Two Months Alone

The conversation began with a different question. Usually, it’s something related to science or the meaning of a word. This night the churning in a young man’s soul surprised me:

Mom, do you feel divorced?

For sixteen years I have never been apart from the man who taught me to relax, to dream, and to accept myself. He gave me a confidence I never had on my own. He struggles, like we all do, but his every cell oozes love for his family. I know this. I live this. I bask in it, and it exists even without his arms around me.

No, son, I don’t feel divorced. Just lonely and stretched.

Dylan’s strength and joy buffer my moods. Fixing the car and cleaning rain gutters have never been on my list of chores. Small problems glare that he would fix in a moment. I wonder what else I take for granted.

Perhaps, my own delusions of strength. I think I’m consistent and determined and patient. My tendency is to blame any issues in our family on my husband.

Reality reveals otherwise. There is no one else here now. I am exposed.

The press squeezes out the best and the worst. The satisfaction of facing a fear or the joy of cuddling with my kids. Other times it is the frustration of yelling or the guilt of laziness. I haven’t suddenly changed because my husband is gone. I was this way while he was as near as his dirty shoes on the kitchen floor.

He loved me then and he loves me now. A blessing that snags in my heart and knots the words. Those scattered shoes look different in my mind now. I see with a new grace for him and for me. Love covers.

Where Is Home?

I don’t want to think and process right now. There are too many unknowns. Papers on the table carry the weight of hope, but a mere cough can blow them away. Dare I breathe? Dare I plan?

Determination wanes during the arduous separation. Twice I pleaded with my beloved to come back. Twice my cries were overshadowed by good news. This time it was Dylan who needed hope. As my words sank in, he confessed,

I was praying this morning about coming back. We need to be together…

Our steps have faltered. We’ve wondered if the time is right. Doubts try to smear our joy with shadows. But every time we try to turn back our steps are confirmed. Life in Idaho won’t be easy, but neither is waiting.

Instead of pondering my lack of patience, I focus on the tasks of moving. I go through boxes of Christmas decorations months too soon. Piles of cast-offs grow. Paintings are removed from the walls.

The open space reminds me of the flurry of cleaning and painting it took to get this place move-in ready. As I collapsed on the lawn, I wondered if the vultures overhead were circling for me.

A year later paint rollers came out again. We needed to switch bedrooms. A new little girl was joining our family, so Brother moved to the smaller room he carpets with Lego daily.

This house taught me so much. About repair, maintenance, and contentment. I no longer lust for the perfect house. The frustration of living in a fixer-upper has more rewards than just sweat equity.

I now know what home truly is. I enjoy the beauty we’ve brought to this shelter, but it’s not our home. Home is our family, not a house, not a city, not a state.

Right now our home is lacking the strong arms of Daddy. My heart aches, and I can only imagine the agony for other families separated even longer…

After praying with my son last night, he stated,

This isn’t our house, we just manage it for God.

That’s right. This house is a gift. It is a trust. We’ve cared for it well.

May the new management be embraced with peace and strength. I pray they discover home.

Love is Art

My husband thought we only had one small, pantry type closet full of art and craft supplies. I had him fooled. There were stashes in the garage, in my closet, and even in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

I try to toss some of it, but possibilities grab my thoughts and won’t let go. I think of all that I could create for my family. And I think of all that we can create together.

My friend Julie sent me this quote months ago, but I find it echoing in my heart during our slow good-bye to our home.

I tell you, the more I think, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people. -Vincent van Gogh

Even if boxes of possibilities aren’t lugged to Idaho, my art will continue.

Begins and ends with books: a photo essay and announcement

When we left on our trip, someone asked me if we were coming back. I grinned, “Of course, our books are here.”

We returned to Texas after our three week trip exhausted and road weary from trying to accomplish a bit too much.

The first day back from camp, my husband drove the kids to Shoshone Falls. Bug took photo after photo. He even made videos of the water tumbling over the rocks. His exclamations barely heard over the roar.

My brother lives in the valley below Mt. Borah, the tallest peak in Idaho. I enjoyed the drive so much I didn’t take a single photo until we were coming back down the pass.

While visiting a farm, we picked a few cherries and ate every one.

Dylan learned about a full-time job “just down the road,” so he drove through the twisted canyon to meet a man who might have work for him.

I plopped down on a floral sofa and discussed possibilities with my best friend’s mom. When a van drove up, I realized it was more friends. I was delighted they happened by while we were there. Words spilled out as we tried to catch up. It didn’t take long for more questions to begin. They are moving out of their house.

Driving from Southern Idaho to the Washington peninsula gave Dylan and I plenty of time to speculate about our future. Would he get the job? Is it time to move back? We gnashed and prayed and hoped.

Visiting family made us pine even more to be near them. Introducing the girls to mountains, canyons, and ocean made us crave more memorable moments. We want to take them to the places we traveled, the places we enjoyed as children.

Yes, we did come back, and I immediately started culling the bookshelves in anticipation of the call that came on Friday. Dylan got the job! We are moving back to Southern Idaho! It is happening so fast, but in some ways it is years in the making.

We are going home with a purpose and a vision and a copy of Heroes of the Alamo and Goliad.

Homeschool When No One is Around

Saturday night my motivation vanished. A few hours later it reappeared. I discovered it giving a pep talk to my white blood cells. I decided to go to bed and see who won the fight in the morning. When light streamed into my room and birds welcomed the day, it didn’t take long to realize who won. Headache, sore throat, and achy muscles moaned before I got out of my bed.

Sunshine, my five-year-old daughter, stayed home from church with me. As soon as everyone else left, I passed out on the couch. I woke in a panic wondering where Sunshine was. Thankfully, she was sitting nearby drawing castles and fairy princesses willing me to be better. She watched movies while I tried to keep my eyes open. And now it is Tuesday night, and I still feel woozy and tired.

This morning I felt better. The filthy house bothered me, so I scrubbed the sink and then gathered the children for morning worship. Dance and song and Bible reading. The girls scampered off to play. Bug grabbed his journal. I stretched out and closed my eyes for just a minute.

Two hours later my lethargy slipped away, and I heard the whistle of a toy train and the laughter of my children. My thoughts came into focus and rattled around. I couldn’t believe I had fallen asleep! I haven’t slept this much since the first week of summer break during high school. We had a list of things to do before lunch.

But my children used the opportunity to play together. All of them crowded in brother’s room, setting up the train tracks, watching the miniature locomotive circle around the tiny town. Imaginations soared. My fitful sleep allowed a dream to come true.

My children are making memories together. They are loving one another. That was not written in the lesson plans. It was not on the to do list, but I’m thankful the most important things are revealed in the day to day of living life together.