Moving On and other Links

If you've been keeping track of me, you'll remember that I was gone for at least a couple months this summer. I reported on some of it, but I guess I never finished reporting about my trip to Ethiopia. The last few weeks gave me so much to think about that I couldn't quite get my thoughts straight.

I did write a piece but couldn't bring myself to publish it. I called it "I Wish You Could Hear What I Heard". I couldn't publish it is because those of you who can hear what I heard have heard it! Those who can't hear it won't. There is a clear Macedonian call from our partners around the world, "Come over and help us." Or probably more accurately now days: "be with us". Our work in cross-cultural missions has not ended, as all of you on this mailing know. If you want to read what I wrote, click here.

I left Ethiopia with several requests including several possibilities of places I could serve. I contemplated each request. I would love to be back in Ethiopia. But going back alone right now isn't going to work emotionally for me. I can't imagine setting up house without my companion of 40 years and living there without him. So I agreed to keep the work of our partners and friends in Dembi Dollo and Gambella (particularly) in front of you and invite you to consider developing partnership relationships with part of God's family in Ethiopia.

In Gambella, there is a need for regular funding to help support the ongoing work of Community Health Development and of Trauma Healing and other peace building work. My colleague, Rev. David Deng, has been working hard with the limited resources he has to teach and lead workshops. He has a vision to lead workshops, send some potential leaders to training opportunities in Kenya or Rwanda, and develop follow-up programs of visiting the remote communities in far western Gambella (up next to South Sudan). We worked together while I was visiting there to set up a plan, showing time-frames and budgets for all his ideas. 

There are the same needs across Gambella town and in the eastern side of Gambella Region with the Anywaa people. Mrs. Ariet Philip , with whom I have led workshops, and Rev. Gnigwo Omod, the president of the synod, also have dreams of setting in motion regular programs that will teach and encourage people in community development and peace building. All of these programs are Biblically based and not only teach what Jesus taught but also show what that means for the situation of the local people. 

So, I encourage you to help us out with these programs. Funds for these can be sent to The Outreach Foundation, which will distribute them to the church when they are needed. Here is the link to support the work I've been connected with in Ethiopia.

But my life is not only sitting around thinking about my friends and colleagues in Ethiopia. I have been working with a group of Presbyterians who are appalled at the closing of the PCUSA World Mission offices and firing of mission co-workers last year. As a co-moderator of the With You Always initiative, I have been working for the past year with others to make sure the word is out that Presbyterians still do mission in partnership and that we promise our partners to continue to be with them. Being with people means people need to be called, to respond, and to be sent. We are committed to promoting the calls and sending of those whose positions were terminated by PCUSA but still have work to do. 

Several of those people joined us at the New Wilmington Mission Conference in Pennsylvania in July. Several workshops were conducted in which we discussed how to send Presbyterians, now that the denomination is not doing so. Lots of good ideas. A newsletter is being developed to keep you informed on those efforts. If you want to receive that newsletter or read some of the responses to the closing of Word Mission over the past year, click here. It also includes a list of former PCUSA Mission Co-workers who now need support as they have returned to their call or to a new one. Please consider supporting someone.

And life moves on. It's impossible to describe how much I miss Michael. But my life keeps on moving. Now I will be moving - moving away from the place we had expected to complete the last decade of our working years together, from the place where he finally had community, from the place where the tree that grows from his ashes is planted. It's a hard move, but seems to be the right one.

I move in a couple weeks to Richmond, VA, where I will be able to participate in in-person classes at Union Presbyterian Seminary as I study for a Masters of Divinity. It is a hybrid program - both online and in-person. I decided to move to be closer to some of my kids, particularly the girls. Amira lives in Richmond and Lydia lives just down the highway in the Tidewater area of Virginia. Thomas (and my favorite granddaughters) lives only a few hours from Richmond in Delaware, but he's moving to Tampa soon. Oh well. Richmond is five hours closer to Massachusetts than Wise, VA is. Maybe I'll see the Weller Boys (Brian's kids) more often. 

This is a hard move. Michael and I came to Wise with the idea that we would, for the first time in our marriage, settle into a community together and be "normal Americans" before we would have to figure out where to go in retirement. The Wise community embraced both of us so well. I will miss everyone. I will miss the mountains. I will miss the tree the kids and I planted nearly two years ago. But life moves on, so I will move on, also.

Richmond is easier to get to. If you get tired of sitting in traffic on I-95 while trying to get between NY and Florida, come find me. I'll have an extra bed! Phone and email remain the same.

I have had wonderful support from so many of my readers over the years. I am grateful. I have no idea how much time or energy an MDiv will steal from me, but I plan to stay in touch. 

I Wish You Could Hear What I've Heard

The window was blackened by the night. No moon shone and the power was out. I had wakened briefly in the middle of the night. As I tried to get my bearings (what bed was I in tonight?) outside I heard  aaaahwoop, aaaahwoop!  Oh yes, Dembi Dollo! A lonely hyena roamed the hillside past the guesthouse at Bethel Evangelical Secondary School where I was staying. When I was five (and even 15!) I would dive under my covers and plug up my ears. It is an eerie call. And hyenas are big, and ugly, and scary. But tonight I smiled. A place I have called home. I was at peace.
Then as the window turned grew with the first light of morning, waa waa waa (you've gotta say that while breathing in); a colobus monkey in a nearby tree announced the start of the new day. The Granddaddy of a troupe in the distance answered the call. I snuggled down for another half hour or so. 
A little bit later with the sun lighting up the whole room, I heard the antiphonal call of rainbirds outside. Hoo hoo. Chirrrr. I knew it was time to rouse myself for the activities of the day, but before I could roll myself over an ibis that must have been pecking with its long curved bill in the soft soil below my window, let out an obnoxious caw, caw, caw and flapped its way up to the branches of a nearby tree. All I could do was smile and soak in the sounds.

Typed out descriptions of sounds don't do them justice, though. I wish you could hear what I've heard.

When I was ready I put on my sweater and stepped outside into the fresh crisp morning air. Recent rains had turned the crackling brown leaves and grass of dry season into lush and thick shades of green. I stepped into the dining room. In the clear, pure Afaan Oromo (mouth/language of Oromo) of Western Wollega my host asked if I had spent the night in peace as she pointed to my place for breakfast. 

Over the next several days, I heard a lot of Oromo language. I went to Dembi Dollo to visit friends, to see people who had known me and who had known Michael. I went to try to understand how church decisions might have affected the relationships we had developed, relationships my family and others had developed over the past century. Since Michael's death, I've felt like a kite without a string. I wondered if there might be a string to attach to in Ethiopia somewhere. I went representing myself to connect to old friends and maybe new ones.

I wish you could have heard what I heard. 

My kids and I had directed funds given in Michael's memory to Gidada Theological College, where Michael had spent most of a decade teaching and encouraging dreams to grow. We made no stipulations. We demanded no report. I had heard that a much-needed meeting hall would be built. I didn't know the timeline of progress. My plans to visit were fairly spontaneous and unannounced. 

When I arrived in Dembi Dollo I knew there would be a service of dedication of the new building. I had no part in the plans for the service. I went where I was directed when I was directed to go. After breakfast the synod car picked me up along with some other visitors staying at the guesthouse and took us over a couple hills to the synod compound where the Gidada Theological College is. 

As we climbed out of the car a procession of officially garbed church leaders processed towards us. I was properly greeted by several friends. And then they pushed me forward and we processed to the building that had recently been completed singing Harii Gamachudhaa (today is joyful). A banner with a picture of Michael taken from the internet hung on the building announcing the Michael Weller Memorial Hall. Another one with pictures of me and my children (also from the internet when we were all much younger) announced our gift to the school. 

I was greeted by people along the walkway with the traditional back-and-forth-cheek-to-cheek kisses. Friends from many years ago added a prolonged embrace, pulling me close, whispering words of comfort in my ear, and wiping their eyes as we released. I wish you could have heard the unsolicited sympathy, gratitude, and joy. 

I wish you could have heard the joyful singing. 

I wish you could experience the sincerity of a long-time relationship across cultures and through different languages.

The three-hour dedication service included several speeches. I heard the history of the coming of the missionaries from South Sudan. A picture of Dr. Thomas Lambie, the cantankerous, adventure-seeking Presbyterian evangelist and medical doctor who moved his family from South Sudan to Ethiopia in response to a call from the governor in Sayyo (now Dembi Dollo) hangs in one of the offices. I heard about the start of the Sayyo Training Institute, where my father and others taught community elders church leadership. I heard about people who had heard the Good News at the hospital where my grandfather had served shortly after Dr. Lambie had built it and moved on to other places. I heard words of overflowing thanks for Michael's servant-leadership at what was then Gidada Bible School. 

The words I heard contradict the message pouring out from the leadership of my church, the PCUSA, - that my presence and the presence of previous Americans in Ethiopia was a work of colonialism, that Michael and I should not have been here and that relating ecumenically (in other words head office to head office) is a better way to relate. 

Some phrases and comments I've heard:

Praise to God! Glory to God! We are so thankful for your coming!
You are ours! Next time bring your children to see the work that your family has started. 
We are family together. We need you to be with us. Your being with us is a blessing - not for money, but to share ideas and fellowship.
We have not ceased to pray for you. We did not forget you. We kept praying. We prayed for your return with us.
In reference to the early missionaries: "We know the hardship they endured," they said. "We are very happy for their coming to not only to tell us but also to show us the way of the Gospel." 

I wish you would hear what I've heard. 

I was asked about Sharon. Sharon Kandel. They know her name but needed to be prompted to remember her title: PCUSA Regional Liaison for the Horn of Africa. Sharon was fired last year along with the other mission co-workers. "What happened?" they asked me. "She heard us and understood us. She gave us good advice. She was open and honest with us." 

I was asked why she doesn't come or communicate any more. Of course, there has been some amount of communication since the firings, but my friends really wonder what would cause the administration to cut off a good relationship. Their brow-furrowing confusion was clear: "No. We work in partnership. There was no colonialism." One former colleague bumped his fists together as he remembered a conversation with Michael. "We had tough discussions; we argued," he said. "That is how partners work." 

During my visits in Gambella, with its connections to South Sudan where Presbyterians began work under the colonial rule of Great Britain, as well as in Dembi Dollo, Ethiopia, a country proud of it's complete independence from colonial takeover, I heard story after story of American Presbyterians who had spent decades in small villages teaching about a good God who has a good plan for every people group of the world. In Gambella they told stories about Doriam (Rob Mclaughlin), Man Ping (Chuck Jordan), and Nyakon (Connie Hall) and Odon (Don McClure). In Dembi Dollo they mentioned Dr. Lambie, Miss McCreery, Mr. Vandevort and Jo Ann Griffith. 

I wish you cou have heard the stories I heard.

Obbo Dhugaasa Beyene told me the story of how he came from Gidame, some distance north of Dembi Dollo, where he was raised in the Ethiopian Orthodox church (which worshipped and taught in the untranslated ancient Ge'ez language). His experience as a student at the mission secondary school (the one where I am staying this week) showed him examples of what God had called people to do and be. He returned to Dembi Dollo, after successfully completing college, to work with the church and continue that tradition. "I saw that this is what it means to be a child of God. To use your gifts and talents to show (his emphasis) others the way. No," he said, "there has never been a colonial attitude from the missionaries here."

My visit was planned as part of my own healing as I continue to mourn the early loss of my husband and companion of forty years. It was poorly communicated because I didn't come to get or do anything in particular. I hoped to understand how my friends now viewed the relationship of PCUSA mission work with their own. 

All I heard were words of gratitude and sincere thanks. "We are one family and you are our ambassador." "We want to always remember our Presbyterian heritage' - even though their own leadership finds it difficult to continue an official relationship due to theological differences about marital relationships.

I haven't quite figured out what my role will be, but clearly there is room for cross-cultural work for Presbyterian Americans to participate in. 

I was overwhelmed with gratitude and love. I was overwhelmed by generosity and kindness. 

No one from the PCUSA leadership is likely to read this. But this is a message of invitation to all Presbyterians (and others!) to continue the life changing cross-cultural work of Kingdom building. It would be nice to have the support of "Louisville". There is a call - "Come over to Ethiopia".

I hope you hear that call.

I Stepped Into A Corner of the Kingdom of God for a Week

 

 If you've been on Facebook, you know that I arrived in Ethiopia, spent a week in Addis Ababa, and then went to Gambella to spend a week. 

I was greeted very warmly in Addis by several people I've known for a long time and whose love for Michael spilled out and washed over me. It is good to eat fresh injera. And you just can't beat coffee made fresh - roasted, ground, and brewed each morning. 

I also got in a few visits in various parts of town with other missionary friends who are still here - fewer and fewer of those around. I think age has something to do with that. 

Then I went to Gambella where I spent the better part of two decades building relationships and working with the leadership to develop programs of community health and trauma healing.

Most of the time I was in Gambella, Michael was running between Ethiopia, Sudan, and South Sudan doing the connecting work that PCUSA Regional Liaisons were assigned to do. Michael was building relationships at church management levels while I was working with people who were teaching and encouraging their own people. It always seemed to me that both parts were important.

What I didn't understand clearly was that the relationship-building work that both of us did was also important to the people of Gambella. I didn't understand it's depth.

I got off the plane in Gambella and took a taxi, arranged by the church leaders, to the West Gambella Bethel Synod compound. (The fuel shortage prevented them coming to meet me at the airport in the church vehicle.) I jabbered along with the taxi driver in Oromo language, keeping up good conversation until we turned to cross the bridge into Newland, where the Nuer people I was going to see live. I started getting quiet. By the time we were driving along the synod compound fence, I was taking deep breaths. We entered the gate.

Simultaneously the group of people sitting under the shade of the Neem trees rose and walked toward the taxi. As I reached out my hand to greet them each one gave me the traditional Nuer greeting - a firm hand on my shoulder. "Welcome, welcome," with big toothy smiles. And them Mary stepped up. Mary was the Women's Coordinator when I was there before. We had done many things together. Her hand landed firmly on my shoulder. Then she pulled me toward her in a prolonged embrace. As we released we both wiped our eyes.

And then I was directed to the church. There I saw the welcome line to the door of the church. I didn't realize they were waiting for me. Just before I stepped into the building, according to Nuer welcome culture, my face and hands were washed with cool, clean water. (They would have washed my feet - but I had socks and shoes on.)

My visit in Gambella started with a welcome that was so much warmer than the temperature on my phone said it was. And it didn't stop there.

All week people along the road said, "Rachel Willer" (yes, willer, it seems easier to pronounce than weller). Nuers greet each other by saying the person's name. Some of them knew me; some of them heard I was coming at the announcement on Sunday at worship. My days were filled with meeting and talking to people and, at night, there were more visitors. I was really overwhelmed. 

I was invited to stay in the home of Rev. Moses Hoth. I could have stayed in a hotel or in the house Michael and lived in before, but I would have been alone. Everyone agreed I should not be alone.  

Moses' plastic bottle house

I'm not sure how I captured this picture without anyone in it. Moses lives with his wife and three children, his mother, four boys whose father died asking him to care for them, a sister-in-law and her daughter, and several other people randomly showing up. He has a water tank that has a steady stream of people coming by to purchase clean water. During the day there were people tearing down or re-roofing some of his old traditional houses making room for a local-style stick and mud house for the four boys and others and for a goat house as well.

Grandma keeping the grandkids occupied

The house has four rooms: three bedrooms (one of which Moses has designated his library/office/quiet room, and which he gave to me for the week) and a "living room" - which is a misnomer because most living happens outdoors; it's at night when the rain is pounding down that everyone sleeping on the wide veranda moves their blankets or mats into that room. And it's where the tv is.

That's how many people are inside watching tv.

Saturday afternoon hair braiding - the first session

Grandma organizing the old roofing into sheeves to be used again.

The water gathering.

I was well cared for. Nuer don't usually drink coffee, but Moses organized for a "Highlander" neighbor to come in the mornings and brew me a couple cups of that wonderful Ethiopian coffee. I ate what they ate - a lot of starchy bases with mostly meat sauces. Every now and then some dark green leafy cabbage. I ate more than I usually do. I was certainly satisfied.

For me, this is the essence of mission. It is a world where relationships between people are built. Where people struggle to communicate in each other's languages, where people stumble over cultural misunderstandings, where people know and understand the pain of people whose ways and opportunities are so different from their own. This does not happen by ecumenical relationships. This only happens when people live with people and learn what it is that makes them different and see that so much more makes them the same. 

What a blessed week I had. Truly, it was an experience understanding a little bit more of God's Kingdom.

By supporting my engagement in Ethiopia you join me in Kingdom work. If you want to, 

here is the link.

Moving Through the Fog with Hope

 

That's the view from my front door last week. It stayed foggy for a lot of the morning, but the cloudy sky felt pretty close to these mountains I live in all day. I have lived the past several years in a fog. The person I have been for the past 40 years changed in a flash. If I had a picture of a kite or balloon floating untethered and aimlessly in the sky, I would have added that and labeled it "Me". 

My camping treks last summer kept me occupied, so I didn't have to sit at home and wonder why the house was so quiet. It gave me something to do, something to learn, and something to enjoy (mostly). But I didn't figure out anything regarding who I am now and how I should occupy my time. 

So now I'm heading out to see if I can figure that out. In a couple weeks I'll be in Ethiopia visiting friends, talking with church leaders, and trying to learn if God has anything for me to do in connection with the church in Ethiopia. I'm planning on staying for six weeks before taking a bit of a vacation in Germany and Scotland. 

I am planning to have conversations with the church leadership in Ethiopia about good ways to strengthen our partnership and relationship work as Kingdom Builders. I hope you will join me in praying for minds open to God's Spirit and open to understanding what we might not clearly understand about each other even after all these years of working together. 

Here's a link to support this work financially:
Rachel Weller, Bridge Leader

By the end of May I hope to be able to share with you some clear missional goals and needs. For now, your donations help fund my travels to and in Ethiopia. 

I'll try to post more frequent pictures on Facebook. I am "Rachel Vandevort Weller" on that platform; if you want to follow me there, send me a private message explaining who you are; I don't "friend" people I don't know - except in person!

Thanks for all the support and love you all continue to express. 

Rachel

 Some days it seems like it was just yesterday. And some days feel like it was two days ago. There have been times in my life that a year was such a long time. Last year just doesn't go away. 

I was hoping all my tears would dry up in a year. I can hardly see the page I'm typing for the fog between it and me. My cheeks still burn with dried salt sometimes. And there's that emptiness that just won't go away. 

I haven't deleted my "sadness" playlist as I thought I would have by now. I don't listen to it every day like I did last year. I just don't listen to anything now. 

When will the sadness go away? When will I be able to go back to where I live and know that I'm home? 

On the weekend that marked the year of Michael's absence, the weekend that includes World Communion Sunday - the day he died, I rented a big house in the Poconos in eastern PA and invited my kids and their families. I didn't want to be in Wise. And I didn't want to be alone. We shared time and space together. We enjoyed walking in the park, riding bikes around the neighborhood, and sitting by the fire in the evenings. We watched the grandkids do kid stuff.

In 2002 and 2003, Michael lived for long stints of time with the Majangir people outside of Dembi Dollo while I stayed in Addis Ababa with our kids who were in school there. He and his Oromo colleague, Mitiku, were working with the Majangir community to set up a school and a church and to improve their agricultural process. It was probably where his favorite memories of our 26 years in Ethiopia were. He lived in a tent and cooked on an open fire, eating whatever was available and whatever he and Mitiku could make in one pot. He participated in the community. They taught him to dance. (Well - to dance their way. He already had some pretty good 1970s moves!) 

And he brought in a professional potter to show the women how to use a potter's wheel to improve their pottery work that was/is their livelihood. And since that time, we have had amongst the decorations of our houses, a bunch of interesting clay pots decorated with chickens or wild pigs or other animals. I took some of those with me to our gathering and presented one to each of our kids and their families explaining how they are symbolic of their dad. 

Michael was creative. He always had some creation going on in his head - whether it was a story about a kid named Sam that made its way into our bedtime routine, or a plan for a back yard garden that never happened, or a dream to build a ship in a bottle (he started that by collecting bourbon bottles). During some of the endless meetings he sat in, he doodled on the Paint app on his old computer. He carved square blocks of wood into four headed gnomes. He crafted every sermon he ever preached using just the right words. 

Michael saw the potential in others. And he created ways to create unusual gatherings.  Michael instigated the fellowship between the Pittsburgh Presbytery, who already had a partnership with the church in Malawi, and the South Sudan Presbyterian Evangelical Church, bringing Africans together who wouldn't normally have that opportunity. The professional potter who went to the Majangir village was a woman from Addis Ababa who had never been outside the city. She had the best time of her life and was thankful to have been invited. 

And Michael was an adventurer. When I was a young woman thinking about dedicating my life to mission, I found him in Egypt where he had gone in search of a good God in a suffering world. He spent his days off from teaching at Ramses College for Girls in Cairo  out in the desert visiting monasteries or in mosques nearby. His time with the Majangir was an adventure of learning the ways of people he had only recently encountered. It's where he saw lions on the path as he drove out to their remote home. It's where he learned about hunting at night with flashlights and spears. And frankly, (but he never told me this) he thrilled at surviving an interrogation in Khartoum by the secret police. (Of course he did!)

The clay creations of the Majangir women of Ulaa Waataa are a good representation of Michael Weller and who he was. Made from the gold-speckled clay from the ground of the hills above Gambella and just below Dembi Dollo, they remind me of his creativity, his adventure, and his interest in other people, other peoples. I will keep a couple with me as I keep on moving into what I am called to do and where I am called to go for the remainder of my life. 

I'm back in Wise now, still living in the church manse because of the generosity of the people here. With the help of a camping man in the congregation, I got my little camper winterized. She'll sit in the church parking lot till I have a place to go again. I hope I'll be able to get out again sometime next year and continue my wanderings. I am beginning to think of how to use the next years of my life. I hope that will include a trip to Ethiopia sometime in the beginning of the year. I'd like to pursue the work of trauma healing with Africans who have immigrated to the US. There's a lot to do right here in southwest Virginia, where one of the poorest counties in the US is. 

I keep a picture of Michael in my camper. He's wearing the red pullover rain jacket that he bought in Marion, VA before we went to Ethiopia in 1994 and now hangs in our coat closet, He is sitting perched on one rock with his feet on one in front of him. The mountains of the western Wollega escarpment beyond him, his hat in his hands, and a backpack on his back. He is deep in thought. It's a perfect picture of him in the place where he had such a good time and such a good influence - somewhere near the Majangir village where the women worked the clay and Michael built friendships and showed God's unfettered love. It's that kind of memory I wish for my kids to hold of their dad and for others to know about him. 

I miss him every day.

But also ... Pittsburgh

 Before I move on, I've gotta tell you about driving through Pittsburgh on my way home.

I had made an appointment with a mechanic to get some of the electric issues sorted. It was at the only other RV place in the US that sells this brand camper and it happened to be just south of Pittsburgh. So I called, Kay Day, a friend and former PCUSA mission co-worker, and spent the weekend at her house. 
Oh - but where to park? Kay's house is on a no-parking street and I'm not backing my camper either up or down her short driveway. Fortunately for me, Kay is friendly. She talked to her neighbor on the corner and asked him to help her save two spaces with his car and hers. It was perfect - the first spots after turning left onto another one-way street (most streets in Pgh are). His car was gone by the time I got there and Kay had taken up two spaces, so as I pulled up, Kay pulled her car out. 

And that's where Blue and Red camped while Gabi and I had a regular bed in a regular house back around the corner and up the street a bit.

And then Monday came. The GPS wanted me to make the first (very tight) right hand turn onto a cobble-stone road. I knew GPS lady could figure out a better route, so I kept straight. And she did. But it's still Pittsburgh - narrow one-way streets, left-hand turns onto busy two-lane roads, and then a ramp up onto the highway. Traffic zooming by on my left. Blinker on, I moved forward and got in lane. Pretty soon my route veers off to the right and merges in with a couple (was it three?) lanes of traffic on my right. Of course, a horn blared. I ignored it. Because I had to get all the way over to the right across all those lanes to get onto the Parkway East going towards the Squirrel Hill Tunnel - which was under construction. 

But look. Big old tractor trailers do this all the time. I can get my little Jeep and little camper into this traffic. And if anyone wants to blare their horn at me - go ahead and blare. I won't hear it! 

A big sigh as I get onto the Parkway in the right-hand lane. I'm driving peacefully along in the right-hand lane and suddenly I realize the sign above my head says, "exit only". Oops. Gotta move left or I'll end up in Oakland and have to navigate around Pitt and CMU. Hold it steady and use your blinker, I tell myself. Lucky for me the driver behind me hung back a bit. I got over and then ... the "construction ahead" signs. I stayed in my lane ending up in the middle lane. And that's where I stayed, they can all merge around me!

And yes, I aimed my phone and clicked a couple pictures, too!

The tunnel is not as scary as it seems. No cars coming head-on, and, because of the construction, none on either side. Just construction barriers and a wall. 

When I finally saw the brightness at the end of the tunnel I started breathing again - because, don't you know, you always hold your breath going through tunnels! 

As I emerged into the sunlight, my hand shot up and I did a one-handed high-five to the empty seat beside me! "Did you see that, Michael!?!" I said. 

He would have squeezed my hand on the gear-shift. 

Grief comes in Waves

 The last time I was at the beach, I went into the water and standing about waist high I was jumping and "riding" waves with my kids and grandkids. The last time I ever did that (and am ever likely to try it again) I jumped up caught a wave - or rather the wave caught me, slammed me down to the floor of the ocean, yanked all my breath out of me, and receded as if nothing happened.

People have told me, "grief comes in waves". I guess I assumed that meant that it comes sweeping over you, you cry for a few hours or maybe a day, and then it passes.

After a week at New Wilmington Mission Conference, I spent some time with my sister in northern PA, then a wonderful, quiet few days in Cook Forest, not far from my sister's place, with just Gabi. We walked in the woods, slept in late, cooked dinner on the induction stove. I didn't have the energy to build a fire. I wrote a lot, thought a lot, prayed a lot, worked on my yarn project a lot, and cried some, too. Michael would have built a fire. 

Then I came home. It was about a week after my birthday and a week before the 41st anniversary of our wedding. I walked in the house, sighed a deep sigh and slept well in my bed - our bed - that night. I woke up crying in the morning. Amira had been away and returned that evening. I cried. I cried all the next week up till the day of our anniversary. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. 

On our anniversary I remembered last year. On my birthday last year, Michael noted (somehow) that he hadn't gotten me anything. Gifts were important to him. Then he said very clearly, "That's where we are now." He couldn't smile for our anniversary picture. I just miss him so much this year. 

The wave has receded. I emerged out of breath, but I'm ok. I prayed. I journaled. 

Grief comes in waves. I don't ever want to go into the ocean again.