. There’s a whole other loss to revisit, as we continue also mourning the death of our precious unborn baby. There are plenty more memories of Mom that hit me even now. I’m sure it’ll be a mix of things, losses and gains in both healing and pain. Thank you for taking a front-row seat to my past and present processing, and thank you for supporting this miserable, magical, painful, and praise-filled walk through the valley.