Fun With Boxes

Nathan-this is what he and his cousins did with their free time at my Aunt Heidi's place up north last week. Fun with empty boxes, just like the good ol' days. Thanks for the pictures, Lynne. And thanks Heidi and Joe for the beautiful and fun filled weekend camping in your yard, eating good food, and telling old ghost stories by the campfire.

Witnessing Grace

Here is what I wrote in my journal on April 8th:

Mourning Again

Gracie--intense baby, exceptionally impassioned little girl.
Heart on her sleeve,
it splits open for all to see, hear, feel her sorrow;
and her blood runs and it touches any in her vicinity.

Her anguished cries and screams, begging him
to stay.
Trying to physically keep him here;
blocking
pushing him back
clutching his body, not letting go.
Grabbing door frames and walls as he carries her
with him out to the car.

Why can't you work in Michigan, Daddy?
I don't want you to go, Daddy!
You can't go. Stay. Stay here, Daddy.
You're staying here, Daddy. You don't have to go.
Stay, Daddy.
Her six year old head can't wrap itself around the why.
Her six year old heart only knows it has been cracked wide open
and it hurts.

She succmbs.
He sits with her in the backseat;
she cries.
A mournful, moaning cry.
He holds her.
She says,
I don't want you to go Daddy.
She says it like a mantra that's lost its reason.
He says he doesn't want to go either.
She sobs
until she sleeps, even though Gracie doesn't sleep in the car;
she sleeps.

He wakes her when we are on the airport roads;
she quietly weeps as though she never slept.
When he says good-bye her weeping returns to wailing.
She is trying to hold it back
but cannot.
He tries to make her laugh, she tries to smile for him
but cannot.
Instead, a sorrowful moan escapes her throat
and she is trying to close her heart
but she cannot.

Her wailing circles to quiet weeping, which turns to
quiet contemplation.
Or subdued stillness.
Or encompassing emptiness.
She is temporarily tranquilized.
She gazes at nothing.

My right arm is stretched back holding,
caressing her right foot;
the only comfort I can give while driving alone with her now.
My arm is numb
my heart is not.

A low lamenting moan after a time,
but it is only followed by a sigh--no more crying.
She is six years old and she grieves again for her daddy.
And I grieve for her.


I wrote this the day Joel left after the longest visit yet (7 days). And that same night, at 11pm, I wrote:
She is dancing, she is creating art, she is laughing and smiling. She stops to say she misses him, she allows her grief to flow, but then she allows herself normalcy and levity. Her spirits are lifted by music and art and animals, she allows herself to feel what she is feeling in the moment and she does not wallow.


I love the lessons our children show us. Thank you, Gracie.