For Ouma

Where do I begin?  And how.

This week has been the most heart-wrenching of my life.  And it is probably a good thing that I've taken over a week to gather my thoughts.  I wanted to write right away - during that first day when we got the news, but my words would have been too raw, and too painful to write.  And yet, writing has always been how I process things best, and I've been needing to get my thoughts out on paper - so to speak.

I struggle with what to share.  Do I want to document my feelings that day?  The white-hot shock that ran though my heart followed by the odd feeling that I was watching myself fall apart from across the room- like a movie, perhaps.  I was in parts.  The news hurt and I wasn't prepared for it - like a punch to the stomach - but harder.  Then there was the part of me that put up the force field.  No.  I would not let this be true.  No no no.  It's all I could say in those first moments.  My mind's eye can envision the terrible news bouncing off this shield that I had constructed to protect myself.  A million thoughts all at once, and not one of them helpful.  I hurt, deeply.  I was utterly lost.

I went to take care of the baby.  She needed a bottle.  It took me 20 mins to make the bottle as I couldn't concentrate.  We slowly made plans, called airlines, packed bags.  Told others.  Told Abby.

Abby's first question when told that Ouma had gone to live with Jesus was "did Jesus make her knee better?"  Yes, sweetheart, he certainly did.

I was mad at myself.  For not being stronger.  I should have been the strong one - for Kyle, for Brittany.  I couldn't sleep at all that night - feeling as if I were constantly on the verge of a panic attack. The next morning, we flew home.

home.

And we were embraced.  And there was enormous comfort in being there, surrounded by people I knew and loved - as well as people I didn't know.  It didn't matter.  They all loved her, and we shared and supported and I soaked up the community the best I could.  And I found comfort in tiny pieces here and there and held on to them.  I was fragile, and I knew it.  I grasped at scraps of normalcy and happiness.  I tried to be strong for the others.  I failed, a lot.

Walking into the house was hard for me.  Seeing her chair empty was hard for me.  But I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.  

We went to see her the next morning.  We took turns while the girls played in the lobby of the funeral home.  She looked great.  Beautiful and so peaceful.  Content.  At rest.  But, it was hard.  Wearing what she wore to our wedding.

The visitation was that night, and my siblings watched the girls so I could attend without the distraction and responsibility of tending to them.  The receiving line was seemingly endless.  We gave hundreds and hundreds of hugs, shed as many tears, and shared smiles too.  The comfort that came from seeing the crowd there was - significant.  I've perhaps never fully understood the power of  a community to comfort until now.  Just being there was important.  I saw so many people - it did my heart good.  We prayed the rosary after a small homily and then 2 students spoke.  Then Kyle.  Oh Kyle.  He's the true strong one.  He got up in front of everyone he knew and spoke beautifully about his mother - on behalf of the rest of us who would not have been able to hold it together.  I just know she was so proud of him, everyone there was.

The funeral was the next morning.  There are a few moments that will stick with me. The first one is when the bagpipe started playing amazing grace behind us as we proceeded down the aisle.  The strong resonating vibrations of the bagpipe were a cathartic floodgate.  They undid all the neatly tied knots I'd tied around my composure to hold myself together.  I buried my face in Abby's neck as she clung to me and cried.  I let the notes penetrate through me, as we walked down and sat on the front row.  Abby slept on me the entire service, which was a blessing for sure. The music was beautiful, as were the words, and we all shared communion and prayer before walking to the internment.

The bagpipe followed us to the back of the church - again, providing the perfect accompaniment.  We sat, we prayed, we watched as they removed and blessed the crucifix and roses.  Watching her being placed to rest, in the wall and the spot that she had chosen years earlier, was difficult.  Abby was concerned that I was crying.  She stole flowers from various plots throughout the cemetery to give to all of us.  Cheerfully, yet cautiously saying "Here, I got these just for you - they can make you happy"  Sweet girl.

We all relaxed with a lunch provided by the church, and then, later, a bonfire and gathering at the neighbors house.  Again, all the while, finding comfort in numbers and memories and relationships.

One night we stayed up till 1am watching old home videos.  Laughing.  Finding more comfort.

We helped Briana address her wedding invitations, we drank wine, made jokes, enjoyed each other's company.  We cleared out a storage room, cleaned out the attic, and found comfort in physical labor and job oriented tasks.  We had a celebration dinner with friends and family on Saturday night.  More friendship, more comfort.  We all went to church on Sunday - finding comfort in being together and in an activity that was familiar.  The next day, we flew home.

to this home.

And, here I am.  Here we are - just over a week later.  Exhausted.  Adjusting to the new way of things in a world with a hole in it.  Adjusting to being away from all of those that brought us so much comfort.  Adjusting to new ways of thinking, new ways of doing.  Adjusting to a million things.

There are no words to express how deep my gratitude is to everyone who has extended their love, prayers, hugs, gifts, food, services, for me and for this family that I am beyond blessed to call my own.  There are, simply, no words.  -- Just as there are no words to convey how much I am going to miss her.

But how blessed we are.  Blessed to be surrounded by love now, and blessed to have loved an amazing woman - and to have been loved by her.

As the priest at the visitation service said - there is no doubt in my mind that our sweet Ouma was greeted warmly. Welcome home my good, and faithful servant. 


Rest peacefully. Until we meet again.