The 'P' Word

I think about my mom every day. Somehow, her presence remains constant in even the most mundane aspects of who I've become. It's as if the presence of those you love transcends beyond what is seen or unseen, and regardless of where it dwells or rests it is a part of you; their presence is simply present.

Growing up, my mom would always tell me how I needed to learn to wait and be the dreaded 'p' word ... patient. If you knew my mother, you would understand the irony of how a sweet, slow-talking southern bell gave birth to such a loud, boisterous child. Perhaps the northeast is to blame for the difference in our temperament, but never-the-less it is to account for how she truly taught me to be patient. 

My mother had the ability to talk. Forever. She stretched out syllabus, elongated sentences and in doing so, had this knack for charming people with her slow, southern twang. And maybe while taking 10 minutes to say hello and 20 minutes to say goodbye is wonderfully charming, it's also wonderfully inconvenient when you have things to do.

More often than not, I found my mothers southern speech and social habits to be inconvenient as I wanted to see it all, do it all and be it all. I was active, passionate and I NEVER wanted to miss out. Needless to say, having a mother who knew everyone, loved everyone and talked to EVERYONE, sometimes interfered with the 'things I had to do.' 

During the nine months that my mother was terminally ill, I learned more about the 'p' word. I watched her battle cancer, fight disease and make her peace with the world that she knew was not her home. Still being the boistrous see-it-do-it-be-it-all child (then teenager) that I was, I had trouble grasping how my mother was still teaching me to be patient during such a traumatic time. She was living the ultimate waiting game, yet somehow, she was joyful.

It was waiting of the worst kind. I had to wait--wait for the school bus pick me up and deliver me to school so I could take my AP classes and act like a normal teenager trying to make it to college. I had to wait--wait for the bell to ring so I could catch a ride to the hospital to help take care of my mom. I had to wait--wait for doctors to tell me what to expect and how to understand the logic of cancer. I had to wait--wait for answers to questions that I knew I would never understand. I had to wait--wait to feel overwhelming emotions that I knew I would always be afraid to process. I had to wait--wait for my mother to get better, only to watch her get worse.

And all the while, my mom was waiting in peace and in grace--she waited for what was unknown with such joy.

But what is joy, anyway? Especially in sickness, in death? What is peace? What is grace? It took me a really long time to understand, or want to understand. How can such things even exist?

Then one day it hit me: maybe patience isn't so much about waiting, as it is about living. I mean, really living.

Maybe, what my mom was trying to teach me through her life and through her death is that patience isn't about being deprived of a quick answer, but rather the act of being blessed with an opportunity to take ones time.

Maybe, patience is our opportunity to find joy in the present--to live our life through unexpected journeys rather than in the predictable rigidity of our own plans.

Maybe, patience isn't a process to grudge through the 'in-between,' but a freedom to explore what we might otherwise overlook.

Let's be real: we all have those days--and sometimes I wake up and wonder what I'm doing, where I'm going or my mission for being where I am and doing what it is that I do. Some days I wish I didn't feel so 'in between'--so listless. But then there's that part of my mother that reminds me that being somewhere 'in between' is a gift, it's a life.

And perhaps it is in those moments that we can learn to live-- that we can learn to tweak our listless tone to the slow, peaceful twang of patience.

The Stream Of My Mind

The light is fading. And no matter how hard I try to move forward, I stand concrete in the driveway.

My mind, falling--falling back. Somehow, I land in a pile of leaves and all of a sudden I'm 7 again and it's time for dinner. It's time for life and laughter and aworld with out death and pain. And in that world no matter how much it rains, the joy of being innocent is never clouded or rerouted by fear.

My mind, falling--falling down. Somehow, I pick myself up and I continue chasing my brother. Through the woods to the ledge that's always sunny-past the field to our fort where we are pirates and explorers and everything that is good. And as we feel the wind and watch the trees blow we live like giants because we are heros in our fortress of childhood.

My mind, falling--falling forward. Somehow, I crawl into a bed that in my little world is my haven. And I hug my bunny and my giraffe and I feel the warmth of my mother who sings me to sleep. I hear her voice and the locust outside and I know that I am loved. My little eyes flutter as I drift and I glide peacefully into a realm of dreams and images of things I want to become when I grow up.

My mind, races--races through all of the traces of where I wondered and where I lived. The smell of damp grass and the way the trees look right before they turn from summer to fall. In that moment, I am riding with my head out the window to soccer and my heart is beating so fast I think I might fly. And when I get home my dad places the final spring in the trampoline and I jump until I feel like I might die. I am wildly free and I roll down the basement stairs to my fortress of toys and the boys I have to play with because they are my brother's friends from church. And when I climb back to the top of the stairs I feel the cold tile beneath my bare feet as my mother scoops me up and wraps me in her pink Chanel robe. In that robe, she teaches me about God and Jesus and Heaven and I believe her because she is those things and I want to be them too. She is filled with life and love and she always makes me feel happy. She teaches me to sing and we dance to tambourines and the music that my dad plays. And our family always feels alive and I feel safe. And on Friday's people fill our house but we wait in the tree and watch them as they walk through the yard because this house is our home and these trees are our world. A world that stretches across a field to a church where my daddy preaches and where I feel like I have a family that will always be there. A place that becomes my playground yet my sanctuary, my adventure yet my safety. And as the sun sets we make our hand prints in the curb and as we run and look back I feel like I will be here forever.

All of a sudden my mind is still-finally still. Somehow, I am present in a moment where I am 22 and in a tree that seems so much bigger, yet smaller. I stare at a house that is no longer my home. The light disappears and I can no longer tell if the coolness on my face is brought by tears or rain drops.

I load up the last of my belongings, and I pull out of my driveway for the last time, alone.

I say goodbye to my home of 17 years. And as I see its silhouette in the fog, it seems perfect. Somehow I realize that I am saying goodbye to a home that always gave me a glimpse of what it will be like one day. In this moment, I am brought to a place where my mom sings, my dad plays and my brother and I build forts and climb trees. A place to awake, chase and infinitely land. A place where the ledges are always sunny and the locust are always humming. A place where we can truly fly and jump so high and never die. A place where the auditorium is full again, and Ira is singing "Oh Praise the Lord."

Cheers.

And so it begins: yet another transition. Another series of beginnings. A new city, a new home. The uncharted territory of a new life that's just ... different. But for the first time in a long time, I feel free. It's exhilarating. 

If there is one thing that I've come to appreciate, it's the art of being honest with yourself. And after years of being dishonest with myself, I find that taking that gut-wrenching look at yourself in the mirror and asking yourself those painful questions (that you already know the answer to), is the way you find your path and a place of peace. It's the way you set yourself free. 

I love to write. I find writing to be one of the most therapeutic forms of self-expression. Life can be ugly and beautiful ... and really ugly. Somehow writing about the truth seems to be a gutsy way to process, reflect and find humor in what would otherwise be a senseless-and at times-relentless stream of experiences. 

I used to write quite often and I miss it. Somewhere in between the hustle and bustle of college, graduate school and grief, I gave up writing for the sake of writing. Yet, as is true with time, we are often drawn back to the things we love. 

So, cheers: to new beginnings, old pastimes, writing for the sake of writing, and by doing so, asking the hard questions. 

Grace & Peace

{MaryAbbs}