The Keeper of the Shoes

Stubborn grains from a sandy beach cling to the graying laces of the shoes I wore when I trudged along the Florida shore to build up stamina for the year ahead.  Dust from garden mulch covers another pair, an uninvited tagalong from the ground around my broken fence, the one I propped up until a more permanent fix was found. Mud encrusts my favorite boots, a portable memorial of the spot where I laid our precious dog to rest.

I have trudged a thousand rugged miles through grief in recent months, and I have the gritty shoes to prove it. It isn’t as if I have no idea what to do with dirty shoes. I’d rather not have to do it.

George was the keeper of the shoes, the one who cleaned and polished them to a military shine. He had a bristly brush to clean away the dirt and saddle soap in case of grime. He had a box full of polishes—multiple shades of brown, standard black and navy, baby-shoe and sneaker white, and, best of all, red for the adventuresome women in his life.  Not content with merely rubbing for the shine, he lit a match to melt the polish, then buffed repeatedly until each shoe sported a soldier-worthy gloss.

If I close my eyes, I can almost see him now bent for hours at this task. On the right, a jumbled pile of oft worn shoes waited longingly for his restoring touch. Each was eager for the privilege to stand at strict attention with the boots and shoes now burnished bright that lined up on the left. His tidy, trusty shoeshine box squared off obediently in front of him, like one of the altars on which he served.

In this is love—in George’s commitment to a menial task that benefited the people he loved the best, and to do what he could to help them put their best foot forward. 

In This Is Love

I was shocked to attention by their scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs red. Not that they uttered a sound, or so much as nodded to get me to look. But dozens of blossoms stared me in the eye, their bright yellow orbs dared me to smile—or at least to acknowledge their existence. Either the camellia tree had bloomed furtively overnight, or I had been too distracted to notice.

In my rapid, first response, I gasped, “How could this tree possibly have missed the memo and worn such vibrant red during these months of gloomy gray?” I had assumed a tree planted so close to where I come and go would have taken subtle cues from my appearance. It could have observed that muted tones or subtle grays were the only acceptable substitutes for tear-stained black. It should have noted its more sensitive siblings, the ones who hug the lot line, dressed in tasteful white. If it couldn’t dress itself more sensitively, then perhaps it shouldn’t dress itself at all.

In my lingering second glance, I couldn’t help but notice the sheer magnitude of blooms that burst from this aging tree. Such a showy display had not appeared for many, many years. I am sure there is a studied horticultural reason for this extraordinary display, but at this moment, as the calendar turns its back on January and reaches for love-laced February, this seems like an extravagant bouquet meant just for me.

The flowers, luscious in their crimson frocks—the color of a dozen roses or a heart-shaped box of chocolates—conveyed a message of exuberant love but not in a way that was cliché. While the flowers attracted my attention, it was the tree that spoke of love. I recognized its steadfast faithfulness. This tree planted almost eighty years ago was still giving of itself.

It persevered through countless hardships and adapted to each change. It remained standing when its friends succumbed to Andrew, Katrina and Gustav, storms that decimated our home and yard. It had survive our renovations, the countless splatters of Tudor trim paint. It had wrapped its arms around our little boys who often climbed it when they were small. When ice crystals entombed it buds and leaves, it drew from an inner warmth that sustained it through the freeze.

In this is love, the willingness to sacrifice and expect nothing in return, the constant giving of oneself while standing through the storms. Jesus lived and died like this. So did George.

Broken Remants

I walked along the beach yesterday, bracing myself against the wind and cold. Decaying fish and broken shells dredged from gulf depths marked the sand, still packed and dark from rain that had pelted the shore. I walked around the rotting carcasses. I bent often to salvage some intact shells from among shards, grateful the storms had brought to shore more than the usual number of pickings.

It is the nature and the power of a storm to surface what is beneath the surface. This is as true with the storms of life as it is of storms along the shore. The turbulence that disturbs the placid calm of what we thought was ordinary has a way of exposing what is dead and broken.

I have seen this in my own heart and in the hearts of many who have reached out to me. For reasons not yet clear to me, I have displayed the floating wreckage of my life on public shores where casual observers and devoted friends can pick among the debris. The exposure of my deep wounds has caused many to revisit their own dark days, to bring to the surface again their broken dreams.

I am newly aware of how much grief lies just beneath the smiles of those I see in the course of daily life. I am saddened by how often I have strolled along the shore of life with these same friends and failed to see their hidden pain. I resolve to be a more intent observer, a better listener and more caring friend.

Healing happens when together we pick through broken remnants, when we reclaim what is still beautiful and turn our back on what is dead.

#JanuaryResolve

A Brief Encounter

I had a brief encounter with “normal” today. It crept down two long aisles and snuck up on me from behind the art supplies. I startled momentarily because I could not immediately identify my interloper. Gradual recognition dawned, and I realized I was face to face with the person who used to be me.

I was a little surprised that between the front door and the back of the store, I had not noticed her stealthy advance. I cannot blame her solely. The soft sounds of Christmas music, the pleasant sight of beckoning merchandise and countless shoppers who seemed not to notice the half of a woman I have become all abetted her.

My first impulse was to send her away. What business did I have keeping company with someone so carefree and happy? I was perplexed by this turn of events, but she was a familiar companion, and I found it refreshing to let her stay, if only for a while.

Together we shopped, walking among the other women as if life were normal, as if I was not half of the person I used to be. A stranger asked my advice as if I were just any grandmotherly type. My suggestions enhanced her project, and she was grateful. In return, and without knowing it, she gifted me with a few moments of being just any woman.

For a couple of hours, with normal at my side, I was caught up in the spirit of giving. I had no burden other than checking off the boxes on my errand list. I think I was happier than other more harried shoppers, who found the crowded stores and seasonal traffic their greatest woe. I finished my tasks and headed home. Normal slipped away as the brightness of the day was fading, but not before I had the chance to call out softly, “Thanks for a pleasant afternoon.”

I have taken over twenty-four hours to process Friday’s experience. I had not realized the great extent to which “normal” went away until suddenly it reappeared—although only for two hours. Loss multiplies loss, and in the equation, I have lost not only my husband but also any notion of who I am. I am an oozing, gaping wound; the crippled half of what was once a vibrant whole. Loss of identity is my widow’s wear. 

A THOUSAND MILES FROM HOME

I was a thousand miles from home the day George died. The day was as unfit for travel as it was for hearing such terrible news. Storms raging in Dallas grounded my flight from Des Moines. After a two-hour delay, the plane lifted off in defiance of the menacing sky.

At 22,000 feet, the pilot informed us of what we already knew; we were in for a bumpy ride, too turbulent for beverages or trips down the aisle. He added, “I am requesting clearance to ascend to 33,000 feet. The higher we go, the less turbulent it will be.” What he spoke as aviation truth, I heard as an apt metaphor for how I could weather the turbulent days ahead.

Even at 35,000 feet, we saw neither sky nor sun. On either side, there was nothing but relentless gray. For the second time that day, I had a picture to explain my life. I, too, was lost in a cloud, unable to see what lay ahead or came at me from either side.

As the pilot relied on his instruments, I knew I could fly by faith, trusting the all-reliable guidance system of my heavenly father and following every word he said. In my personal world so abruptly plunged into darkness, I am hanging onto this promise, “For with you is the fountain of life: in your light we see light.” (Psa. 36:9).

Now at Christmas, in this season of lights, every twinkling bulb reminds me “in your light we see light.” Through the fog of my current existence, I am looking toward the Light, knowing clarity will come.

Giving Thanks Day 2: Nikki

I am so blessed by a daughter who loves me enough to undertake (and succeeds) at the task of purchasing me new shoes that would look good and in which I could stand for four solid hours the first time I wore them.

Giving Thanks Day 1

The beginning of the season of giving thanks slipped by me, making its appearance the same day I realized that in addition to a far weightier loss, we had also lost an hour. Now as I see the posts of those who choose to celebrate November by declaring their gratitude for their blessings by posting them daily on FB, I see that I too have so much for which to give thanks.

And so today, seven days into this month, when 'pop up showers' make a regular appearance on my face and I think that if I had foreseen this sorrow, I would have been wise to invest in Kimberly-Clark, I choose to post the things for which I am grateful. I trust this does not offend anyone. I am taking a stand in my belief that grief and gratitude are not incompatible, and so...

‪#‎givingthanks 1. 

I am so grateful for having been loved well by the best husband ever, a man picked by God for me and one who knew me well and loved me anyway. I am so grateful we were at peace, our hearts were as one and we had no unresolved business. I'm grateful we had plans for our future that brought him much joy.

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PS: Remember I am seven days behind, so there will be multiple initial posts.