2021 Winter Storm

 Just as I think there is nothing else to write on grief, a historic winter storm hits my entire state, resulting in an emergency situation of no electrical power or water. No heat for 65 hours forced me, like others, to drain pipes in a desperate attempt to prevent breakage. (The jury is still out on this, as I have not yet turned on the water.) When our neighborhood finally received restored power, we set about boiling possibly contaminated water. 

Fortunately, I have a lot of camping experience in primitive environments. I spent a summer sleeping in a tree hammock while providing health care to young children. I’ve enjoyed the wilderness with little amenities, but goodness, not in my own suburban home and rarely alone. 

Fortunate to have a small tent, I crawled in it several times a day to warm my chilled body. However, that  was also the very place where I struggled with intense loneliness.  Where are you, Rob? I need your body heat; I need you to tell me all is going to be well! Somehow, those two seemed to always go hand in hand in the past. Once again, I found myself fighting the demons of grief and loss.

As I begin to thaw, I’m struck with how tired I am. Not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually. My conversations with God have been  brutally honest. How long, oh Lord? I’m still waiting for the year when the land is supposed to rest! I’m tired of tragedy, Lord. I’m tired of coronavirus- induced isolation and all of it’s hideous loss. I’m just tired and this is the only thing in which I’m not alone. Please, tell me You’re listening!

 But once again, I lay down my questions and trust with a limp along with the rest of the fatigued. What else can we do?  I am grateful, Lord, that in You I find greater refuge than an earthly tent.  You’ve sheltered me in the shadow of your wing so many times; You’ll do it again and again with each trial ahead. You are good and trustworthy and kind enough to understand my need for my husband’s shelter as well.

Perhaps, I’ll never really be at a loss for grief words. 

“Give sorrow words; the great that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”  William Shakespeare

I’ve been on the cusp of putting my blog to rest. My little writing corner has evolved with the seasons of my adult life; it’s been a sweet resting place for God and me.  I’ve found it therapeutic and a good place to practice my writing. But for the past months, I’ve rarely had anything to say here... perhaps, the isolation of the pandemic? I don’t know, but I’ve run dry.

 I’ve terribly missed my family during this virus. A few necessary weeks of caution turned into months with only a handful of protected visits. Because young children wrestle with screen visits, those have not met any of our expectations. I’ve missed seizing an ordinary moment to tell a simple life lesson or funny story of Gigi’s childhood, so I’ve been tossing around the idea of crafting some posts to leave for my grandchildren.  I’m hoping a simple link will one day lead them to my little world.  Of course, I could scratch my stories in journals, but I just think better in this format. So let’s see where these 

Letters to my Grands lead.

Ruth and Oliver Capper

My maternal grandparents 

       What I would give to hear my grandmother Ruth’s stories of the past. She went home to her Jesus before I arrived. My dad, swallowed up by grief of his mother’s sudden, untimely death, never spoke of her. We were robbed of her story which spurs me to tell mine before it’s too late. 

Dearest grands,

I just bought two new CDs from the Sisters of the Benedictines of Mary Queen of Apostles. These Sisters live in a simple convent outside my hometown of Kansas City where they ‘sing their lives and live their song.’  Yes, I still buy CDs and DVDs. (Gigi, what in the world are those?) Answer: little shiny silver circles you put in a machine to play music and watch movies. Gigi has a couple of those antiquated players and she enjoys playing her large collection, all alphabetized for easy selection. 

Some things are worth holding on to, my sweet grands. Pictures housed in pretty frames, rocks and shells found along a new path, painted treasures made by you! Do you know that I still have my daddy’s records from the 1940s? As you read this letter 20 years from now, they will be a century old! Old things can be just as good as new ones, especially people. Treasure them as they can teach you many wonderful lessons. Learn from their lives filled with adventure and accomplishments as well as bumps and bruises. You’ll find many others are quick to dismiss their wisdom and earned wrinkles, but you can choose the smarter way. Don’t forget to touch the worn: run your hands over nicks and crevices, hug the ones crying out for human affection, cradle a well-read book, not always a shiny screen.  

One day, my grands, you too shall look back. Make many memories to treasure and share. You are writing a legacy for others. 

Lovingly, Gigi

These posts will need some editing I’m sure, but they are meant to be spontaneous and free-form. Too much perusal makes for something artificial. Excuse the errors until I revisit