Erin and the Gift of No Matter What

Dear Erin,

I've been working on your blog post for three weeks, and--despite my best efforts--I haven't been able to make it work in the same way as those I have written in honor of other close friends.  Today I realized: the only way to write about us is in letter format, as if you are sitting in front of me.  It feels right because, in fact, you are almost never actually sitting in front of me when I talk to you, and I talk to you a couple times a week.  So I have deleted my other sad attempt and am starting from scratch.

The other day, on the phone, I remarked about how special our friendship is in its closeness and everydayness, especially considering that you are in Illinois, and I am in Virginia.  I said it is one thing to be close with someone who lives nearby and another, altogether, to be close with someone who lives states away.  You replied in your vague, dreamy way something like: "Yes, I'm not sure how we got so attached to each other.  But it's been so nice to have the girls in common." 

I've been asking myself how it became what it is, trying to determine if one moment, in particular, sealed it, but I think there have been a thousand moments.  I remember how, rejected, we were thrown together as roommates our freshman year in college...how we looked just enough alike that, sometimes, people who had never seen us together confused us for one another.  I lived with Erin Quigley our sophomore and junior years (mostly because you were a moody sock thief), but you and I spent a lot of time together, anyway, and our senior year--when we roomed together, again--was our best: don't you think? 

So many things from our Maryville-College years stick out in my mind: countless line dances, pinch wars, spades games, and pizza deliveries.  The morning I yelled at someone about changing a lightbulb in our room and what happened next.  The night you advised me that it was not at all in my best interest to eat chili-cheese fries.  (And the morning after I ate them, anyway.)  The procedure to correct my toenail problem.  The argument over the full-length mirror.  All the times we walked hand-in-hand, our fingers interlaced like lovers'.  Our blue refrigerator and scungy dishes.  The night we flipped the car in Hattiesburg, Mississippi and landed upside-down in a swamp.  (We really could have died: you know?)  The Citgo guy thing.  The day your mom saved our hind ends by passing out handouts over the nicest lunch we'd eaten in almost four years.  Our ritual of watching Carnie!.  Our refusal to study for comprehensive exams.  ("If we don't know it by now," we insisted, "we're not going to learn it in a few weeks."  We applied our make-up, dressed in our most flattering blue jeans, and left the others huddled around their open books with stressed-out expressions.) 

 

1993ish


Then--two years after our graduation, and immediately after your earning your master's degree--you followed Jason and me to Dallas.  Camped out on our couch for awhile.  That was a good year, too, with all the boys.



Justin, Erin, Darin, Brandee, & Jeremy: 1998

But, come early 1999, Jason and I moved to Virginia, and you and I have not lived in the same state, since.  For the past twelve years, our relationship has consisted of one or two visits per year (often ended by our saying to one another, gently, "I hate you," so we won't cry) and a million phone calls; yet, somehow, it's thrived.  You're not here, but you are, because you're at the other end of the line: the phone line, but also--in the Jane-Eyre spirit of things--at the other end of the little line running from my heart to yours. 

It's an amazing thing to be tethered to another person by time, celebration, pain, and inside-out knowing.  I don't know how to thank you for holding onto me--every second--for over half my life, thus preventing me from being lost like a released, helium balloon.

But I can say this: when I am really sad and reach for a happy memory, I grasp the night I sat between you and my brother on top of the waterfall.  Every time.  I can still feel the cool water rushing over my bare legs; hear the river sounds; see the full moon, and--in its glow--your faces.  I remember the campfire and the tent on the bank.  The pick-up.  And I remember thinking, in that moment: don't forget; you will need to remember how loved and safe you feel between these two people.

Proverbs 8:24 says, matter-of-factly: "There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother."  In my world, as you know, that is huge; my brother lives in the same part of my heart as my children.  But you are that friend.

You knew Jim when I dated him the first time and, in fact, used to play pool with him in Gamble Hall.  Eleven years after the three of us graduated, you found yourself engaged to Dave, whom you had dated while we were in school, and I found myself engaged to Jim.  I could barely keep myself together at your wedding; I was so happy and relieved that you had waited and were marrying the right person the first time: that you would never suffer, in that regard, as I had.  Then we had three daughters in a span of eighteen months and have shipped, back and forth, many gigantic boxes of baby clothing.

These are amazing things, but they are not--in and of themselves--the glue that holds us together.  The tattoo experience, the nose-piercing experience, all the church experiences: they are not the glue.  Even the fact that you are the person I call when I desperately need to say the "f word" aloud: not the glue.  But we are glued, stuck, committed, tied.  It's a forever thing.  I have never wondered when or if you would return because I have never lost or misplaced you.

If they made me say who among my amazing girlfriends is most likely to be my friend in forty years, I would speak your name.  What we have is more time-tested than my favorite t-shirt. 

If a terrible something happened and I were wracked with grief, you are the friend I would want.  I know because you have been that friend to me, before.  I remember lying curled up in a ball on the floor, hyperventilating from crying so hard.  I remember Jason saying: "Erin, I don't know what to do; she's really upset.  Can you...will you...talk to her?"  I remember his holding the phone to my ear, and I remember your voice wafting through the line like smoke, cradling my being until I could, once again, utter words. 

If they came into the room and said: "It's time for you to die," I would want to say goodbye to Jim and the kids.  But then I would want you and my brother to sit one on either side of me for my slipping into the arms of Jesus. 

Thank you for being the friend who makes me feel the most secure, understood, and worth it.  Thank you for knowing me almost as well as you know yourself...and for really, really loving me anyway.  Thank you for being my "no matter what" friend.

What I have written, here, is only part of our history, and our eighteen years together mark only the beginning of what we will become.  It's somewhat frustrating that, already, "I love you" isn't nearly big enough, especially because I suspect it's the very best I will ever have.

Brandee

With Cade, Halloween 2000

2001



2002



2003



2007



2008

 

Erin's Daughter Mira & Clementine, Chicago 2009



2010



2010

Clementine's Art

I have no idea where the Orange found it, but--by the time she brought it to me--she had decorated it with tiny brown and purple crayon circles she calls "flowers."  There was a second or two during which I was disappointed that she had drawn on my love note from Jim, but then I read the words again:

I laughed and thought: well, she--with her unruly hair, jumpin' legs, crayon-coloring hands, and chatteringkissinglaughing mouth--is proof of his words.  She is proof, and the contribution of her brown and purple flowers is just perfect!  So I added my own purple flower in the top right corner, but it isn't nearly as beautiful as hers:



 

But then...

...the husband for whom I prayed said to wake up the boy who came through the door sick and sad and went straight to bed.  So I called: "Cade!  Wake up!  Jim is going to take you on an adventure!" 

The boy with rat's-nest hair and red eyes got out of bed and put on his glasses, shoes, coat.  He jammed his hands down in his coat pockets and asked, low and sincere: "Mom, is Jim taking me to the doctor?"

I laughed and said: "No."

Cade said: "I'm glad, because that wouldn't be a very good adventure."

On the way out the door, I heard them talking about where they will go to buy snacks to eat while we watch a rented movie, and I know there will be an ice-cream-cake surprise for an overdue birthday celebration for the coughing Scout with the postponed sleepover and disqualified pinewood-derby car.

The Wild Orange is pretending to talk to my sister-cousin on the phone for the hundredth time, today, and I am glad they know and love one another.  Occasionally, the Orange breaks out in song, and I am glad "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" is her favorite, that she is learning more of the words, and that--at twenty-three months--she already sings in key.  I am glad for Baby Charleigh sleeping in my arms, and I am glad for the husband and son who are trying to make a relationship-something from next to nothing.  I am glad for the friends who will have lunch with us on Monday and for the electric and propane heaters we can use until our broken, forced-air unit is replaced.  I am glad the broken unit (with its sudden, gaping hole) did not catch on fire, force an abundance of soot into our house, or poison us with carbon monoxide.  I am glad for Handy Andy, who can't always fix our problems but always answers his phone or calls us right back.  I am glad Clementine's lumps are swollen lymph nodes and nothing more, also that they are shrinking thanks to antibiotics and are much smaller, now, than peas.  But, more than any of it, I am glad for the Heavenly Father who sees broken mommy hearts and works patiently, quietly, lovingly, to make things ok.

Nap

There are days...days like today, during which I would like to give myself a leave of absence from my job as Stay-at-Home Mom.  It would be like Captain Donald Cragen saying: "Don't try and rush it, [Detective] Olivia [Benson]. Take a vacation and relax. You'll be back before you know it."  Only I would say those things to myself.  I would brush my teeth; shower; remove, color, style hair.  I would apply make-up!  I would dress nicely (perhaps in an outfit that doesn't require easy access to my frontal units?) and go to Olive Garden.  By myself.  I would order a Frozen Peach Bellini and unlimited garden-fresh salad and minestrone, which I would consume liesurely, while reading the book my little brother bought me for Christmas: the one I haven't yet opened.

Since a leave of absence was not in the cards, today, I did the next best thing.  (For the record, I did it yesterday, too.)  I took a nap.

Baby Charleigh took a nap with me, of course.  She will be five months old tomorrow, but she may be the only person on the face of the earth who really could draw blood from a turnip.  She is happy to nurse around the clock, and here's the other thing about Baby Charleigh: she reminds me a little of this parakeet named Billy that used to live in my Grandma Shafer's living room.  When Billy drove Grandma crazy, Grandma made it dark in Billy's cage, and Billy stopped singing...went off to sleep.  I have learned that Baby Charleigh is like that...that--if I hold her close and make it dark, warm, quiet, and milk-filled--she is sure to stop babbling and go off to sleep.

So I snuggled with Baby Charleigh, and--in the place to which I sailed, in my dreams--there were no broken, forced-air-heating units; pinewood-derby guides undeciferable and vague to fairly intelligent and well-educated parents (and, therefore, no pinewood-derby cars created outside of regulation); crying children of any age or size; cancer, Tarlov cysts, or Alzheimer's disease; or endless piles of laundry and stuff.

One might expect that I would awaken refreshed, happy after my respite.  To be honest, I kind of expected that, myself.  But I am not happy.  I am still sad.  I don't want anyone to try to talk me out of my sadness or ask me to interrupt it by considering the abundance of blessings in my life.  I am blessed.  I am also sad.  And I would really like to go back to sleep.

Shattered

"Are you ok?" I asked, as I pulled the quilts up around his shoulders.  His eyes welled up with tears.

"I'm just thinking," he answered, "about the times you say you'll come in and kiss me goodnight, but you don't."

"How do you know I don't?" I asked.

"Because," he replied, "I stay awake."  A tear slid down his cheek.

Sighing, I said, "Cade, you know I always tuck you in unless I'm nursing the baby when it's time for you to go to bed.  And, yes, I'm sure there have been times that I have forgotten to come in and kiss you..."

He interrupted me.  "I knew it!  I knew you didn't come when you said you would."

"Cade," I admonished, frustrated, "I think you're a little hard on me, sometimes.  I mean, did I not just bake five dozen cookies, on Tuesday, for your birthday?  Did I not find someone to sit in the van with your sisters in order to deliver the cookies to your class?  Have I not spent days cleaning the addition so you can sleep out there, with your friends?  Am I not having a party for you tomorrow night?  Are you really going to try to make me feel like a bad mom right now?  Really?"

He looked away.  "No," he answered.  "You're right.  It's ok." 

I turned on my heels and left the room without saying: goodnight I love you, you impossibly needy child; I don't know how to say or show it better, or bigger, especially considering that I seem to have completely lost myself in caring for all of you and haven't even brushed my hair, today, as a matter of fact.  Didn't you notice that your dinner, tonight, was actually healthy: baked chicken in barbeque sauce with cut green beans and real mashed potatoes?  I made it all by myself, thank you very little, because your stepdad was busy helping you with your pinewood-derby car.  And what about the Heath cookies I baked, today, that had no home for a change, other than in your belly and the bellies of the other people who live here?

I plopped down on the couch with the littlest one to write this blog post and cry my eyes out.

But now...now I think I will try to slide the sleeping baby off my lap, surround her with pillows on the couch, tiptoe back into Cade's room, climb into his bed, take his sleeping head into my arms and say: open your eyes here I am goodnight I love you, you little punk.

Just Let Go

Between now and Valentine's Day, Ann Voskamp has encouraged her readers to share stories related to the practice of marriage.  This is the first time I have responded to one of her invitations, but--as it turns out--my friend Jen confided in me, recently, a wonderful story from her marriage.  I feel in my spirit that it might be of help to someone else, and it is with Jen's blessing that I write and share the following: 

When Jen and her husband Mike got together, she had been close friends with Bill for about six years.  Due to a unique set of cirumstances, Jen's and Bill's relationship had been built mostly through an exchange of written words.  Perhaps due to the same unique set of circumstances (as opposed to any real righteousness or restraint on Jen's, or Bill's, part), Jen and Bill had never been physically intimate; however, they had experienced and expressed romantic feelings at different points in their six-year friendship.  They were not at one of those points when Jen and Mike got together, and Jen did not feel as though her friendship with Bill were a threat to her and Mike's relationship.  But Mike was uncomfortable with Jen's continuing it.  Mike tried to compromise for about a year, and--at one point--he wrote down the strict guidelines under which he gave permission for Jen's and Bill's friendship to continue.  Although both Jen and Bill adhered carefully to the guidelines, their friendship continued to be a point of contention in Jen's and Mike's marriage, and it became increasingly clear to both Jen and Mike that Mike would be satisfied with nothing less than Jen's having no contact with Bill, ever, under any circumstances.

This knowledge was devastating to Jen for many reasons.  She didn't want to lose her friend, and she really cared to know what the future held for him.  She believed Bill needed her support.  She had promised Bill for years that she would never forsake him and detested the idea of going back on her word, and even more, the idea of hurting him.  She was angry that she and Bill had adhered to Mike's guidelines, but Mike required more; it seemed so unfair!  She was troubled because she felt like Mike didn't trust her.  She was afraid that--if she did what Mike wanted--he would lean on her to give up other things about which (or people about whom) she cared deeply.  Finally, after the painful ending of a different friendship (in which Jen had been wearing Bill's shoes) decades before, Jen had promised herself that she would never let anyone force her to give up a friendship.  So the prospect of doing what Mike wanted felt like betraying herself.

Jen grieved deeply, which only made things worse; the more central to her happiness that Mike perceived her friendship with Bill to be, the more Mike wanted Jen to end it.  Jen cried, argued with Mike both in person and in her mind, and prayed.  She remains thankful that she went to the Lord in prayer because, one day, she believes He spoke to her.  And this is what He said:

Jen. You are spending too much energy fighting with Mike about who is right and who is wrong.  I know that you have followed Mike's guidelines; that you are being asked to give up something important to you; and that your intentions in your friendship with Bill are pure.  But you are still wrong.  You are wrong because you are hurting Mike, and you have the choice not to hurt him.  Whether you're right or wrong doesn't matter if you're choosing to hurt your husband.  Because that means, automatically, that YOU ARE WRONG.

It was a lightbulb moment for Jen. 

Jen gave up her friendship with Bill.  Instantly, the quality of her marriage improved as greater trust was established.  Tension evaporated.  Jen calls Mike good and fair and reports that he has not asked her to give up anything or anyone (male or female) since that time.  I asked if she misses Bill.  She answered: "I can promise you that there is no void.  God has blessed me with several new--and very strong--Christ-centered friendships.  When Bill crosses my mind, which happens very infrequently, I offer up a prayer for him and move on with my thoughts, and my day.  And I have peace." 

Jen's story compels me to ask myself: to what am I clinging, "on principle?"  Are those things and people more valuable to me than the peace (both inside and outside of my marriage) I could attain in giving them up?

A Holy Experience

Celebrating Cade

Cade, December 2010



Cade, 4 Days Old



Today is Cade's eleventh birthday.  I found the following in my myspace notes; I wrote it three years ago, before I had baby daughters.

***

Just over eight years and one hour ago, my son was born.  He was 16 days late.  The 14th day after my due date was a Sunday, so the doctors induced my labor at 9 AM on the 15th day (January 24th).  They inserted some kind of pill inside me, but they did not break my water.  My water broke on its own while my pastor was visiting with me.  The nurse was not convinced my water had broken, but I knew I had not peed myself.  Someone put a fluid sample under a microscope, and lo and behold, I was "ferning."

I remember playing a lot of Yahtzee with my ex-husband and my mother that day.  I did not have any medication until around 5 pm, when I started to get very tired, and the pain seemed unbearable. I took Stadol.  Around 8 pm, I requested a shot of Epidural. The nurse put the (very long) needle in incorrectly the first time, and my mother had to leave the room so she wouldn't beat the nurse to death.  Everything went smoothly the second time.

I did not scream all day.  I was not mean, as my ex-husband feared I would be.  I cried many, many silent tears.

When it was time for my son to be born, I pushed harder, longer than I was asked to push.  I stared at my striped toe socks and declined the doctor's offer to watch, in a mirror, my son's head crown.  My son shook his head back and forth as he was leaving my body.  The doctor laughed and said, "Your son does not want to be born."

And then Cade was here.  It was just after midnight on January 25th.  My ex-husband cut the thick, blue umbilical cord.  He, my mother, and I all cried.  Cade weighed 9 lbs., 5 oz., and he was 20" long.  I was almost 26 years old.

I look back and feel like I was born that day, also.  I felt a shift inside me.  I became cautious, protective...not only of Cade, but also of myself.  I can't allow anything bad to happen to me; I am someone's mother.  I can honestly say that, for the past eight years, I have not made one single, solitary decision without considering the well being of my son.  Someday, he will ask me about certain decisions I have made, and it will be a privilege to explain them.  I have to be fair, and I have to be kind.  But I am allowed--obligated, even--to be honest.

I have a ferocious, savage love for my son.  I love him most and best, and best and most.  I watch him dance, laugh, and skip.  I watch him love others, and I know: as many things as I have screwed up in my lifetime, I have not failed my boy.  I may have been someone before he was born, but the self I have come to accept, even love, is the mother of my son.  If I seem confident to you, if I seem happy to you, it's because I know God loves me.  The proof of His love for me is the remarkable child He gave me, as a gift.

Someday, when Cade is grown, I will tell him how hard it was to let him go three nights a week and Saturdays.  I will tell him there were nights I cried because I couldn't smell his hair and tuck him into bed.  And I will tell him that--because it was best for him--I kept a smile on my face for him, shared him with his dad.  He is a light.  He is a bright light.  He is a bright, sparkling scarecrow light.

He is the love of my life.