Grief

I haven't talked to her in 22 days. I've never not talked to her for 22 days.

How many more days will there be? Will there be hundreds? Thousands? How many more days?  And what will the all of the rest of those days feel like? Like this? Will Saturday mornings always feel like this? Will it ever not feel like this? 

I'm no stranger to grief.  Grief is an inconceivably deep, thick thing.  There are layers to it that I don't even know yet. There are layers of feelings and emotions I haven't considered yet.  Those layers are what I'm most afraid of.

I'm trying to be very careful to feel my feelings and deal with them as they come.  That's what everyone who's grieved the death of their mother, or anyone they love, says.

"Take care of yourself," they say.  "Rely on those around you, and trust them to help you." Am I doing that?

It's been 22 days.  I know she's there.  I know she's okay.  I know she hears me.  But I miss her so deeply, so intently, that the pain stabs at me in a place I can't reach.  The pain is a lonesome sadness.  It's a tranquil, peaceful, quiet longing that I know will never go away.  22 days has come and gone without a dial, a sound, a ring, a whisper, a laugh, an "I love you."  22 days is done.  22 days is gone.  She is gone.

Grief has taken her place. She was cheerful and positive.  Grief is angry and ongoing.

I don't like grief.  And it won't leave.

A Four-Legged Angel

Sweet Ellie, Christmas 2013

When I first saw these eyes, fourteen years ago last week, I knew they were coming home with me.  A furry little black puppy with milky white paws played hide-and-seek with me from behind a chain link fence.  I had Christmas money in my pocket.  Her dark and loving eyes beckoned to me.  Resistance never crossed my mind.

They melted my heart.

They still do.

You know I brought her home.  I knew nothing about puppies or taking care of one.  I had no food for her, no toys, no bed or crate, not even a leash, let alone a collar, with which to walk her.  But none of that mattered:  K-Mart was on the way home, and K-Mart had everything I needed to care for my new little black puppy.  Those first nights were really hard, and my heart was not made for keeping her in a crate.  I was a bad mommy, giving in to her cries almost instantly, bringing her close to me to sleep.  She was a blessing.  She eased the loneliness.  She was a faithful companion, a friend filled with unconditional love for an imperfect girl.  She was the joy in my days, bringing light back to my life, healing my soul.  Because of her, my life became filled with gifts I could never have imagined I even deserved.  Were it not for her, there would be no Chi.  There would be no Betsy.  There would be no Little Nguyens.  One coal black puppy from the dog pound was sent from above to lead me in the right direction.

I named her Ellie.  I thought she looked Irish.

She was my first baby.  She knew it.  I loved her instantly.

In dog obedience classes, she learned to sit and obey, but those things were of no importance to her.  Sit?  Me?  Why?   She had my number.  Everyone who met her loved her.  She would move from person to person and stare as if to say, "You may now take your turn to pet me."  She had a sparkly, happy personality and sadness never crossed her mind.  At her first vet appointment, the nice vet advised me "not to cut her tail".  Cut her TAIL?!  WTH?  He said some breeds typically have their tails shortened, but he didn't recommend this as he thought it was essential to her personality.  I agreed.
It was very waggy.  She never just wagged her tail.  She wagged her whole butt.

Ellie's first friend was named Jewel, a giant mixed breed that belonged to my roommate, Catherine.  Together, they spent their days playing or curled up together in our duplex on St. Mary's Street.  When I moved out, I continued to take her there every morning before work, dropping her off to "play" with Jewel until school was out.  Until her dying day, I could utter the words, "JouJou?" and her ears would perk up.  She loved those days of Third Place Coffee and Lilly's Pizza and getting lost during evening walks amidst the brick houses inside the beltline.  I did, too.  Before long, we had a walking companion named Chi.  He once commented that, "I knew the real test for me was if your dog liked me or not."  So true.

She was really pissed off when her sister came along.  Betsy was a birthday gift for Chi, who wanted a puppy.  Ellie wasn't sure what to make of her, but she asserted her position as The Boss early on.  I likened the two of them to the curious and very mischievous Peter Rabbit (Ellie) who disobeyed and went into Mr. McGregor's garden and the good Little Sister who had bread and blackberries for dinner (Betsy).  The characters in the age-old tale fit them perfectly. I love them both dearly, but for different reasons.  They became friends and then siblings, eventually, but not without the occasional spat.

I married my walking companion, and almost two year later, a human sibling came along.  I remember bringing baby Benjamin home.  Careful parents that we were, we were wary about letting the dogs around him, transitioning them slowly.  Eventually, Ellie forgot about him while Betsy slept protectively under his crib.  Ellie only had eyes for me.  Not much changed, and she was still my constant shadow.

Sadly, those "baby" years are a blur.  I remember moving here to our new house.  There was so much space!  So many rooms to sniff around in.  So many accidents to be had!  We purchased a  brilliant invention:  a carpet steam cleaner.  Baby Thomas came along, and then there are a few more years I don't remember.  I probably wasn't the best Dog Mommy during those years, and for that my heart weeps.  There were lots of missed walks.  I wish there had been more.  But we had a fenced yard in which to run, and it got easier.
With both Little Nguyens in school and preschool, I had more time to spend with Ellie and her sister.  There were more morning walks after drop-off.  More treats.  More rides in the car to the grocery store or to return library books or go through carpool.  She loved a good car ride.  Maybe it was pure concidence, but she learned to step on the automatic window button to roll her window down.  With her head out the car window, eyes closed, soft black ears flapping in the breeze, it was as if her soul was free.  She loved that.

I lived in fear of these days coming, but I tried to keep the thoughts far from my mind.  Ellie was healthy and without a care for so long.  She didn't "require" much and was happy with those hours spent curled up beside me on the sofa after the Little Nguyens went to bed.  We loved those snuggly hours.  I talked to her a lot, as if she could really understand.  As her age progressed, her hearing gave way.  But despite that, her cocked head and perky ears always made me think she really did know what I was saying when I spoke to her.

She loved to "help" me cook.  Often, this meant that she would stand directly beneath me in the kitchen or follow me to the pantry or stick her nose into an open cabinet to sniff around.  When she was hungry,  she helped herself, learning to open the top on her dog food bin.  Determination was a strength for sure!  She loved all kinds of food.  Pumpkin and bananas and pancakes and scrambled eggs were among her favorites.  She also loved peanut butter sandwiches in Ziploc bags and pulling banana bread off the counter.  She once had an illict affair with the carcass of our Thanksgiving turkey.  One year, when I went upstairs to give the boys a bath, I left the carcass on the breakfast bar to cool.  She managed to climb onto a barstool and step up onto the counter.  The turkey made a resounding thud that could be heard from upstairs.  She was very disappointed when I wouldn't let her finish.

  I noticed a cough developing late last summer.  Her vet said it was old age.  When it worsened after Halloween, he said it was "tracheal collapse", a common ailment in older dogs.  On Christmas morning, she spit up a little blood.  On December 28, fourteen years to the day since her adoption, x-rays revealed three large tumors in her chest.  I arrived at the vet's office that afternoon thinking we would leave with medicine to help ease her cough.  I left in utter shock.  She begged me to leave, and  you would never have known she was sick.  I cried in the lobby as the vet tech hugged me.  Ellie jumped for treats like her circus dog self.

She never went back.

I spent last week conducting hospice for Ellie here at home.  Ellie Hospice was therapeutic.  Ellie Hospice was a weeklong blessing from above, a chance for me to love her and let her lick my face and let her curl up with Betsy.  We took walks and lots of rides in the car.  She continued her usual high demand for treats.  She was her normal self, other than the cough.  We went to Unleashed for a treat and she picked out a $16 bag of doggie yummies from the bottom shelf of a display.  She never ate them.  Her cough got worse.

Early Saturday morning, I discovered her next to her water bowl on the tile floor of the bathroom.  I carried her downstairs and, in the wee hours of the morning, sent an e-mail to Dr. Jennifer asking her to please come today.  She did.  At 10:14 AM, Ellie died in my arms.  Here in her home.  Here on our soft rug.  I wept.  I still am.

The message in my devotional early Saturday morning teaches that I should say, "I trust you, God."  To trust Him in all things.  To give thanks in all things.  Always.  Even when I hurt.  Even when it seems impossible.  Again, at a difficult time in my life, I am reminded of how important that is to Him.

So I am.  And I will.  And I do trust You.  And I will keep trying to trust me less and You more.

You gave me so many gifts through this experience.  You allowed me to comfort Ellie.  For a whole week.  Knowing.  You helped me find a way not to let her suffer.  You helped me listen to what those dark and loving eyes were saying.  You helped me find Dr. Jennifer, who shares my faith in You.  You helped Ellie show her joy and wag her tail as she greeted Dr. Jennifer at our door on Saturday.  You helped me be calm and make the right decision.  You helped me let go and let her come to the safety of Your loving arms from the safety of mine.  You will keep her sweet soul safe forever and love her more completely that I ever could.

My heart is broken.  I will miss her every day, and I wish so much to wrap my arms around her little body covered in that soft black fur.  I wish to be able to look into the dark and loving eyes one more time.  That is the hardest part to accept.  I hope she knows how hard it was to do what I did, how hard it was to let her go.  I hope she knows how much I loved her...how much we all loved her...and how much we still do.  She was the best Christmas gift I ever got.  Truly.

Heaven has a beautiful new four-legged angel dog now.  She has milky white paws and dark, loving eyes. Her black fur has soft waves in it, and I am sure her whole butt is wagging with joy.  Run free, sweet Ellie girl.  I can't wait to meet you at the Rainbow Bridge.  It might be awhile, it might not be.  I will never know.  But of this I am sure:  I will never forget your sweet face or how good it feels to love you.  That, in itself, is a gift.

Quintessential Ellie.  The sweetest face a dog could ever have.

I thought of you with love today,

but that is nothing new.

I thought about you yesterday

and days before that, too.

I think of you in silence

and often speak your name.

All I have are memories

and your picture in a frame.

Your memory is my keepsake,

with which I'll never part.

God has you in his keeping.

I have you in my heart.

Last Thursday.  Just a walk in the park.

Splash, Splash...I Might As Well Be Taking a Bath

Living in the sweltering heat and humidity of the South, there is really no other place to be in the summertime than the pool. From mid-May through mid-September each year, we practically live there. Our beloved pool has become a gathering place over the years, and the Little Nguyens have many friends from school, from church and from our neighborhood who they join in play there nearly every day.

As a child, my mom would buy a punch card to the Westmoor Pool once each summer, and other than the public library and free summer movies at the Midwest Theater on Tuesday afternoons, it sufficed as my summertime entertainment. I wouldn't have had it any other way, and I still wouldn't. There were no fancy camps and no day trips to the museum. Lunch "out" meant having Dad bring home 25 cent hamburgers and French fries from McDonald's during their "25 Cent Week". Oh, Lord, I thought I had died and gone to heaven when he pulled up in the driveway in his sheriff's car with a bag full of cheeseburgers! But every afternoon by 1:30, you could find me cooling off with Paula and Rachel.  My babysitter took me to our neighborhood pool every weekday.  I can almost smell the coconut-y Hawaiian Tropic suntan oil and Coppertone SPF, umm...10. Mmmmm... 

 With the exception of never bringing home a bag of cheeseburgers from McDonald's and opting for a higher SPF level on our sunscreen, I do the same for my boys. Summer means stacks and stacks of books from the library, splashing around with friends, icepops anld sundae cones, perfecting your dive, cannonball contests, eau de chlorine, and the Greystone Gators. Right now, our swim team season is in full swing, and the Little Nguyens are practically living in their swimming trunks. This is what being a kid in the summertime in our house is all about. This is what they love. And I love watching them love it

You know I love simple. I have been labeled an idealist more than once in my life...and I am. To the core. I am a traditional person, and I am totally at ease with that.

Days of Old

Two brothers ready for a day out
Summer 2006

Heartbreakingly, for this mother, another school year has come to an end, and I guess it's as good a time as any to begin accepting the fact that we are ONE year away from having a middle schooler. We now officially have a rising 5th and 2nd grader. I can barely even wrap my head around that. It's almost too much, the thought threatening to push me over the edge virtually every day we draw closer to August.

My little guys,growing up now.  Big teeth and big smiles.
December 2011

Spring seems to have been one event after another, and something tells me this is becoming the norm. I remember when the First Little Nguyen was born, and I couldn't imagine anything more wonderful than being able to stay home with him. The days seemed long and endless then, and potty-training a child was surely going to be the greatest accomplishment of my adult life. Then, the Second Little Nguyen came along, fuzzy-haired and joyful. Life sped up, full throttle, jettisoning us into the years of early childhood and animal crackers and Duplos, and everything spun out of control. I thought, back then, that I would never catch my breath. Now, of course, I laugh at that. Out loud. 

At Grandma's, September 2005

Benjamin at Greenwich Point, July 2006

Thomas, June 2005

4th of July at the fairgrounds, 2005

 I long for those lazy days where fire trucks and dinosaurs were fascinating, where a story had never been heard and Goldfish crackers were the tastiest snack around. I want the days back when no one knew what chocolate was and little voices would ask all day long, "Mommy, what IS that?"  Now, these two Little Nguyens know so much, I am no longer the expert on way too many things, and they are almost completely self-sufficient. I am a chauffeur and the person who makes sure we eat healthy stuff and wear clean underwear and tie our shoes and have fun foam for school projects. I "take care of us" as Thomas explains, which is true, and I truly appreciate that he understands. But the memory of days where lifting my pink-cheeked, post-nap happy faces from their cribs would melt my heart isn't that long-gone, and I see glimpses of them from time to time. Sometimes I think my Little Nguyens sense my longing, and they stop to offer sweet smiles and giggles and hugs on occasion.  The memories are painful sometimes to think about because I know those days are gone forever, but the sweet little moments they indulge me in carry me through. 

Benjamin at the American Museum of Natural History
New York City, July 2006

Thomas and Cassie
Rapid City, 2005

 It's a heavy feeling watching them grow up. And it's particularly nauseating for me now, when I listen to my Little Nguyens whisper about cute little girls and blue eyes and "She runs fast!" This is really just seven- and ten-year old-speak for "That chick is HOT!"  These fast-running, super cute, blue-eyed, sweet little girls will one day steal my babies away. From me. Ugh. I realize how that sounds...it's a pretty jealous statement, isn't it? But, if you're a mother with a son or a father with a daughter and you don't think you will ever feel that way, you are kidding yourself! I am just preparing myself for the inevitable.  It's the circle of life, and my Little Nguyens will one day feel that overwhelmingly intense, irrepressible love for their own children.

Halloween 2005

Greenwich Point, July 2006

 Maybe the fact that I realize how fast they're changing is a blessing in itself. Maybe thinking about it and contemplating it makes me slow down a little when I am moving too fast. Maybe these things are brought to mind for a reason. The truth of it is, I love every haircut and loose tooth and inch grown. I love their broadening shoulders and long legs and laughs and giggles. And I love their little butts. Can I say that? They're so cute and not a day goes by that I don't just want to squeeze them! But at the same time, my heart aches with every soccer goal missed, every scraped elbow, every mean friend, and every broken heart. I hate watching them make mistakes they wish they hadn't made. Yet all of those things -- the good and the bad -- remind me that my Little Nguyens are healthy and growing and that we are just plain blessed. They are filled with a lot of life, and a lot of life that is yet to be lived. As difficult as it sometimes is, what a blessing it is to witness.  No matter how fast it slips by.

My Two Little Nguyens, August 2006

Fear and Honesty

Have you every had a really wild night? You know, the kind where several pumpkin martinis sound like a deliciously scrumptious idea for a Girls' Night Out...until the morning after, that is? Oh, yes. The house smells of a Thanksgiving pumpkin pie...but it's not because you are baking one.  Just for the record, this scenario has never happened to me...well, not with pumpkin martinis, anyway.  But it sounded like a great analogy.  I sorta feel like hurling right now.

I had a wild night back in January.  It's not as exciting as you would think given that it took place with me cuddled up in my favorite overstuffed armchair wearing my sweats.  And, sadly, it didn't involve pumpkin martinis or overindulgent choices of that sort. Not even a glass of wine.  It was a completely uninfluenced choice.  It involved a decision to do something really challenging, one that I am now feeling absolutely off my rocker for having made.   I hit "Register" without giving it a second thought.   Funny how these things seem like such good ideas from the comfort and safety of an oversized armchair.  Maybe my "trigger finger" was a blessing because it didn't give me any time to think (i.e. back out).  In the past four months, I have stuck with the training, at times really enjoying it.  I have stretched, pushed, equipped, tuned, organized, and contemplated this race to death. I know my limits, I know my pace, and I know what I am capable of, or, more appropriately, what I am not capable of. But somehow, with all of the preparation I have done, it still seems like one pumpkin-martini-choice too many.  The butterflies in my stomach are doing a series of beautiful arabesques worthy of Olympic gold medals, and they are causing me to feel that, at any moment, I could hurl pumpkin martini all over the place.   My fearfully anxious and panicking alter-ego is saying WTH were you thinking? You can't do this! Who do you think you are? 

Yes, Sarah.  Perfect.  Try to defeat yourself right at the end.  Classic.  You need to squash her!  She's killing your self-confidence.  You might sorta need that.

This week is what I have been trying to tell myself for the past few months that I could pull me through...that I would pull me through. This whole process has been a lesson in mental toughness, but this week, it is absolutely essential.  Required.  What the hell am I scared of?  Well, for starters, I have never done anything like this before.  I wake up at night and there are a myriad of what ifs floating around in my head.

What if I get a flat tire?

What if I hit a pothole?

What if my hydraulics malfunction?

What if I freeze when I dive in the water?

What if my goggles leak?

What if the people swimming ahead of me are too slow?

What if the ones behind me are too fast? 

What if the arch in my foot starts hurting again?

What if my shin splints haven't healed?

What if my body fails me?

What if my time totally sucks?

What if?

What if?

What if?

I know the real truth of it, though.  The deepest fears in my heart are already known, my worries are already accounted for.  And my seeds of self-doubt aren't planted by Him; they are sown by me.  If I keep allowing the what ifs to take over, then those seeds with thrive and grow like weeds.  I will sabotage myself.  And why do I want to do that so badly?  Now isn't the best time.

And a few other what ifs occurred to me at 3 AM this morning.  Thankfully.

What if I couldn't even try?
What about all the people that can't?

What if I wanted to do this but couldn't?
What if I never had?

What would I have learned about me then?

Absolutely nothing. 
This has been a good lesson for me. 

Tomorrow, I will brick for the last time until Sunday morning, and then I will give my body a preparatory and well-deserved rest.  No more runs in the rain.  I have a solid pace.  No more climbs and ascents that make my thighs burn.  They know how to do the work.  No more stroke and turn.  I know how to breath.  But, Good Lord, I am scared.

  Cue the mental toughness. You have practiced this.

All things are possible, Sarah.

Just go. And don't look back.

"Love never fails."

It has been a crazy week....a lot of emotions all packed into a few days.  I would do these days all over again, though.  Not because they felt good.  But because, once again, I was blessed to feel His presence.  The days were filled with lots of love, more than a few tears, a lot of fear, an aching heart, but ultimately profound joy and a sense of peace.  Yes, the aching is a wish for things to be different, I know.  It's a wish for things to be how I think they should be...and that desire to control is something I have to work hard on to resist.  I want to fix this.  I want to heal the people it hurt.  It's not a new feeling, but I am beginning to figure out how to turn it around.  She talked about it often, and she willingly did it.  I think I understand better now.  I just have to listen...really listen.  To Him.  Trust me...  Yes, I do.

I knew her for a short time, in retrospect, but I feel as if it were a lifetime.  I wish with all my heart that it had been.  She figured me out instantly, and I was virtually transparent around her.  I remember the day I helped in her class, bringing a First Aid kit craft to do with Thomas' preschool friends.  Under her watchful teacher eyes, I could see her relax a little when she realized I knew what I was doing.  And after spending the morning watching her in awe and amazement (and you know it's hard to impress the teacher in me!), I knew why Thomas was so drawn to her.  As I was leaving, she thanked me genuinely....not like some teachers who say they want help in the classroom but really don't want you there.  And I was tickled when she said, "We need to be friends!"  I knew she meant it, and I knew we would be.  How many friendships begin that way?  Even then, I remember thinking, "Geez, God.  Way to be subtle!"  I know it now, and I knew it then....our paths were supposed to cross.  That's the Lord for you, in all his glorious greatness, working his way into your heart in the most unseemly ways.

Maribeth was an exceptional listener, and her advice was always quick to follow.  It was kind and reassuring, always loving, uplifting, reminding.  What she said never failed to point me in the right direction again, gently.  She never told me anything I didn't already know, but she helped to strengthen my faith in what I believed.  Maybe she saw things in me that I can't or won't.  That was her gift, and was she ever good at it. Encouraging me to plod on and try new things...believing in me.  That's what friends do, right?  She always knew what to say to make me feel better, or maybe how to make me feel not-so-awful about how I handled something.  Like after Dad died.  She asked me to tell her about it, and she was one of the only ones I knew would believe me about what I had felt.  I also embarrassingly confessed to her that, after that heart-wrenching night, I was just tired of praying.  She said, with all sincerity and absolutely no judgment,  "Sa-rah!  Even Jesus took a break from praying in the garden!"  And I felt better.  Just like that.  She professed many words these last few months, none of them hers, but all of them important. They made sense in the context of this whole experience.  They brought clarity to it.  They resonated with me, and I am sure I wasn't the only one. Maribeth's answer to everything, every ache, every pain, every bump in the road, every bad day, every frustrated word was always one of these three things:
Be still and know...
All things through Christ...
Love never fails.


Thursday presented us all with what I like to thing of as her last lesson plan.  In my heart, I knew it would be.  While I dreaded the finality of it all, dreaded watching those who love her weep, I also wanted to soak up every Word, every note of every song, that she had chosen.  Her beliefs about faith were spoken so eloquently, so thorough and beautifully through His Word.  Knowing her destiny presented her with a gift of sorts, one where she was given the opportunity to think about what messages she wanted to convey, and that's how she told me she was going to look at it -- God was granting her an amazing blessing to be able to do this.  She was able to think carefully about her last goodbye.  Of course, the immensely-detailed and spot-on lesson planner that she was did not disappoint.  She filled the Mass with things she wanted us to remember, things that were important above anything else, and it was without a doubt her best lesson ever.  Each of her three favorite sentiments came shining through.  And each time, when those words were echoed, her voice resonated.  HIS Word resonated.  We knew she would have some thoughts to share with us even after she went to heaven, but who knew she would be comforting us?  Maribeth did.  That is the woman that so many loved dearly.  She never failed to share her heart with others.  She had great compassion, always playing second fiddle.  But she knew her death would leave us aching.  And even before it happened, she wanted to love us through it all.  We should have known that, unlike her voice, her love for us all could not be silenced. She was wrapped around us all on Thursday, and her presence there was felt in every hug and smile.  The walls of St. Francis sometimes seems cold and unforgiving to me.  I know that's awful to say.  Sometimes I go there in search of things that I am not able to find.  But not on this day.  The walls were warmed with a heartfelt, honest tribute from a very human friar, alive with His message, and marked by her presence.

  Some people leave jewelry, money, and possessions when they die.  I am sure she left those as well.  But her most valuable possession...one she left a piece of with everyone she knew...was her love for the Lord.  What a treasure she was.  She was goodness personified.  Mom and Susan are the only ones who were ever able to spend any time with her, and I so wish you all could have met her.  I am sure Dad is completely charmed with her in heaven, and he probably has her listening to war stories and state patrol tales.  I am quite certain that she is probably being her sweet self, obliging him in one of two things:  playing poker (I never asked her if she knew how) or eating strawberry ice cream.  I am sure she is working her prayerful magic on everyone there, spreading her love like fairy dust on a breeze.  With her, it was easy to say I love you and mean it with your whole heart.  There were no conditions for love with Maribeth; it was free-flowing for anyone.  She was like someone I had grown up with, a puzzle piece from another puzzle that would have fit perfectly into mine.  Her family, her parents, her children as siblings, remind me so much of us.  And walking into her house is like walking into a family reunion, just like when we get together.  It's comfortable and it feels exactly the same, at least is does to me.  I will miss that a lot.

She left a lot of things, a lot of memories, so many friends, but most importantly a heartbroken family who love her desperately.  With each other, with God's help, and her prayers from above, I know they will find their way.  Listen to the song she left them.  It was yet another reminder from her that LOVE NEVER FAILS.  It is always the answer.  She knew and respected that people were all in different places on their faith journey, that everyone had different troubles and worries, but she always encouraged us to move forward and look for God's presence in everything -- in each other, in every trial, in every joy, in every day.  I think she chose this song as a way of reassuring from beyond that, through love for each other and for our Lord, we will find peace in His promise.  God gave us each other for a reason.  His love will bring us through those times in our lives when we think we can't go on.  Keeping our hearts focused on Him will bring us every ounce of strength we need, and drawing closer to Him will make the unbearable -- the unthinkable --maybe just a little bit more livable.  Even though we can't see her, He allows her to live on through every "I love you" we share with each other.  I am sharing it with you.  Because I want to.  I guess because I need to.  Love is the very thing that is bringing joy to this sadness.  He was so right, and she knew it.  Love never fails.

Thank you, sweet friend, for your friendship, for long lunches with laughter and honest conversations, for sharing your faith with me so completely, for letting me care for you, and for believing me.  Thank you for having enough trust in me to let me walk with you for even a minute of this last year.  My understanding of the depth and breadth of your aches and pains and fears and experiences is so very, very small.  But I know and remember your heart well.  I always will.  And although it ceases to beat, it loves on, stronger than ever.
I love you, sweet friend. 

You'll have to turn the music on my playlist off to hear this.  It's worth it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DoDmFQWOL4Y

"Love from the center of your being, Sarah."

Maribeth, May 2011

Heaven welcomed a new angel this morning, and I know He was overjoyed to bring her home.  He came in His own perfect and glorious time to reclaim a soul so faithful and content with His plan for her that it takes my breath away to even think of it.  He created such a beautiful woman, from the inside out, that transformed lives both big and small.  I am forever  changed by my friendship with her, convinced that He blessed us with a companionship that just by knowing her, would draw me closer to Him.  Short a time as it was, it has changed who I am, how I think about life, what I place importance on.  Maybe even where I am going.

In April of last year, after she was diagnosed with her brain tumor, she gave me a beautiful Bible -- written in an unfamiliar, contemporary language -- but one that has spoken to me in a way that no other book of His Word has.  Her cancer caused her to lose many skills in this past year, one of which was writing, but somehow she managed to pen an inscription inside the front cover that I will forever cherish:  To Sarah, who loves from the center of her being.  I love you.  Maribeth.   She also marked a verse for me, one I knew then that I could never unmark.  Without hesitation, it is the one I turned to this morning.  When I read it, my heart burst...and I saw things in it that I never had before.  How did she know it would bring so much meaning to me on this day?  How did she know that, with all the worries and anxiety I have floating around in my head these last few weeks, THESE words were the ones?  Her heart was knowing, and I think she marked it to reference a plan for living life.  She marked it to remind me.

This journey wasn't about me at all.  This was her journey -- all hers.  She knew the plan from that very first day --His plan -- for how she was going to live it all out, how she would submit and serve Him through it all, and she asked us all to support her choice.  Even at a time when many would crumble and wither -- when I would crumble and wither -- she absolutely flourished.  Our talks last Spring were filled at first with a quiet fear on my part and a rumbling strength on hers.  But that changed a little over the course of the year, and although I knew the end would come, I also knew, as she often reminded everyone, "Either way, this is a win-win for me!"  It is a victory of sorts for her...a bittersweet one, albeit.  Today was the death of the body that housed the soul of a beautiful woman, one the Lord created with skilled hands, with vision and with tremendous, incomprehensible love.  During our quiet talks, we acknowledged this day would come, but we did not dwell on it.  Her eyes said the words, and mine heard them...she didn't have to utter the unspeakable truth of it all.  And that's okay.  I heard what her heart was saying.  I think, somehow, when she wrote those words inside her gift to me, when she marked the verse, she knew that they would be a friend to me even after she was gone.  The words in blue ink inside the front cover and the wisdom and truth-filled words she marked will always minister to me, just as she always did.  In her dying, she found the time and strength to think about comforting me in my eventual sorrow.  How selfless is that?  The passage will remind me of a lady with a heart so filled with love for God, for her husband, for her family, for her children, for her friends, and for the beautiful, wee souls that she taught.  His Word was the essence of who she was.  What a gift it was when our paths crossed four years ago.

 In the past few weeks, speaking has been next to impossible for her, and the only words she was granted the clarity, as I see it, to speak were HIS -- yet another blessing from the Lord.  "All things...Christ."  Those were the last words she kept repeating before I left her house last Friday.  Those were the last words I ever heard her say.  She meant All things through Christ who strengthens me.  Those were the Words that she spoke so often, the ones that, I think, brought her through this journey, the Words she fervently believed in.  And those Words were the ones she was able to speak to so many to remind us of how we were going to get through the loss of the woman we loved.

While my heart aches to wrap my arms around my dear friend, I am also filled with a strange and unfamiliar sense of joy. I know what that is.  It's called peace.  She had it inside her, and it grew faster and larger than the cancer that claimed her life.  Victory.  I am sure she is happy to know it was contagious.  I know she is smiling, she is joyous, she is exuberant at His side, she has the answers to many questions, and her heart is radiating with His peace. I even think my cardinal (hello, Dad) that stops now and then on my deckpost must now have a new friend.  There she was, amidst the pouring rain this morning, waiting to greet me when I arrived home from her house.  There she was, sitting on the very same deckpost, quiet and still, waiting for me, staring at me, watching me sob.  She hasn't found her little voice yet, but her gentle silence and calm identifies her.  I always told Maribeth, "Even when you can't talk to me, I will hear what your heart is saying."  That new little brown sparrow will find her voice soon, and when she does, I know the Words she will proclaim with her sweet chirps.  One of the last things I whispered to her was, "Please send me a sign.  I promise I will look.  I will know it's you."  Therein lies the plain and simple truth of life:  if we choose to look, our eyes will see.  I believe that.  It makes me happy, when I think of how she must feel right now, and I know the tears will stop.  I won't ever believe she is gone, so to speak, and I know where she is -- as close as a whisper.  I choose to see.  The sadness in my heart must move over and make room for joy, and thankfulness will roll off my tongue in every prayer I speak.  It is a privilege when God gives us friends.  Her love was...it is a blessing...and I am truly happy in my heart because I know she is living in peace.

Maribeth Spangenberg is dancing now.  She is testing out her wings.  I can't wait to hear her sing.  And I know that forevermore, she will kneel before Him in gratitude for all He blessed her with.  I believe I will hear her sweet voice when I choose to listen.  Through her...because of her...I hear Him louder and clearer than ever before.

Sweet Maribeth is filled with New Life.  And I guess, so to speak, I am, too.
Thank you, my friend, for helping me see.

A beautifully amazing woman, at the finish line.

LOVE from the center of who you are; don't fake it.  Run for dear life from evil; hold on for dear life to good.  Be good friends who love deeply; practice playing second fiddle.  

Don't burn out; keep yourselves fueled and aflame.  Be alert servants of the Master, cheerfully expectant.  Don't quit in hard times; pray all the harder; be inventive in hospitality.

Bless your enemies; no cursing under your breath.  Laugh with your happy friends when they're happy; share tears when they're down.  Get along with each other; don't be stuck-up.  Make friends with nobodies; don't be the great somebody.

Don't hit back; discover beauty in everyone.   If you've got it in you, get along with everybody.  Don't insist on getting even; that's not for you to do.   "I'll do the judging," says God.  "I'll take care of it."

  Romans 12:9-19   

One fantastic family.  The Spangenbergs, May 2011 -- Rich, Maribeth, Jordan, Alexander, Jared, and Blair.

http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/maribethspangenberg