march 20. Your Real.

(JoyfulMysteries Note: we met through a friend. She is kind and funny. She is always encouraging. She was one of the first people to read my blog. She is open to the Holy Spirit. She loves her husband. She loves her son. And today, she shares her real. I am

So incredibly touched.  Thank you Nicole, I know, your Mom is so proud of you…so much Love today and always friend)

Thinking about loss, grief, and what happens to the rest of us when someone is gone.  My real is loneliness.  Not all the time, but when it’s there it’s THERE.  The person I pick up the phone to call—in sorrow, in trouble, in joy, in boredom at the grocery store—is gone.  I still find myself in that split second of thought, I almost grab at my phone and I remember the gone, the void.  I had a counselor (who I only saw twice and under the guise of my husbands EAP; another story) said that I could still talk to her.  I remember thinking, “Yeah, duh,” and at the same time, “Yeah, right.”  It is not the same.  I believe in heaven, I believe in the Everlasting Life and that one day I will see my mom again but it is not the same.  Those things are a comfort, those things are a lifeline to me but they don’t make it better.  Not in the way I want, sometimes.

My mom had a happy life in a small town 7 hours away.  She was a champion encourager.  She smiled in the midst of almost daily blood draws, fatigue, oxygen tanks, procedures, appointments, I could go on.  She was—is—an amazing woman of God.  And she was such a safe person to talk to.  Her friends know me but not in the know know way.  She didn’t come across people in my circle, and she did not gossip.  She was there, she stinking always answered the phone.  Such a gift in this day of texting and messaging and screening everything.  She listened, she prayed, and she supported me.  Not blindly taking sides; honest but fiercely loyal.  And I need that.  I need it in a way that just doesn’t exist anymore.  My friends are our friends, my church is family, and it can be too close—sometimes.  This isn’t to say that I have big ugly things to talk about—okay we all have big ugly things to talk about—this is the “let’s get real movement right ?,” but really my marriage isn’t in trouble, I’m not sick, I’m not running from the law, I’m not broke; but sometimes I feel broken. 

 My heart is broken.

I mention the counselor and don’t get me wrong she was very sweet and empathetic, she was likely quite good at her job.  I wasn’t ready to get into all of it, I shared my family’s story and she talked to me about grief and losing a parent and self care, and I get it.  I know a lot of it, heck I’ve taught a lot of it.  But what is there when you’re at the ugly cry, shaking your fist at God, the pretty tears are gone and you’re just wanting to scream or puke stage?  My advice? Maybe we should go for it.  Scream, shake, puke, hide under a comforter.  I watch my three year old son when he doesn’t get his way sometimes and I gotta admit, I could be envious.  Three year old’s let it all hang out; he doesn’t know what “put together” is.

But we do.  I do.  We say we’re fine, or we’re tired, or we complain about something easy, tedious.  That avoids the big stuff, that’s good.  I don’t say that I’m sometimes overtaken by the thought that when my Grandmother died I did not even grasp what my mom was going through.  I think about “Was I even nice to her during that time? Was it all about me because I lost Grandma?  Was I too easy to ‘get over it’ because she lived a long lovely life and you expect Grandmothers to pass away?”  I know now what my mom was feeling and I hate that I can’t say “I’m sorry, I had no idea how this rips you apart.”   It’s too late.  I don’t talk about little seeds of wonder, of worry, about what her last moments were.  Seeds that can germinate and grow and become fearful, terrible maybes.  

That’s just a couple, we don’t say a lot.  Most of the time.  

Maybe that’s changing.  Maybe there’s a measured approach because, let’s be honest, we don’t want to go around acting like 35 year old toddlers.  That would get old real quick.  You know, sometimes I let my son stomp his feet and wail, sometimes I tell him to calm down, “suck it up,” sometimes I bring out the big guns, and sometimes I wrap him up and kiss his face and I make it better.  I think if we can be that to each other and trust that we might, just maybe, know what someone needs.  To just trust that voice inside, be it woman’s intuition, your ‘gut,’ the leaning of the Holy Spirit, or all of the above—we might be able to help someone get what they need, whether it’s to get it out, let it ride, suck it up, or make it better.  It’s worth a try, I’m in, are you?





My name is Nicole. I live in Oregon. I have a son, Elliott who is almost 3.  Married to my husband for 7 years after meeting him on an Amtrak train from Oregon to Washington.  We lost my dear mom Gail in June of 2013, she got to meet and know her first Grandson and she was the proudest Grandmother ever.