Markings
I thought I would write here several times a week, but that hasn't been the case. Lately, I've rediscovered handwritten journals, altered pages, Moleskine and other neat sketchbooks, pens, watercolors and pencils, and there is something to be said for the "primitive" way of keeping tabs with my thoughts and prayers. It seems to come more straight from the heart. I can't get past some of the fear of being read here, too! While, on the other hand, I read my friend's blog here and she so well expresses some of the same things I ponder over and feel, yet she is able to put those emotions in words.
So I'll just keep trying.
Mother's Day was good for me this year, bittersweet. I was so blessed to have Amy beside me in church, practically hugging me through the worship service: she had her arm around my shoulder and we held hands, sitting close. Our pastor recognized mothers present, mothers gone to be with the Lord, and women who desire to be mothers but who are not. I cried for Teri, for her children, for Richard. I cried because that wonderful, funny little mother was not beside us in church, and I knew what a hard time her kids would be having without her. And I cried because I was thankful to have Amy beside me, wondering if somewhere in a few ages I will remember this moment and cherish it even more. I cried for our mothers - mine and Paul's - not in good health, but enduring in the strength they do have. I cried for Mary, not knowing what she would have to see her Son do, and then having seen it, rejoicing in His sacrifice.
Saturday I took white roses to the cemetery for Teri and for Miss Ruth. The weedeaters had stirred up dirt and grass clippings and I had a paper towel and wiped off their markers. (Teri probably would have written her name in the dust and dated it!) I miss the silliness, the fun, the don't-take-life-so-seriously outlook she had. She made life fun. I told Aunt Ginny that she and I "played." We were practically kids when we met - I was 20 and she was 23, so we did in a way grow up together, raised our kids together, pondered life, kids, husbands, and grew older together, vacationed and tripped together with our husbands and with our other girlfriends.
I've wondered why I have to go to the cemetery. I finally figured out that, even knowing she isn't really there, that is a place I can go - to her final resting place - a place that is hers, marked with her name. I don't stop by and plop down in her recliner on the my way home from work, don't stop by with a library book tape or to pick one up, or just to go by and vent, or plan - vacations, or where to eat on a Friday night. It is her house, but she isn't there. So I go to her marker. It is peaceful there on the hill.
It is cloudy now and I had planned to go to Wally World, so maybe I can make it before it rains. Such a cool, wet spring. I've enjoyed the coolness, haven't even minded the rain, but I know it isn't good on the farming community. Still, it is such a relief not to choke on hot, dry air when I have to be outside. I've enjoyed going out to the patio in the mornings before work, throwing stale bread to the birds, watering the ferns (one of which has a nest and 3 eggs in it!), smelling brisk, cool air. The birds seem to love it, too. Saturday I was outside and they were just joyously loud! I don't think I've heard such a symphony!
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