Kisses from Heaven

"That was the thing. You never get used to it; 

someone being gone. Just when you think it's reconciled, 

accepted, someone points it out to you, and it just hits you

all over again, that shock."

 - Sarah Dessen, "The Truth About Forever"

     Driving in the car alone with my music is a very dangerous thing. Music has always been there when words or people can't be. Somehow, I just feel like something somewhere gets me when I listen to certain songs. The words understand me, the melody hurts with me, music is what I am but what I cannot express. And so, driving in the car alone with my music is a very dangerous thing. It can make me suddenly remember a moment from years ago that made me feel something really deep, or it can bring back all the questions I have in my mind. It can make me laugh or like today, can make me cry for the umteenth time when I was trying really hard not to. And here's why:

     I was listening to my music on shuffle, as usual, when suddenly "Alive" by Jamie Walker came on. I don't expect you to know him or ever have heard the song, but it's attached below. Suddenly, I was crying. Crying really ugly tears for the millionth time this week (and yes, it's only Tuesday). Everything came back; everything and anything. 

      I hate Winter. I hate being cold, I hate the death that Winter brings, I hate snow and ice even (although the snow the first time is pretty). I like ice skating, but I hate Winter. I will be even more honest and say that Christmas and New Years are some of my least favorite holidays. And while we're talking about all the things I hate, I most particularly hate the month of January. For many, it's a month for new starts, new beginnings, but I hate it so much. Everything around me is cold, damp, dormant. I hate having to leave the house bundled up. I hate the wind chill factors. I hate the lack of sunshine. I hate it. But what I hate the most is that for the past three Januaries, I've lost someone close to me. So, every January, I catch the blues. I catch them really deep. And this year, I can't wait until February. 

       My Mommom passed away on Sunday, January 10, 2016. Today feels like the one millionth hour of January 10th and I still can't wake up from this terrible dream. This nightmare, really, that she's gone. I want to wake up but I can't. But then again, I also feel like I'm in some sort of limbo where I keep feeling like she's only gone to Florida for a few months like she planned. But I know I'll wake up from that dream someday, and realize she's gone. She's gone from here forever. 

       I can still hear her voice saying, "Oh hiya," when I walk into the back room. I can still feel her arms snuggle me into her as she tells me she missed me while I think it's only been a few days. There's so much about her that feels so fresh and yet, it's gone. I can't let go of a few things yet, like how the whole day panned out, and I'm not sure I ever be willing to let that go. But I also don't want to let her voice or touch go either. Every time I look at her picture, I start to lose it.

I had to stop writing this blog post because I couldn't get through it. Here I am, three days later trying again.

       I have an amazingly supportive colleague community at the school where I teach. We had an in service day Wednesday and words, any words really, were hard. People let me slid. Thursday the kids came back. I had to be ready for two new classes of students and I was far from ready. But they had energy - first day back energy. My kids were laughing and telling me great adventures of their term break. For about 160 minutes yesterday, I didn't cry. I didn't actually have time to think about anything other than my kids. They are amazing.
       But that morning I had to really get myself ready for the day more emotionally than anything else. I couldn't get out of my funk. One friend and colleague just wrapped her arms around me. Another took my face in her hands and very grandmotherly said, "it's never going to go away, or maybe even easier, but you will be able to live on." Young people usually say, "don't worry, it will get better." But I feel like it never will. And then I listen to the older and wiser who tell me it's okay to feel like it never will get better, it's okay to get angry, it's okay to be a mess. And believe it or not, I haven't tried to hide my pain for once in my life. I'm okay with feeling completely incapacitated by my sadness for a little, as long as it doesn't last forever. I'm okay with it, because I lost my star.

      Mommom was star and a queen. Anyone could look at her pictures and see one of the most beautiful women ever. Her eyes were bright baby blue, she had fair skin and a great smile.  She laughed, she knew how to have a good time, she loved to party, she loved her family and she loved to travel. She's seen so many beautiful places and has met so many beautiful people. She loved so much. Oh she also loved to take pictures and have her picture taken. I inherited that. She loved to write. I got that, too. She was amazing.
      As the oldest (and favorite :P) grandchild, I got to spend 4.5 years of my life with her all to myself. I was spoiled by her. Well, we all were. But I was snuggled and cuddled up until the last time I saw her. I love the story of how she dressed me in every single outfit I got as a gift as a baby and made me model. Don't believe me? There's pictures. I have many fond memories of vacations with her, trips to the movies, even day to day memories of her from visiting so much at her house. From the time she fell through the chair to the 3:30 panic attack she had because guests would be coming at any moment the day of the family reunion. Inside jokes with her, shared interests and lots of smiles and laughs are things I cherished then and cherish even more now that she's gone.
     Mommom always supported me. She came to every concert and show. When I stopped performing, she came with me to support my students at their concerts and shows. Mommom was my number one cheerleader. She made me feel like a million bucks every chance she got. She video taped or made photo books of literally every event of my life. She loved supporting me and my sisters and cousins every chance she could, any way she could.
     
      The night before Mommom passed away, my sister got to visit her and her friends. I will never be more jealous of any moment. I had an eye doctors appointment I honestly thought of just ditching so I could go to Mommom's, too. But my new year's goal was to take better care of myself and stop avoiding adult things. The next morning I got the call that she was in bad shape. Little did I know that I wasn't going to get to talk to her one last time; she was already gone before we got to the hospital. We got to say goodbye, but it wasn't anything like the regular goodbyes Mommom gave. It was nothing like the smuggling and hugging so tight you couldn't breathe and then having to wipe your cheek off from a thousand kisses. It was cold, it was blue much like the month of January.
      The week of planning for her memorial service felt like planning a party. And honestly, that's probably what she would have wanted anyway. Each day I had ups and downs. I'm a goofball sometimes and I use laughter to lighten to mood. So I brought up every funny, hilarious thing she did. Then, of course, there were the moments, by myself, that I would just break down and sob. We went through thousands of pictures and I was made even more grateful that I insisted on taking so many pictures with my grandmother. I could have made a memory board of just selfies with her. The week was also filled with debating whether or not Mary and I would sing at the memorial service. Finally, Thursday night, we went out to the garage and sang for what felt like hours until we came up with something.
      By Friday, I had felt like a million years had gone by. We went to the chapel in the cemetery where her memorial service was going to be held. We set up her pictures, her favorite things, and practiced once again our song. I was supposed to read at the service. I didn't pre-read. I couldn't. So when the memorial service started and I got up to read, I couldn't hold back the tears. In fact, I actually closed my eyes and read half of the reading from memory. I have been to too many funerals. At the end of the service, Mary and I got up to sing. Amazing Grace was what she wanted. We gave her the best we could do.
     It's now a week since we've put my Mommom to rest. It's a week later and I still feel like she'll be back any day now. But then reality hits me again. She's not coming back. I won't hear her voice or see her face except in pictures. And each night I just think about how much I miss her. I wish she would text me or like something on Facebook or call or email me at work and ask me to come for dinner. But she won't. I won't get to hear her snoring from the big easy chair in the living room when I walk through the door and I won't get to visit her in Florida like we had talked about. Of course, she won't get to see my cousins graduate, she won't see Lizzie at her prom, and she won't insist we eat at the Eagle Diner when Mary graduates college. She won't be at any weddings or vow ceremonies. She won't see any great-grandchildren. I hate thinking about that, but I do. But the thing I think about the most is - I wonder if she knew how much I really loved her. I know she knew I loved her, but I hope she knew how much.

     I hate Winter. I hate being cold. I hate January. And while all these kiddos at school are super excited about this blizzard we are getting this weekend, I'm kind of dreading the fact that I need to go get boots for both me and my puppy, milk, eggs and bread today after school with all the crazies. I dreading the cold wind that will make me super dry cheeks hurt even more. I am dreading the sledding adventure that will be me trying to get my car to church on Sunday. I am dreading it all because I really hate Winter. But you know what? I read yesterday that "snowflakes are kisses from Heaven." Well if this storm is what they say it's going to be, that it must be true. Mommom smothered us with kisses every time we arrived and we left the house. I guess this is her smothering us from above. And I guess the jokes on me now, isn't it? Miss you, Mommom. Miss you so much.

Being The Little Sister: Grief Edition

"What I longer for, I now see; what I hoped for, I now possess;

in Heaven, I am espoused to Him whom on earth I loved with all my heart."

- Morning Prayer Antiphone for the Feast of St. Agnes, January 21

    Sometimes, I like to pretend that I am little. You may say that I already am little, as I stand only five foot tall and am light enough to be carried on various people's backs. You may say I am little because I have an air of innocence. But I like to pretend that I am little like Lizzie. I like to pretend that I can hug everyone and hang on really tight like she does. But mostly, I like to pretend that when I am upset, I can just knock on my big sister's door and then snuggle up to her and cry as she holds me. And then I remember, that sometimes I don't have to pretend. 

    When I look up into the infinite sky, I can only feel miniature. I think, out of all the people that need God's love this day, He choose little me to send me a Valentine of sorts. He choose little, itty, bitty me, to warm my heart. When I look into the eyes of my many sisters, I, too, feel so little. These women have gone years and years before me in school, have accomplished so much in their lives, and still are so humble. When I sit with them in Mass, I feel so little and yet, I feel loved. Because I am little in two senses: little as in very young in experience and little as in the little sister.

    There is a bond between sisters that is so hard to describe, but if you have a sister, you know how strong and unique that bond is. Even from far away, I know when my little sisters need me. I know when they need a hug and some loving words. I know my sisters and they, in turn, know me. This bond exists between some of my religious sisters and myself, as well. Which essentially makes this so hard to write.

     As we were practicing for church choir before Mass last night, Sister Cathy made her way over to us. Just before were various moments of laughter and joking and suddenly it was as if a bomb had been dropped on my heart. Often times, I feel, I can "guess" what a person is about to say and prepare myself to react accordingly. However, what she had told us was such a shock to me that I reacted like a little child. I even surprised myself with my reaction. My mouth immediately gaped open and my hand flew to my mouth. Tears immediately started filling up in my eyes. I couldn't even look Sister Cathy in the eyes. I turned around, told myself to get myself together, and turned back, still with a hand over my mouth. I reacted as Becca in the raw (and rare) form. I acted like a child, like a little sister, like Lizzie. 

     During Mass, I tried my usual coping mechanism: not thinking about it. But alas, as Father began the familiar Homily (I had heard it earlier yesterday morning), I began to think about it. A steady stream of silent tears fell down my face and for the first time, I didn't care who saw me crying. Because just moments prior, as I sang the Psalm, I saw our president, Sister Pat, wipe away her steady stream of tears, too. I was numbed by the shock and felt the loss times 48 because sisters feel each others' pains,  and I felt my sisters' pains. 

     After Mass, on my way to replace some borrowed "furniture" from behind the altar, Sister Denise and I caught each others' glances. It took a matter of two seconds for her to know and for me to know, that we needed each other in that moment. So we hugged, and she held me tight as I cried a little more. I thanked her and I thanked God for all of my sisters.

     It wasn't until daily Mass this morning that I really began to reflect on my "little-ness." I realized that as normal as it was for me to attend daily Mass, I didn't quite fit in. Most mornings I am the only student. All the time, I am the youngest (by far with no insult intended...). And yet, as I began togo through the list of reasons why I appear out of place, I remembered my being a little sister. I've attended daily Mass with these sisters almost every day (for the exception of holidays and breaks) for the past three years. I have my own particular seats in our Chapels and the sisters get worried if I don't show up on a day I usually am there. I get hugs and kisses during the sign of peace and beautiful smiles around campus. I have essentially made my way into being part of this family of sorts. And that being said, I feel all their pains and my own, too.

     Heaven gained a few angels yesterday, one of them being our dear Sister Marie Albert. It's so rare, they say, to lose a "school" sister and a school sister she was. And so, I believe that in addition to the pain of losing a sister (and she was to so many of us), there is a shock of losing someone we see so often, so suddenly. As we prayed Morning Prayer today, which for the Feast of St. Agnes, fit so perfectly for thoughts of my heart and soul, I could feel the emotions of my sisters all pushed into one small Chapel. There was an emptiness of undescribable capacity. I admit to wiping my cheeks a few times as father "cheered on" the life of the 12-year old Agnes and the 80-year old, Sister Marie Albert. Indeed, both lived lives of saints. 

     As such a little sister I have become, one of my greatest fears have also came into fruition. That fear was emulated yesterday and even still into today. It is the fear of losing my sisters. Being so young, I know the possibility is great and yet, I still never expect to lose someone so close to my heart. I may not have told my deepest secrets to Sister, but I shared time, space and beautiful words with her. I cannot help but have beautiful fond memories of her, as she was a big sister, I so often looked up to. Sometimes, it's tough being a little sister.

     However, I know my big sisters are grieving with me and perhaps are still in shock. But what St. Agnes reminded us all today is that we need to rejoice. "Rejoice with me, and be glad, for I have taken my place with all the saints in the kingdom of the light," our morning prayer said. I felt peace. I still felt a loss, but I felt a peace, that for sure she is in Heaven kicking it back with God. I saw the faces of my sisters but I saw their hearts, as well. I think we might all just need one big group hug so we can embrace all the emotions flowing through us. Just as I know they will be there for me, I will also be there for them. My hands may be little, but they are hands that can hold and love. 

     It is hard to lose someone so dear. And yet, there is or will be a peace that comes when we can rest assured, she is with Him whom she loved with her whole heart. Yes, she is in Heaven now, for sure.