Loving Jack . . .

A week ago something tragic happened.  I know tragic things happen everyday, maybe every second, somewhere in the world.  We all know that; we just don't usually have that fact on the forefront of our minds.  And then something tragic happens to someone you know.  Or to you.  Then it's different . . . you know what I mean.

A week ago the house of my friends burned to the ground.  No one knows how it happened or why it happened.  The very different thing is that I watched it.  I watched it along with many others, including the three friends who lived in the house.  The friends who were losing all of the material things they owned.  And other friends who owned the house and whose grandmother had lived for years in the house.  We watched.  We all watched as the firefighters worked and worked and worked and worked.  We watched as materials that had withstood the test of time failed the test of fire.  We watched and watched and wondered what in the world to do. 

That's what I wanted to tell you about.  That's the part I want you to know.  What people did is part of what I'll remember.  Watching your house burn down is not graceful, but what people did in that moment was grace-filled, to be sure.  

I can see all of the people now.  I can see them in my mind's eye.  I can see my three friends, a daughter home from college and Jack, their dog on a leash.  I can see them - their eyes wet with tears and thankfulness for their lives and lit up from the flames that wouldn't burn out.  I can see them now.

News travels fast, and word of the fire moved swiftly through many folks in our church.  You might imagine that most people would be safely tucked in their warm homes on the night before Thanksgiving.  They were.  But you should have seen the folks who left those warm homes on the night before Thanksgiving to come out and stand with their friends as they watched the fire destroy all that was inside.  There was nothing to do.  So we watched.  

And more folks came and they stood beside the folks watching what they knew go up in flames.  Some folks said things.  Some folks cried.  Some friends hugged.  Some folks said nothing at all, but stood in support, as if by standing alongside they were serving to hold up those whose home was being demolished by a force too strong for humans to outsmart.  Some folks called others from the scene.  Some folks went to the store to purchase toothbrushes for the moment that would surely come and it was time for them to go to sleep, somewhere, sometime.   Some friends left to go the ATM to get money that they would come back to put into the hands of the ones who had nothing.  People made plans about how to get what they would need.  People planned where they could live.  People planned what they would eat.  Friends loved in all of the ways we knew to love when there isn't anything we know to say.   

The fire raged on, as if to show us all that it was powered by something stronger than we understood.  We stood, we watched, we planned, we hugged, we wondered what in the world we were supposed to do.  We wondered what to say.  We wondered how to look while we stood shoulder to shoulder with loved ones as they watched the unreal happen.  We wished we could think of something to say, to do, something to help.  We wondered what we would want, what we would need.  The fire just kept burning, kept raging - sometimes growing calmer and then surprising us all with force as it roared to life again.  And then we stood some more, wondered some more.  Didn't know what to do some more.

There were people everywhere.  Sometimes the scene was so surreal that you had to remind yourself that it was actually happening.  I'm sure that Greg and Jan and Michelle and Elin felt that way.  I'm sure they had to continue to internally remind themselves that this wasn't a bad dream, that this was really happening.  And there was Jack, the sweet Jack Russell dog, on a leash, confused and wondering.  I remember that I often saw Greg bend down from standing, grab hold of Jack's sweet head and hold it - loving him, giving the confused dog some sense of certainty even though he had none himself.  I'll always remember that.

Hours went by.  The fire raged on.  It was almost surprising that something burning that hot, that fiercely, could burn for that long.  We kept standing.  We kept wondering.  What do we do?  What do we say?

And then I saw something I'll never forget.  I saw three people I didn't know just sitting right in the middle of the commotion.  As throngs of wonderers and watchers and wishers and prayers stood and walked and hugged and wondered, these three people - a married couple and their son - sat down on the ground.  I couldn't help but wonder what they were doing.  Why were they just sitting there?  They seemed so intent on being in a circle, on roping off the reality from their little party.  I couldn't understand.

I walked closer to them and saw them there in a circle, as if the terrifying scene lighting up our eyes and our faces wasn't really happening.  I got closer and closer.  I wondered who they were.  Why were they there?  Why weren't they trying to figure out what to do?  Why weren't they standing alongside those who were watching what they thought was sturdy fall to the flames?

And then I saw Jack.  There was Jack, the sweet dog, right in the middle of the circle.  That's what they were doing.  They weren't doing nothing.  They had found something they could do, and they were doing it.  If I had taken their photo and could crop the horrors of the background away, you would think they could be nestled together in a warm cabin somewhere, enjoying their family pet.

They were active.  They weren't just wondering.  They were doing.  Acting.  Walking the walk.  They whispered to Jack and petted him softly.  They took turns calmly holding him, caressing him and using all that they had to give him peace.  They didn't know what to do either, didn't know how to help or what to say, so they found something they knew they could do and did it.

I won't forget them.  I won't forget what it looked like to see them in the midst of the terrifying night.  There was horror that night.  There was disbelief, shock and sadness.

But there was grace, too.  There were friends and strangers giving all they knew to give, saying what they could or just standing in support.  And there were three people who did something totally different - a little band of angels that quietly walked up, found a job and made a difference.  I won't forget them.

  

A window into my soul . . .

The above photo is not trick photography, nor has it been adjusted with Photoshop.  Once, in 2006, our 'locker closet' actually looked like this.   To protect your eyes, a photo of its present condition is not being added to this blog post.

Dear Abbey,

A few questions . . .

1. If I clean out my car better than I ever have (including tire shine, Armor All, glass cleaning, leather conditioning, vacuuming, floor mats run through cleaner twice, four tons of trash removed and even vacuuming out the trunk - which threw the trunk into a state of shock), does that help my house get cleaned?
2. If I wash my dog, using shampoo/rinse cycle twice, in the sunshine and dry her completely, does that help my house get cleaned?
3. If I start a new load of wash and set the dryer to dry again the clothes that are already in there, does that help my house get cleaned?
4. If I spend time on my laptop's desktop, re-arranging, re-configuring, trashing unused icons, etc., does that get my house clean?
5. If I make a long, detailed list of what needs to be done and then lose the list and re-make it, does that get my house clean?
6. What about if I look at the 'organizational' boards on Pinterest?

Sincerely,

Deep in thought and clutter

Dear Deep in thought and clutter,

1. No.
2. No.
3. No.
4. No.
5. No.
6. No.

Best of luck.  Abbey

Keep stuffing your pockets, a love letter to my children.

When I was a Kindergarten teacher, I used to revel in what I found in my pockets each night when I got home.  Funny thing was that many times I didn't even recall how an object got there!  I would find colored beans we used for teaching Math, there would always be a few rocks, usually I found a note or two, many times I found partial pieces of candy, always some rocks and sometimes I found things I couldn't actually identify! I often thought then that I should photograph the pocket innards each day to produce a cool coffee table book.

Now I find myself emptying pockets again.  Every now and then,  Emma or Molly has a bit of something in a pocket, but that's rare.  Every single day, though, I find a museum worthy load of "stuff" in Harry's pockets.  Every day!  I find pieces of the earth in various forms.  I always find the wrapper from his snack.  Sometimes I find money, and on the good days I do return it to him.  I find parts of games or bits of plastic that fell off of one riding toy or another.  I find little notes with a few words on them.  And I ALWAYS find candy wrappers.  The oddest thing about the candy wrappers is that I'm never sure where those pieces of candy came from.  He giggles when I ask, and then the next day I find more of them.

When I'm on top of things in the housekeeping part of the mother job (this would not be every day) I remember to check the pockets BEFORE I wash the clothes, but that is rare - very rare.  I can sometimes remember to get the stuff out when I'm transferring from the washer to the dryer, and the wet drippy items are tons of fun to retrieve.  My usual routine, though, is to wait until I'm folding the clothes to find the goodies.  Lots of times I have a good time, wondering where he got the objects, what he might have been doing or saying when he stuck the stuff in his pocket.  That's what I used to do at the end of a long day, while I was unpacking all of the bags, purses, Kroger sacks, and small suitcases that the girls would pack during the day.  I would wonder, "Why did Molly pick up one item from each room of the house to put in one bag?" or "Wonder what Emma was playing when she put the baby doll in the bag and then added a glitter dispenser, a washcloth and a bedroom slipper?"  Sometimes that parental investigation can be fun.

The other day I pulled the pocket dwellers out of Harry's pockets on the way to the dryer.  They were wet and drippy and kind of gross.  I was frustrated about all of the mess and that I can't ever remember to empty them at the start of the whole routine.  I was probably muttering to myself, muttering about how I'm always cleaning someone's mess.  Then I stopped.  I stopped cold.

The face of my sweet friend, Barbara, appeared in my mind.  On Saturday, Barbara buried her twenty eight year old son.  And then I kept thinking.  I kept thinking about all of the people I know who have said goodbye to their children way before it was time, way before those children were through stuffing things and experiences and fun and living into their pockets.  I thought about the children I've known and I thought about the ones I've heard about.

And then I thought about a coffee table book again and about how very interesting and sweet this one would be.  This one would tell the stories of the days of my sweet child, just like all the rest of them.  They might all be stuffing their pockets with different treasures, but it would be fun to see and to wonder about what those little minds were doing and thinking and saying when they decided to tuck something safely into a pocket.  It would be a record, a record of the treasures that are special to our children.

And I thought about how those friends who have lost their children would give their lives to 'have to' clean the junk out of the pockets of their sweet children.  I thought about what a privilege it is to be the one to see the stuff; nobody else gets to find it, to wonder about it all, to touch little pieces of days spent at school or with friends or poking around in the dirt in the back yard.  I get to do that, and I thank God for that.  I wish I could give that ability back to the people who lost their pocket-stuffers.  I wish I could.

I vowed to enjoy those little pieces of my son, to laugh when I find the strange, unidentifiable parts of his day.  I said a prayer for Barbara and for all of the rest of the folks who had to say goodbye too early, and I prayed that I always get to unpack the pockets.

Keep the pockets stuffed, my little Bear.  Keep coming back home and I'll look for your treasures or your trash.  I don't mind.  Bring the little pieces of your days and keep living.  You and your sisters and all of your friends and the ones just like you all over the world - the ones who are lucky enough to have a roof over your heads and the ones that pray for something small to eat - all of you, just keep adventuring and experiencing and keep coming home.  YOU are the treasures in our pockets.