I'm getting ready to move so I have started mentally preparing for the fact that I'm going to have to go through drawers. In general I enjoy cleaning out my drawers. It's satisfying and always makes me feel lighter. But there is one group of things always stuffed in a drawer that intimidate and overwhelm me. These seem to follow me around for days after I unearth them. They suck me in faster and deeper than any Facebook newsfeed binge. I come up for air suddenly feeling like I was locked in a time vortex. These make me uncomfortable and cause me shame. Sometimes they make me smile and laugh. They bring me to tears, or even sobs. Both for joy and sorrow. Or just for nostalgia. I'm working to redefine them and decide what place I want them to have in my home, but for now they continue to feel like Incriminating Evidence. Part of me wants to throw them all away. Who keeps incriminating evidence? And yet I feel like its wrong to part with them. This question of what to do with them has haunted me through every move I've made, starting when I was 14 leaving my childhood room to go to high school in a new town and a new state. They came with me, even though I was tempted to leave them behind in the name a fresh start and clean slate. Do I have to keep them even now?
They are my journals. Hundreds of pages and dozens of books. They feel cumbersome and they seem to whisper such a jumble of messages I'm not sure if I want to hear or not. Is this how I feel about the stories that make up my life? Can I keep my stories? Can I bless them? Without keeping these stacks of well worn pages? I know the covers by heart. I know which journal goes with which year, or event. Each cover goes with a mental title, but this world of my journals is a solitary place. Only I walk into it. Only I know it's twists and turns. The finality of my written word is isolating. Perhaps it's not so much the journals that overwhelm me, but the paths they construct for me to wander alone.
I think it is not so much about, "Should I keep my journals?", but more about, "What do I want to do with my stories?" I want to share them. I want to bring them to Jesus. I want to let Him unravel the shame and guilt. I want to ask Him my questions and let others study my story with me. I want to honor who I am becoming by blessing who I have been. I want to be tender to the writer of these journals, these thoughts and prayers, these questions and answers, this pain and joy, these hopes and and fears. Just as Jesus is tender with her. As Jesus is tender with me. I hear Him even now say, "These are not Incriminating Evidence, I have held nothing against you. I have loved you. I wander the paths of your story with you. I have loved you through all and never have I turned my face away. I am inviting you to sift through your stories with Me, and with those who love Me and who love you."
...but, should I keep the journals?
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
Hit From Behind
11/9/12
Usually I am full of words, but over the past weeks I have been at a
loss. I have watched Jamie, Mom, and now Dad eloquently and honestly
update the journal with their thoughts and feelings about the accident
and I have waited for my words to come. What if they never do? What if I
don't have language for this? I feel it sealing off and quietly leaving
me, this experience that is. But I want to catch it. I want to
integrate it, or some part of me will always live in this trauma. I got a
call from WakeMed on October 23rd and now I'll never be the same. I
keep thinking 'First Responder'. I feel like I was the first responder
to this accident. I know that the fire department and EMS were the true
first responders and we owe them so much. They kept my parents alive.
But I got the first call of those who know them, who love them. I was
sitting in my rocker listening to the wit and wisdom of Julia, enjoying
so much our conversation. And WakeMed kept calling and calling until I
took it. "Your parents were out for an evening stroll and were struck by
a moving vehicle. Do you want to come or should I just tell them I let
you know?" I had just been with them. I went to their house after
work and we ate fair left overs together for dinner. I walked down the
steps and got in my car to go. I still had my door open as dad came down
front steps mom calling to him did he want his sweatshirt? I realized
they were going for a walk and I thought how nice it would be to walk
with them, but my feet hurt and I was tired so I said bye and went home.
10 minutes after I got home I got the call. As I walked up to the
emergency room I saw the metal detector and realized I had a pocket
knife. Tears were streaming down my face and I felt so confused and so
clear at the same time. I had one job: get there. The security guard who
took my knife said, "You look like you're hurting." I said, "It's not
me." as I rushed past him. The chaplain met me and took me in a room by
myself. Why was it empty? There were so many chairs. All empty. The
chaplain told me some friends of my parents' and my uncle were coming and wanted
me to tell her what they looked like. I think I just stared at her. I
repeated my question from the phone call, "Are they ok?" She repeated
her maddeningly undecipherable answer, "They're talking but I can't give
medical information." I'm going over how hurt you can be and still talk
and wading through what I know about chaplains and trying to remember
if they'll tell you if they know things are okay. Then I was alone in
the room. A policewoman came in and told me they were hit by a drunk
driver. The bottom fell out. The room got deafeningly silent. Drunk
drivers don't slow down, they don't react, they don't see what's coming.
Then I was alone again. Then a nurse brought me dad's wedding ring with
blood covering it and mom's phone saying 'No SIM card' in a biohazard
bag. I took it and started to cry. The nurse, "Oh honey it's ok. They're
talking and your dad's cracking jokes." Now I imagined they just bumped
their heads and they're sitting up in bed and just have to get CAT
scans. Finally we got to go back and see them, the friends and my uncle had gotten
there. I saw mom first. Flat on a bed, legs splayed like a person with a
head injury. Her face was the color of concussion. Do you know that
color? When someone has a concussion their face turns a certain color
and it makes you feel sick and floods you with compassion. Her eyes were
scared and hurting. She had dried blood coming out her nose and so much
blood in her hair. Her hands were bleeding and there was blood under
her fingernails. She was wearing a neck brace and was hooked up to the
telemetry. She kept saying, "My shoulder hurts so bad." I held her hand
and stroked her head and she said, "That feels so good." She wanted to
know what was happening and where she was and where dad was. She kept
asking us not to leave. My Uncle Robbie held her feet. Then Robbie was gone and
next thing I knew he was standing beside the curtain at the end of the
bed and he said, "Kellay you need to come see your dad before he goes to
surgery." In that moment I felt the most excruciating splitting happen
in my soul. Like I knew somewhere deep this wasn't supposed to happen.
You shouldn't have to wrench your hand from your mamas when she's asking
you to stay to go see your daddy. He was 3 curtains away. He was
covered in sheets and blankets but it didn't cover the brokenness of his
body. I'd never seen someone that injured. I saw his feet first and I
knew they were his though one was wrapped in some kind of temporary cast
and the other was bleeding from a cut. Then I saw his hand which
reached to hold mine immediately. It was bloody too. He was wearing a
neck brace and his face was completely red. The sight of his blue eyes
piercing through his face of blood has haunted me for many nights. He
was so happy to see me and told Robbie he didn't want me to worry. Robbie said, "Okay Bill, I'll worry for both of us." I
held his hand until they came to take him to surgery. He kept asking
about mom. A nurse said, "I want to do something" and a doctor said
okay. She ran to mom's curtain and unhooked her from everything and
rolled her into the hall where they were bringing dad. They put their
beds side by side. They couldn't see each other because neither could
turn their heads but they reached for each other's hands. They couldn't
find them until I held them together. Mom said, "Oh Bill I love you
precious man. We got hit by a car. Jesus be with you." Dad said, "I love
you darlin. Jesus be with you. I know." And they continued that way for
a time and then dad was gone. Before he left I signed so many papers
for both of them. Consent for them to be treated. Consent for dad's
surgery. They couldn't sign for themselves. I remember moving the pen
across the pages thinking, "How is this down to me?" I am their
emergency contact and I know how that happened. But how did it happen?
Usually I am full of words, but over the past weeks I have been at a
loss. I have watched Jamie, Mom, and now Dad eloquently and honestly
update the journal with their thoughts and feelings about the accident
and I have waited for my words to come. What if they never do? What if I
don't have language for this? I feel it sealing off and quietly leaving
me, this experience that is. But I want to catch it. I want to
integrate it, or some part of me will always live in this trauma. I got a
call from WakeMed on October 23rd and now I'll never be the same. I
keep thinking 'First Responder'. I feel like I was the first responder
to this accident. I know that the fire department and EMS were the true
first responders and we owe them so much. They kept my parents alive.
But I got the first call of those who know them, who love them. I was
sitting in my rocker listening to the wit and wisdom of Julia, enjoying
so much our conversation. And WakeMed kept calling and calling until I
took it. "Your parents were out for an evening stroll and were struck by
a moving vehicle. Do you want to come or should I just tell them I let
you know?" I had just been with them. I went to their house after
work and we ate fair left overs together for dinner. I walked down the
steps and got in my car to go. I still had my door open as dad came down
front steps mom calling to him did he want his sweatshirt? I realized
they were going for a walk and I thought how nice it would be to walk
with them, but my feet hurt and I was tired so I said bye and went home.
10 minutes after I got home I got the call. As I walked up to the
emergency room I saw the metal detector and realized I had a pocket
knife. Tears were streaming down my face and I felt so confused and so
clear at the same time. I had one job: get there. The security guard who
took my knife said, "You look like you're hurting." I said, "It's not
me." as I rushed past him. The chaplain met me and took me in a room by
myself. Why was it empty? There were so many chairs. All empty. The
chaplain told me some friends of my parents' and my uncle were coming and wanted
me to tell her what they looked like. I think I just stared at her. I
repeated my question from the phone call, "Are they ok?" She repeated
her maddeningly undecipherable answer, "They're talking but I can't give
medical information." I'm going over how hurt you can be and still talk
and wading through what I know about chaplains and trying to remember
if they'll tell you if they know things are okay. Then I was alone in
the room. A policewoman came in and told me they were hit by a drunk
driver. The bottom fell out. The room got deafeningly silent. Drunk
drivers don't slow down, they don't react, they don't see what's coming.
Then I was alone again. Then a nurse brought me dad's wedding ring with
blood covering it and mom's phone saying 'No SIM card' in a biohazard
bag. I took it and started to cry. The nurse, "Oh honey it's ok. They're
talking and your dad's cracking jokes." Now I imagined they just bumped
their heads and they're sitting up in bed and just have to get CAT
scans. Finally we got to go back and see them, the friends and my uncle had gotten
there. I saw mom first. Flat on a bed, legs splayed like a person with a
head injury. Her face was the color of concussion. Do you know that
color? When someone has a concussion their face turns a certain color
and it makes you feel sick and floods you with compassion. Her eyes were
scared and hurting. She had dried blood coming out her nose and so much
blood in her hair. Her hands were bleeding and there was blood under
her fingernails. She was wearing a neck brace and was hooked up to the
telemetry. She kept saying, "My shoulder hurts so bad." I held her hand
and stroked her head and she said, "That feels so good." She wanted to
know what was happening and where she was and where dad was. She kept
asking us not to leave. My Uncle Robbie held her feet. Then Robbie was gone and
next thing I knew he was standing beside the curtain at the end of the
bed and he said, "Kellay you need to come see your dad before he goes to
surgery." In that moment I felt the most excruciating splitting happen
in my soul. Like I knew somewhere deep this wasn't supposed to happen.
You shouldn't have to wrench your hand from your mamas when she's asking
you to stay to go see your daddy. He was 3 curtains away. He was
covered in sheets and blankets but it didn't cover the brokenness of his
body. I'd never seen someone that injured. I saw his feet first and I
knew they were his though one was wrapped in some kind of temporary cast
and the other was bleeding from a cut. Then I saw his hand which
reached to hold mine immediately. It was bloody too. He was wearing a
neck brace and his face was completely red. The sight of his blue eyes
piercing through his face of blood has haunted me for many nights. He
was so happy to see me and told Robbie he didn't want me to worry. Robbie said, "Okay Bill, I'll worry for both of us." I
held his hand until they came to take him to surgery. He kept asking
about mom. A nurse said, "I want to do something" and a doctor said
okay. She ran to mom's curtain and unhooked her from everything and
rolled her into the hall where they were bringing dad. They put their
beds side by side. They couldn't see each other because neither could
turn their heads but they reached for each other's hands. They couldn't
find them until I held them together. Mom said, "Oh Bill I love you
precious man. We got hit by a car. Jesus be with you." Dad said, "I love
you darlin. Jesus be with you. I know." And they continued that way for
a time and then dad was gone. Before he left I signed so many papers
for both of them. Consent for them to be treated. Consent for dad's
surgery. They couldn't sign for themselves. I remember moving the pen
across the pages thinking, "How is this down to me?" I am their
emergency contact and I know how that happened. But how did it happen?Blogging Again...
I'm back! I'm so excited to re-enter the blogging world after a long hiatus. I'm going to start with a blog I wrote for another site this past November. I feel like I have to post it before anything else because it's where I'm coming from. I am setting aside time this summer to ponder and heal from the trauma this post begins to describe. For better or worse it is the back drop for my coming blogs. Thank you, dear reader, for reading.
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