Dear Boys! Pt. 3

Dear boys,

You don't make it easy for us girls. One minute we decide that we aren't in to you. Then the next minute, you super nicely ask how we're doing. Then when we're sick, you check on us via text twice, THEN decide to bring us soup AND ice cream, even when we told you we were fine. Then we start to have warm, fuzzy feelings about you... UGH! I'm benching this till after Christmas.

Love,

Emily


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Dear NM boy,

I really am glad we're friends. I like the sibling-like banter we have going on. Sometimes though, I wonder if you're interested in more than I am. You're a nice kid, and I could get past a lot of things... but I just don't want to stay in NM forever.

Love,

Emily


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Dear Soup Boy,

You ruined my vocal rest... But thanks for the soup and ice cream. I super appreciate it. Also I was super impressed that you initiated the thank you letter/present for our Thanksgiving hostess. You're a good egg.

Love,

Emily


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Dear Confused Boy,

I hope it wasn't out of line for me to hand you the talk on, marriage. It just seems that you have some serious decisions to make in the next few weeks and you're gonna need all the help you can get.

Love,

Emily

PS: If you DO get engaged (which I don't, for both your sakes)... can we still be friends? I don't really know how that works.

Remembering

I wrote this on a bad day a while back. I've been thinking about it and figured it would be appropriate to share. I don't typically do poetry, it's just how it came out. And they're my perceptions, my feelings, even if it's a 'we' pronoun. 



It's been almost a year since my brother ended his life. 
Twelve terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad months. 
Not terrible every moment of every day; 
but it's always there, 
the elephant in the room, 
the empty spot on the couch,
the thing we only talk about sometimes because it hurts. 

With others we talk about it casually, 
pretending that if we are casual,
it won't be so shocking, 
it won't be so foreign (still), 
it won't hurt so much. 
But it does.

We call on the 1st day of the months (the day it happened),
wondering how everyone is doing,
sometimes not even mentioning his name. 
But we lie. 
We all lie. 

And with each other, 
we speak of it in hushed tones. 
Attempting to soften the raw edges with our soft voices. 
And failing.

We try to get together. 
We hold the baby boy he never will. 
We tell his daughters stories about when their daddy was young, 
trying to infuse our memories of a man they may not remember.
And we cry. 

We cry together and alone.
We cry in our beds and on our knees.
We cry in the car, 
yelling at the world for the injustice.

Most of us cry in church. 
We hold hands when we're together, 
hymnals blurring through our teary eyes. 
Our voices silent.

And we try to move on. 
Right-foot, left-foot, right-foot, left-foot.
We go to work, start college, move across the country for graduate school,
We have babies, go on business trips, go to summer camp. 
We try to live again.
And we do better for a while.

Then comes the remembering.
And it ruins everything.

Showers

Fact: when I grow up I am going to have a shower with at least 5 shower heads... I'm currently house sitting for one of my professors and I am IN LOVE. She has 7 shower heads in her shower ROOM-- I swear, the shower is bigger than my whole bathroom!

The problem is that she also has a tub with jets. So I have to choose between showers and baths.
Tonight:

Bath. Then if my hair is bad I can just take a shower in the morning... I'm going to get used to this and be so sad going back to my boring normal tub/shower.

Vague

So... I'm in the middle of a scheme... (because I need a good intrigue in my life...)



But the thing is... I'm not good at the planning. I started planning on Step 1 (after it happened) and then Step 2 happened, so I named it step 2. Then I actually came up with step 3 on my own, and I'm not good at waiting. I'm pretty good at going for what I want, so this whole waiting thing isn't really my thing.

And... that's all I have to say about that.

Reality; served two ways.

The first day of the past 11 months has been hard for me. Every time the calendar flips its page, I remember (not like I could forget)  that things are different now. And it's not even the things that are different. I am different. We are different. Yes, some things are okay (different okay, but okay none the less) but some things will never be okay.

Yesterday I had just gotten out of the shower, I had the radio on in the background, and I was just thinking about things, and I had a terrible shock of reality. See, each first, for the last 11 months, I have almost counted down to the year mark, like it was some magical number. Somehow, subconsciously, I put a year being the moment that everything would be alright. Like after a year, everything would be okay again, back to normal, the way it used to be. After a year, it won't hurt so bad. After a year it won't be such a big thing. But yesterday, I realized that there was nothing special about that year mark. All it's going to be is the start of a new counting system. First it was hours, then days, followed by weeks, then months, and soon, all too soon, the count will be in how many years since James was here with us. And I hate that. I hate that it feels like he is so far away.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said that that which we persist in doing becomes easier, not that that task itself has changed, but that our ability to do it has increased. I think grief is like that. The pain doesn't stab any more, just aches. In the days just after James' death, I remember running away to the apartment and Dad coming over and sitting on the futon and just crying because the hole that was so real and so present inside of me was too big, and too dark and the edges were too jagged for me to ever survive it. But somehow, over time, that hole hasn't shrunk, but the edges have become smoother. The darkness not as all encompassing. I've become better equipped to deal with it. The hole isn't what I see all the time any more. But it's still there.

Last month, one of the Seventy gave a beautiful talk in General Conference about the loss of his son. He said:

Tyson has remained a very integral part of our family. Through the years it has been wonderful to see the mercy and kindness of a loving Father in Heaven, who has allowed our family to feel in very tangible ways the influence of Tyson. I testify that the veil is thin. The same feelings of loyalty, love, and family unity don’t end as our loved ones pass to the other side; instead, those feelings are intensified.
Sometimes people will ask, “How long did it take you to get over it?” The truth is, you will never completely get over it until you are together once again with your departed loved ones. I will never have a fullness of joy until we are reunited in the morning of the First Resurrection.

He concludes with my favorite quote from Preach My Gospel (the missionary guide) The last sentence of which currently resides on my wall. 

 “as we rely on the Atonement of Jesus Christ, He can help us endure our trials, sicknesses, and pain. We can be filled with joy, peace, and consolation. All that is unfair about life can be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”

I know that this is reality. God keeps his promises, and we are promised a fullness of joy. If not here, then after, when we are reunited, when our tears are wiped away, when all is made right.