There’s the whirring noise of the fans. Not the circular kind you’re picturing. The ones that suck up stink in the bathroom and for whatever reason the laundry room needs. Yes, both of them are humming because my husband apparently likes to sleep in a vacuum.
No one is awake but me. It is the calm before the storm.
And this is my Christmas gift. A silent offering of my heart to His.
After that I may secretly try out my son’s new remote control helicopter.
“I didn’t really want to run away. I just wanted you to find me and bring me back here and tell me things are going to be okay…like they used to be.” -Jessica Riggs, Prancer
Perhaps it’s all relative, this being a girl thing. Though I can drive, vote, write a check to a mortgage company, and have bore three children, to many of you my thirty years still leaves me in a class of naïve innocence with plenty yet to learn. Or if you are my husband you charmingly call the silver-haired woman in church next to us, a girl- evoking all the whimsy and femininity I vow to awaken even when I’m old.
Sweet man of mine, please do this when we are both wrinkled and smell like menthol.
Truth be told, pieces of the girl in me never leave. My counselor makes sure of it.
The same longings we discover in the days of pigtails carry into our marriages. What needs are not met as hop-scotch jumping, Miss Mary Mack-reciting elementary students is played out for years in various relationships.
Dads, we need you so very desperately.
We know you’re scared because you didn’t have a dad, or had one that beat you or shamed you or told you that your worth was nothing compared to his work schedule. But we’re scared too. Scared that you’ll live out our childhood not really knowing us.
PURSUIT
It’s a moment that holds so much. You walk in after being gone all day, after we fight with our mothers about when to do homework, and we look to your face. Do you notice our presence? Are you happy to see us? We internalize your expression, too young to disconnect and understand that the scowl around your eyes is from the ass-wipe in your office who badgers you incessantly about the unfairness of life being all your fault. About the numbers not adding up. About the way you question if you can always provide for us with a job you hate.
All we hope is that you’ll want us. That you’ll twirl us, hug us, ask us about the last eight hours and pause in anticipation to know what we have to say. Five minutes of this does more for our hearts than a hundred perfect boxes from the store.
When we’re angrily stomping upstairs don’t let us cry in our pillows forever because if you don’t come for us, that teenage boy with the great hair and not-so-great intentions will.
Teach us that the things we speak, feel, experience- matter to you, and you’ll be pursuing what matters to us.
SAFETY
The sand still lingers on her hands while we cry from the stinging pebbles in our eyes.
Words of hate hang in the whispers of girls who use us to feel better about themselves.
Our kisses leave traces on the lips of the boy who said he’d love us even after we gave him everything.
Empty bassinets, a husband with a private life, a friend’s cancerous death sentence.
We need a safe spot to curl up and ugly sob. And we need that spot to be you.
We don’t need it fixed, though that would be stellar. We need you to listen, validate that what we are going through is in fact nothing of the likes of Friday the 13th (and sometimes it is), and hurt with us. We know the pain won’t go away, but if we have you next to us, somehow it seems bearable.
ANSWERS
I remember it like it was today. The right color eyeshadow and new mascara, so carefully selected from all the others, would make him notice. How I scrubbed my hair in the shower, dried it into submission so it would grace my cheeks in that specific angle I liked, and wore my Sunday best. My Dad will think I’m the most, beautiful, girl.
Airbrushed legs and photoshopped waists are thrown at us with overwhelming speeds. We question our beauty when we don’t know we’re questioning our beauty. And usually the answers we come up with ourselves are nothing less than harsh.
Is this dress pink enough?
Do these shoes match enough?
Have we developed enough?
Are we thin enough?
But really just, are we enough?
We very much need you to answer this for us. See the way our laugh ignites giggles in others. Notice that our giving spirit is striking. Tell us how you watch our hearts grow to love people deeply and how gorgeous you think it is. Remind us when our hair is greasy and we’ve been fevering for days that we are just as captivating as when we’re dressed for Homecoming.
ADVENTURE
Always, Prancer. At the end of the movie Sam Elliott who plays John, the father of precious, chubby-cheeked Jessica, and a man whom I would take to coffee every day just to listen to him talk…sorry, digress.
He takes her against doctor’s orders to a cliff so they can release a reindeer he has hated the entire movie, back to Santa. Jessica searches, wonders, and you can see the excited playfulness on his face when he says, “Maybe he flew. It is Christmas Eve.”
We need you to throw our toddler frames so high above your head that our moms gasp and scold you. We need you to drive the shopping cart through the parking lot like a race car. We need you to tickle our armpits until we pee our pants, and give us our first bouquet of flowers.
We need your sense of risk and for you to teach us how to appropriately push ourselves. Then we’ll know we’re capable when you move us into our first dorm room or apartment. We’ll know the fun is in trying, and failing is allowed.
Dads, we need you. We need you in our lives more than we care if you don’t do it well. So kick your fear of inadequacy in the neck, take us by the hand, and let us know that even if this journey is difficult you “will find us and bring us back and tell us that things are going to be okay.” Believe that you can. We sure do. And it’s truly what we want this season.
“Mom, it snowed a little last night.”
“I know, barely. I thought they were calling for about an inch.”
“It snowed at 3 a.m.”
Inwardly, so he can’t see the bad parenting I’m exhibiting in my heart, I roll my eyes. This kid and his know-it-all remarks sometimes drives me to resort to such horrible behavior.
“Oh, how do you know?” I say it as a statement, an afterthought that doesn’t demand an answer, though I know he’ll oblige.
“Well, the Accu Weather on the computer at school said it was going to be snowing at 3 a.m.” (And I don’t even know how you spell Accu Weather at this moment.)
I look at him dumbfounded. “Oh my goodness, you are Kevin.”
“I got you milk, eggs, and fabric softener.” -Kevin McCallister, Home Alone
“No kidding. What a funny guy.” -Peter McCallister, Home Alone
“So this is thirteen?”
I only smile.
“Right?”
“I’m not telling you.”
We are both playful grins.
“Come on. I lose track.”
“Well, what year were we married?”
His eyes travel to the dim ceiling of the restaurant as he visibly counts with his lips. I take another bite of tilapia that resolves any ill feelings I’ve ever had of this man. Because it’s that fantastic.
“Thirteen?”
“All your answers are coming out as questions.”
I smile again, unable to resist his boyish laugh. His real laugh.
“We were married in 2002 so it’s twelve,” I say.
“Twelve. Wait,” he says flicking his fingers to check. “Wow. Twelve.”
“No.” And I can’t wait to see his face. “We were married in 2001 and it’s thirteen.”
“So I was right the first time!”
I giggle. Dessert, please.
The throaty sound of her voice makes me want to cry. McBride’s version of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas demands I pay attention.
“Through the years we’ll all be together, if the fates allow…”
Well, they didn’t allow.
* * *
I’m not above circling the block to re-evaluate my parking options, especially with three kids who traveled with me longer than daylight and a cargo hitch bolted to the back of my car.
We’ll just walk a little farther. It will build character in them, and maybe some chest hair with these stupid temperatures.
“Okie dokie, hats on everybody.”
I give my son a look of challenge when he says, “I don’t need it. I’m not cold.”
“Well you will be out there,” I urge with a lazy wave to the Midwest tundra.
“I promise. I won’t.” Fine, Stubborn Mule, get hypothermia for all I care. You’re so like…your mother.
It hits us like a collision, that wet cold that seeps into every orifice of our being. We brace our shoulders and tread a little faster to the building, any building that will shield us from the ridiculousness of it all. But which door? There are two, both bright red and on the same wall, yet the mistake could cost me embarrassment beyond tolerance. Oh, the anxiety.
So I check everyone’s britches are free of their rear, take a breath, and choose the one with a promise to get us out of the arctic soonest. We open to stairs, cases of them, and another closed door. For pity’s sake, the anxiety, again.
A side door. Which means not a stage door so basically, perfect.
We made it, I think through an exhale, and notice someone from my family who looks quite like my uncle 30 years ago. Ah, my cousin…I think. I hope, because I just called him by my cousin’s name.
He seems too young to have so much beard. “How are you?” I ask, and immediately question my own question. The answer, I know, is in the casket up front. His taut mouth and heavy eyes tell the same story: This day is not wanted. It’s just so difficult.
Glancing around I catch eyes with another cousin who seems more like an aunt because of the decades between our birthdays. But in the entirety of the moment that span closes under the helm of family. That’s all we are in this sanctuary, family, who’s come together to remember and say goodbye.
With a pointing finger I explain to my kids where we’re heading, the line of people at the front.
“Why is that man laying down like that?”
“Good question. I’ll tell you when we sit down.” It’s enough to quiet her and give me time to ponder the anomaly. In church, dressed up, but there’s someone at the center of the room who looks like they’re taking a nap. We spend countless minutes looking at them as they don’t move. Then there’s crying and tissues and wiping and nodding. Yes, this would be confusing to a preschooler.
She’s sitting, my aunt, as she looks up at me with a kind of lost joy and I take her hands. “I know you’re mine,” she says. “But who are ya?”
“Cheryl’s daughter,” I say without offense. How can I feel anything but compassion in the face of a woman who’s lost the love of her life? Which is no exaggeration. When her husband was five years old he told his father he was going to marry my aunt.
It’s in my eyes, I realize, that she knows me. They are my mom’s. And they are hers, mirroring mine.
“Oh, you have such a good mommy. Thank you so much for coming.”
There’s nothing left but an embrace. It conveys all we feel.
The line gets less easy as the hugging doubles, triples. Cousins, spouses, some I haven’t seen since we scraped by puberty. “I’m coming for you next,” I tell one of them.
When we finally find our seats and I’m overwhelmed by the magnitude of the organ pipes taking me back to my childhood with their chords of How Great Thou Art, I lean to my mom. “I am much too happy for this occasion.”
“Let your heart be light.
From now on your troubles will be out of sight.”
We are not so naïve to understand our troubles aren’t distanced. In fact, for certain members of my family this reality will be an unwelcome constant through the holiday season. But maybe our hearts will be a little lighter because we walk through it together.
She has her typical determined saunter. Which is an art considering “determined” and “saunter” are difficult to marry. But that’s my girl.
“Mail, ” she breathes with a flared nose. “Is this actually mail?”
“Yes. Are you going to pay my bills?”
“Wait,” she says suddenly serious. “What am I going to do?”
Mm-hmm. That’s the nature of bills sometimes, Sweet One.
Whispers of a Scattered Mind 