I told your story old friend

It is snowing today. Soft gentle flakes that fall effortlessly to earth. It is cold. A chilling breath of winter that lingers on the cheeks in claret-stained blushes of winter’s slow ebbing away into the memory of spring not yet seen, or felt. Only hoped for. Soon to come. A distant mark upon the calendar page, not yet turned. Always remembered.

I am inside. Looking out. Watching the snow fall. A cashmere wrap draped around my shoulders. A deep purple, it pours down my shoulders like spilled wine upon a tablecloth, the stain of conversation and laughter sinking me deep into memory.The heat of the space heater toasts the air at my feet. Gentle notes of a piano fill the air. This room is chilly. A carport turned into office space. No basement to heat it from the ground up. It is chilly. And I am warm.

I am wrapped in memories of you.

I write you out. I let the words form upon the page, seep out of my finger tips in an endless stream of letters, vowels and consonants forming meaning out of thoughts that leave my mind unformed until they reach the keyboard beneath my fingertips and slide effortlessly onto the screen. The negative space of the snow white page becomes littered with black. I look outside and see a world of white waiting to be written into story.

I told your story yesterday old friend. I told your story and shared your voice with strangers. Just like you wanted. Just like you knew I would those days when you shared stories of your life on the road and laughed and teased and flirted. Remember? You said you wanted to be remembered. Oh. Not for the word you carried that named you. Oh no. Never that harsh and judgmental label – homeless. It didn’t sit well with you. Call me anything but that, you said.

And then you laughed. Because I’m not, you know. I’ve got a home. Here. And your rheumy eyes glistened and I saw the longing for home shining.

I told them of your brother. Of your reuniting. Of the missing years that had no need of filling in. Of the tears and the joy. And finally, I told these strangers who had never met you, but wished they had, of your brother's hand holding yours in those final moments. Of your passing over filled with grace in the love of a brother who never forgot you and never gave up on finding you before it was too late. 

You blessed my world my friend. You blessed me with your laughter and your words and your insistence you would fight this. You would win. You would beat it. Not even life can beat me down you said. And it didn't. At least not life itself. You were so full of it. So completely engaged in it. And then, you were gone.

In the end, you won. In the beauty and the tragedy of your life you found the thing you most sought. That thing we all yearn for. That place we all want to be. Held forever in the arms of Love. 

Yesterday I told your story and I smiled and laughed and remembered you just the way you wanted to be remembered. Determined. Feisty. Laughing and just a little bit naughty. Tell them about the man I was, you said. Tell them about the man with dreams and big ideas and an eye for the ladies. You winked when you said that. You always winked when you flirted. Tell them about the man who could lift bales of hay with one hand and change a flat tire in three minutes flat. Don't tell them about the skin and bones, the skeleton rattling around a small cubicle room where all I own fits into a 2x6 foot locker. Leave the ending out, would you? you asked. Remember me for the man I was. The man who did it his way. The one who told himself he never needed anyone and found out, in the end, he was wrong. Make sure they know that, you said. Make sure they know. No one is meant to be alone. Especially in the end.

I told your story yesterday old friend and you were remembered and eyes glistened and hearts drew near and warmed their hands in the glow of your closeness and I knew, you were there. Laughing. Caring. Sharing your stories and your funny jokes and not so delicate ones too. 

You are not forgotten my friend.

It is snowing today. The world outside my window turning white as once the page lay flat and white before me, until your memory filled it.

Letting go to Let God.

Some think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes it's letting go. Sylvia Robinson

My eldest daughter told me a story last night about a mother and daughter in the store where she works. The little five year oldish daughter picked out a purple headband and happily showed it to her mother. The mother frowned.

"I told you. Only pink. Put that back. It won't match your outfit."

Disappointed, the little girl replaced the purple headband and chose a pink one.

Again, the mother frowned, grabbed the offending pink headband and put it back. "Not that shade. It's ugly."

Thank you mum, my daughter said, for letting us pick our own clothes. For letting us wear what we felt inspired to wear, even when it didn't match. For letting us know we're beautiful because of who we are, not what we wear.

It is the joke in our family. When the girls were small my rule was, as long as you are dressed appropriately for the weather, you are welcome to choose your clothes. And that included for those special photographs. My youngest daughter once piped up as we were laughing about some of the wild outfits they sometimes assembled, "You mean all those photographs of us in all those mismatched outfits we have no one to blame but ourselves?"

"Do you know you're an amazing mother?" my daughter asked me last night.

I could feel the tension in my heart melt.

"I made a decision today," she continued. "I realized that I've often seen your support as pressure. From now on I choose to accept your support for what it is. Love."

I don't feel like an amazing mother right now. I feel kind of helpless.

It hit me last night. I'm coaching at Choices this weekend, the personal development program both my daughters and I took four years ago and in which we all three love to coach and which the three of us are scheduled to coach together in September. As I sat in the room with sixty other people who have come back for their final weekend of the 9 day training and watched them laugh and chatter, I felt out of sorts. Off balance.

At one point, I had set out to 'change my state' by engaging in the activities with 'gusto'. Normally, when high energy is required, I am Ms High Energy. I have always been blessed with lots and lots of energy and can let it flow at will. But last night, I felt awkward. Self-conscious. As if, some part of my mind was saying, "How can you be so light and positive when Liseanne is so far away and struggling?"

Liseanne and I had chatted earlier in the day. The 'diagnosis' is hitting her and she was feeling somewhat overwhelmed. Thousands of miles away, I am helpless to do anything other than listen and share my strength and hope and calmness and love. All I can do is pray.

And that's where I realized I am challenged.

Prayers are vital. I love that so many people have come forward with prayers and support. You make me feel very, very blessed. My challenge is, I like to be in control. I don't like, Letting go and Letting God.

I realized that last night.

I want to be 'doing' something. Anything. To make it all better.

And all I can do is pray.

It is a lesson in humility. A gift of Faith.

And I struggle to embrace it.

As I told my youngest daughter on the phone earlier in the day when we had chatted. "I want to take this from you honey. I want to take it away and make it mine. And I can't. I can't make it go away. I can't make it something else. I can't make it part of my body and not yours. I want to. And I can't. All I can do is love you. All I can do is be here when you need me. To let you know how amazing you are. To help you know you have all the courage and strength and power within you to make the right decisions for you, to deal with whatever happens."

I felt out of place last night. Not because I wasn't in the right place but rather, because I am still trying to find my place in all of this.

She has a condition called epilepsy. It isn't who she is. It isn't about her. It is what it is.

As her mother, I want to take it away, or at least take over management of it so she won't feel so afraid, so scared, so alone. I want to carry the burden for her, and I can't.

I can't take it away. I can't carry her burden.

I can surrender my fear, my angst, my confusion and pain and fall, in Love.

I don't have a roadmap for how to be a mother whose daughter gets a diagnosis of a life changing disorder when she is 7,000 miles away. I don't have a script that tells me what to do now, what to say next.

I only have Love.

And a deep and abiding faith that when I let go and Let God, miracles happen.

I'm going to believe in miracles today. In the small little miracle of the dew drops sparkling in the sun, to the bigger kind of miracle of peace of mind in the midst of turmoil. I'm falling into a miracle kind of place right now where I have faith that my daughter is safe. Safe in God's embrace, where ever she is in the world.

I am letting go to Let God and breathing into Love.

She deserves my best and my best is always awakened when I get out of the way and allow God to whisper in her heart, "You are love. You are loved. You are safe."