This week, as our trees turn and the leaves are falling, I have been thinking about my love for all the seasons, but especially the times of most transition, spring and fall. I thought of this again today, walking with Christopher and Jack under a cloudless sky. I asked Christopher if he had a favorite among the seasons and was surprised when he named summer and winter. I asked why.
“Well, in summer it is hot and we get to swim in the pool and in winter there is snow and we let our imaginations run wild, you know.”
God help me, I do and I pictured Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Figuring that that wasn’t what he meant I asked him to elaborate.
“When the snow comes we are able to make snowmen and snow creatures and build forts and have snowballs fights. This winter I am going to make a snow zoo again, with lots of animals.”
He did that last year and the Legumes loved it. It all sounds so sweet and benign, cozy even. Maybe for him it is, maybe I’m the only one who feels the urge to pick up an axe in the winter, although the blamey side of me wants to suggest that, some days, Christopher picks it up first and hands it to me.
But who wants to be blamey? I don’t. And maybe this winter it will be different. Today, with the sun shining in the windows of our peaceful house it doesn’t seem to be only wishful thinking, but a strong possibility.
I had wondered about this, having read a lot of her work and a biography. She had a very hard life.
I’m glad that her granddaughter has respectfully broken the silence about her death. Suicide is so terrible. Mourning any death is hard, but losing a loved one to suicide is…at the moment I can’t describe it,and am only able to picture the inky blackness that seems to permeate the world.
I can’t imagine suffering with depression in the early part of the last century, especially being the wife of a clergyman. There is still so much shame associated with depression even in this day and age.
A couple of years ago I began an essay about the depression I slid into during my pregnancy with Lydia in the midst of Christopher’s diagnosis. I wrote a lot in a burst, set it down unfinished, added a little and then abandoned it again as I worked through another episode of depression itself.
But now, though I don’t have it all figured out, I know it’s time to write whatever I can in order to record the journey as truly as I am able.
You have to see THIS. Go to the theater immediately. Now! Now! Now!
You don’t have to cry, although I SOBBED and Paul had to wipe away tears several times, but you must laugh or, at the very least smile. If you can walk out of the theater unmoved, call me and we’ll get you some help.
Go watch it today.
*To view the trailer, click on the red guitar.
It’s shaping to be a busy week, but good.
Last week was hard. The black dog was biting me and I’m not referring to Jackie Boy, but the black dog of depression. Actual dogs can be put in kennels. This black dog settles over me like a shroud.
One day I was having a seriously rough time and wrote an e-mail to a group of friends. I let them know how I was, which was pretty bleak. My tendency is to try and work things out alone or to confide in Paul and my siblings, especially Torey, but I decided to let this group know that I was struggling. At the end of the e-mail I said I was going to go find Eden and dance with her since I know that praising God is a way out of the darkness. I put the e-mail in my draft folder because I didn’t know if I really wanted to send it, then I did a little work on the computer.
I don’t know how long it took me to notice that Eden had come to me and was stretched out at the foot of my bed. She lay in the sun, a foot propped up on her other knee and she was singing. She sang the song that she and Lydia danced to on Easter morning. She didn’t know all the lyrics, but her voice was soft and sweet. “The Godhead three in one…the beginning and the end, the beginning and the end. How great is our God, how great is our God. Sing with me. How great, how GREAT is our God!”
I set my computer aside and embraced Eden and kissed her face. I thanked her for singing and told her that she comforted me, that she helped carry me to God.
“It’s all thanks to Miss Jeannie,” she said, referring to her dance teacher, “she taught me how to worship God and now I can teach other people.”
I work so hard to be a good provider for my children and yet I am becoming more and more aware that they are God’s provision for me.