The Sound of Grace

Life keeps ticking away, and with every passing day, I am getting farther and farther away from the era during which my precious mother graced the earth. 

It’s as if life is a passenger train, with people getting off and on, the passenger list always changing, even as the train speeds forward. It feels like we left my mom at the last stop – her ride ended there, and she will never see what’s down the line…

(Of course I know that the glory she’s experiencing makes our linear train ride seem drab by comparison!) 

But a couple months ago, I saw a news story about some 1,000-year-old mummified bodies that were found in Peru, and it got me thinking about all the people in all the generations that have populated the earth over the course of time. Or, consider the lives cut short in Pompeii with the eruption of Mount Vesuvius... We once saw a museum exhibit that showed how the bodies of the people who died there were buried in the ash and decayed so that archaeologists later found cavities in the rock that were in the shapes and positions of people in their last waking moments. Those haunting images have stuck with me.

Everyone gets their allotted piece of time and place, with their own unique history and happenings and surroundings, which all inevitably shape their own experience and viewpoint and, even, their resulting impact on history. 

Out of all the souls that have lived throughout time, these are the ones (you are one) who were destined to run parallel with my own, in the same era. 

At least for a time.

***

The words “I lost my mom last July” always evoke a response of “Awww, I’m so sorry.”

It’s a conversation I’ve had multiple times, in multiple situations. But nothing in that exchange (whether my statement or the person’s expression of sympathy) adequately reflects the pain and emotions that have been experienced since “last July.” 

I know that from the outside, it sounds so normal – After all, if our life progresses the way it’s intended to, we will all lose our mothers at some point in our lives (my own mother was lucky enough to not lose hers, though; my grandmother lives on at the age of 94). But while losing one’s mother is such an everyday, universal occurrence for humankind as a whole, when it happens, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime tragedy for each individual soul.

“I lost my mom last July.” It’s just an ordinary sentence. Six little words. 

But if you listen carefully, you’ll hear all the unspoken heaviness hanging on those words. 

You’ll hear the pain of writing the obituary – reducing 73 years of living down to a few carefully worded paragraphs. You’ll hear the tears shed while choosing photos for the funeral video. You’ll hear the sound of her clothes being bundled up for donation. You’ll hear the silence of her cell phone and the sound of her husband calling to cancel the phone line. You’ll hear the awkwardness at the dinner table – in restaurants, at home, at Thanksgiving – as everyone silently acknowledges the empty seat. You’ll hear the heartache experienced while sorting through her precious things – deciding what should be kept and what else should be given away. You’ll hear the pain felt at knowing what she would say in every situation – but not getting to hear her say it. You’ll hear the hollowness of many days spent just staring into space, wondering what’s next – wondering how it’s possible to live in a world without her. And you’ll hear the unexpected times of laughter and joy and the underlying guilt for finding it’s possible to experience happiness in the midst of grief. 

It’s all unspoken, hanging in the balance. “I lost my mom last July.” “Awww, I’m so sorry.”

Nothing in that exchange adequately expresses the huge loss the world experienced when Mom drew one last ragged breath on a Saturday morning.

***

In her jewelry box, I found a beautiful bookmark – a thick satin string, with a flower charm on one end and a letter “K” charm (for “Kathy”) on the other end. I’d never seen it before the day my dad, my daughter, and I poured her jewelry out on the bed and lovingly (and tearfully) sorted through it. Ryley kept some of her grandma’s watches and necklaces and the jewelry box itself, while I kept many of her earrings and this lovely, mysterious bookmark (among other things). 

My dad did not know where the bookmark came from; and my imagination has grown wild with wanting to know its story. I like to imagine it was a high school graduation gift that she cherished all her life. I don’t know that she ever used it as it was intended, but I sure have. :-) I’ve been using it for all my books since “last July.” 

Chances are high that I will never know its origin, but it’s surprising how much comfort I draw from this tiny thing that belonged to my mother – that somehow found its way into her keepsakes.

***

There was a moment in the hospital when the suffering was so much that I made peace with the fact (as much as I could at the moment, anyway) that we would be okay without her, if only she were out of pain. 

What a strange moment of acceptance it is – to say, “Okay, yes. Death is best.” 

To acknowledge, as you watch your mother unloaded from the hospice transport ambulance and her gurney wheeled clumsily through the hot, sticky air of a Texas summer night, that this will be the last time she is ever alive in the outside air – All the cumulative hours and days and weeks and months of her life spent outdoors, and this is the last time. 

To reassure her as she’s wheeled into an old, dated room with wood paneling and a weirdly low ceiling, and then transferred to her (death) bed, “This is the last time. This is the last transfer.” 

“It is?” she asked. 

“Yes, this is it. Now you can relax,” the paramedic said. 

And I understood she would never leave that room. 

I looked at the ceiling, wondered how many spirits had departed their bodies and flown through that same ceiling (if that’s how it works?). Wondered what rooms were above us. Wondered how many people have died there – how many families have said their goodbyes. For us, hospice was 36 hours. I didn’t even have a chance to find the coffee machine in the family waiting room. How many families have cycled in and out? 

How many grieving souls have looked out that same window and also felt that the hospital was deserted, that they were very much alone? How many others have studied the road in the distance and the adjacent preschool’s playground? How many patients have departed and not had their family surrounding them?

I have always been pretty fascinated by grief and, consequently, empathetic with others in their grief  – often putting myself in their positions and letting myself feel all the feels … deeply imagining the heaviness they’re experiencing. Ryan calls it “wallowing” and has often warned me against it.

Because what I had not accounted for was God’s special grace on the griever. 

And when grieving by proxy, I was experiencing my own convoluted sort of grief that was not accurate and was absent of the wonderful grace God gives to the people who are actually in the situation itself. 

And that’s what we had. I felt a “presence” when she left us. For all its deserted hospital vibes, in the moment she transitioned to glory, I did not feel we were alone. In fact, the room felt quite crowded (angels, maybe? A cloud of witnesses, like the Bible talks about? Jesus, Himself?).

And there was peace. And there was grace – special, unexplainable grace that hangs on to this day.

I remember Ryan telling me that morning that my face was glowing with it.

So even when I tell someone that “I lost my mom last July,” nothing more needs to be said, I suppose. 

Yes, there is more to it than those simple words convey. So much more.

If you listen very carefully, you’ll hear the sound of grace. 

Midnight Memories

 It has been nearly three months since my mom left this earth, but tonight of all nights, I cannot sleep. 

Grief is unpredictable. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it, even in the middle of the night—maybe especially in the middle of the night.

Earlier in the evening, I was reading a book where a character was wearing a fentanyl patch, and as I lie there thinking about it, I suddenly remember that my mom had worn a fentanyl patch to ease her pain in the days before her surgery—a fact that has managed to slip my mind these past few months. But now, the memory comes tumbling back, and I think I understand for maybe the first time what it means to be “triggered.”

Because, from there, my mind is gone—reeling down a rabbit hole, and I am back in the hospital room, back in the ICU where she was after surgery and I’m wondering why they didn’t give her a fentanyl patch then, when she was in so much pain. 

I am back spending the night in that recliner next to her bed, outfitted with sweatpants and slippers and my sleep machine and a scratchy, beige hospital-issued blanket, being awakened by Mom’s sweet little Middle Eastern nurse, tiptoeing in to check on her breathing. I am feeling the urge to pee, but the public restroom is down the hall and on another wing, so I kick off my slippers and don my sandals for a 2 am adventure past the beeping machines, past the nurse’s station, and through the hospital. I will do this again in four hours to brush my teeth and make myself presentable for the day. 

I am back in Mom’s room again, looking out at the 100-degree world, noticing that the view of tall buildings and sprawling oak trees changes depending on the time of day and where the sun is casting its shadows. I’ve memorized this view so that I can see it even now as I lie here in the dark. It’s imprinted on my memory forever. 

I am back there, using context clues to parse that Mom’s next-door neighbor in the ICU has passed away suddenly, and there is a hubbub outside our door with tight-lipped nurses and hospital management parading through. But by afternoon, the bed has been stripped and changed and is ready for the next patient. The nurses never utter a word about it, and I am struck by how much death they witness every day. 

I am back there with my mom, making small talk with one of our favorite nurses (named Kayla? I can’t remember), as she shares her plans to go wedding dress shopping on her day off. We will never see her again (Mom will be moved to hospice before Kayla’s next shift), and I wonder now if she ever found her wedding dress and whether she is married now. And I wonder if nurses ever find out what happens to their patients on their day off—if they ever find out that the person they cared for ended up dying that week. 

I am back there with my mom, and we are laughing together at how the drugs make her loopy and say funny things. And then it’s right before surgery and she is trying to sign consent forms but having trouble holding the pen. So I take her hand and guide it in the scrawl of her signature. And we giggle as we do it. Moments later, the anesthesia has already kicked in and put her to blessed sleep. 

I am back in the waiting room, and I remember how the 8th floor waiting room is quieter and cleaner and cooler than the 7th floor waiting room (where it’s always 80 degrees and people move chairs together and lie across them). Nobody seems to know about the 8th floor waiting room; it’s like it’s our family’s little secret. But I am in the waiting room when my dad calls and says the doctor wants to talk to us, and so I take the elevator down a floor and rush down the hallway. Dad is standing at the nurse’s station with a Nigerian doctor who is gently suggesting in hushed tones that we start thinking about a DNR order and end-of-life palliative care. And I can’t believe that this is where we are. 

I am back there in her room, taking every opportunity to hold my mom’s lovely hand, memorizing every wrinkle, every mole, the color and texture of her skin. She is asking me to adjust her legs, and I do so, but then I rub her feet too—just older versions of my own. And it doesn’t seem real that there may be a day very soon when these hands and feet are still—that this physical body may expire. 

I am back there on the day that they tell us there is no treatment available and that there’s nothing they can do. After the doctor leaves, I ask her if she understands what they’ve said—what’s happening—and she answers (although a little bit gruffly) “yes.” I swallow hard and tell her that we are still asking God for a miracle, but that she may be with Jesus very soon. My voice breaks, and yet seeing her in this kind of pain and agony, I know that going to be with Jesus will be best. 

Now, in the present, it is 12:30 in the morning, and tears are streaming down my cheeks and soaking my pillow, the memories of three months ago still fresh and keeping me from the sweetness of sleep. There’s no stopping the barrage of thoughts chipping away at my brain; one memory flows right into another. It’s like the word “fentanyl” is a key to unleashing the memories from where they’ve been buried in a safe room, deep within my mind. 

And memories are fine—in their right time and place. But this isn’t it. 

“Jesus!” I cry out silently. “Please help me now. Give me peace!”

And He speaks to me in quietness, so that I know He’s reassuring my spirit: 

“She’s with Me.

She’s with Me.

She’s with Me.

She’s Mine.”

And I know that she is. 

I picture my sweet mama right there next to Jesus, staying in His shadow. 

“I am my Beloved’s and He is mine. His banner over me is love.” 

And I know in my heart that, after all she suffered at the end of her earthly life, her passing was actually God’s mercy. 

And there’s no place she’d rather be.

***

“So be truly glad, there is wonderful joy ahead.” — 1 Peter 1:6 

Adventures in Empty-Nesting

It got harder, and then it got easier. 

Ryley is now in her second semester of her sophomore year, which means she is already nearing the half-way mark of her undergrad experience. This school year has been markedly better than the last, as she's finally getting into her groove as a college student and (literally) living her best life. She has a gaggle of friends who are just as bubbly and crazy as she, and she has a wide array of interests, as seen by her ever-changing major (currently English Lit with minors in History and Linguistics, with sights set on law school). She juggles her classes with a job at the campus museum and, soon, a job at Starbucks, where she just got hired. But she's still a sophomore, so she is not super-stressed about any of it, and she also knows everything there is to know about the world, obviously. 😉

A year ago, I became so depressed after her January return to school following Christmas break that I cried more than I did in the days after I dropped her off the previous August. This year, however, it was easier. August was easier; January was easier. I'm still sad to see her drive away each time (we gave her our second vehicle last February), but it is so rewarding to see her becoming the independent, self-assured person she is meant to be. 

As the months pass, I become increasingly aware that we are simply a home base for her now. She will never again be happy living with us long-term. So then, her visits are "treats," instead of the norm.

Whenever she's on her way home, I find myself spiffing up the house (as if she wasn’t the reason our house was trashed for the last 19 years!). I want it to be a place she likes to return to—a place where she feels comfortable, even though she didn't grow up here. From a fabulously hot summer to our cozy holiday breaks, we've lived up every moment we've gotten to spend with her. Because we know what it is to live without her, we drink up her youth and enthusiasm, her hugs, her joy, her love. We relish in it, feast on it, indulge in it, knowing it won’t last forever.

Actually, her return to home is not always easy on me at first—me, who has gotten used to having Ryan’s ear all to myself. Suddenly, I find myself at war with this freckle-faced gal in the backseat, yammering on as she’s done all of her life. How quickly I'd forgotten! She’s my competition. She and Ryan gang up on me; but she and I gang up on Ryan, too. There’s an ebb and flow of conversation, teasing, nagging, and always, always, trash piling up throughout the house, undoing all the spiffing-up I did before she came!

And when she leaves again, we ease back into our routine without her, and it's (gulp) not as hard as I thought. Not anymore.

They said this would happen, and I believed them—but I also didn't believe them—because obviously I love my child so much more than they love theirs! 😉 But it's true; life continues on. In the same way our bodies are adapting to no longer think 83 degrees is all that hot, we find ourselves adapting to our new normal without her.

*** 

In the midst of a personal trial I was going through, and because I needed to make friends in our new town, I did something I’d never done before: I joined a Bible study.

I know, I know. I was never a “Bible study person.”

It’s not that I thought I was too good for Bible studies? But maybe I did think that, deep down. Maybe I’d felt like my relationship with God and my spiritual knowledge were above the need to sit in a circle with other ladies and discuss. Maybe I had some (dare I say it?) spiritual pride.

But desperation will make you do some crazy things. And you can’t expect a different outcome without changing some of your habits, right? 

And when I tell you that this Bible study was transformative for me … that it opened up my eyes to dimensions of Jesus that I had been blinded to before … It was exactly what I needed at a time when I was crying out internally for divine intervention and guidance.

I think a lot of us were raised with a two-dimensional gospel—one of flannel graphs and recitations and stories you knew … but maybe you didn’t really KNOW. And then one day, you got to thinking about 2,000+ years of Christendom and how, if people were willing to be persecuted and die for their faith, if Christianity had survived through the dark ages and over all the centuries, then those Christians who carried the gospel through that darkness must have known something you don’t know. There must be more to it than your hazy, two-dimensional understanding. It must be more powerful and more glorious and real, or surely the light would have died out at some point. They must have experienced something you hadn’t yet experienced—not necessarily because you didn’t believe, but because, in your experience and understanding, there seemed to be a neat little box around your faith—four walls and a limit to its capabilities.

But if God exists, then God is infinite—or else He wouldn’t be God. What use is a limited God?

And if He is infinite, then the potential to know Him is infinite. There will always be more of Him to learn and to know.

So, desperate as I was, based on these flailing thoughts and that assumption, I asked Him to show me more of Himself.

Over the next couple of months, it’s like the veil over my eyes was lifted, and suddenly I saw the truth in three dimensions and even four (if there is such a thing), and my faith came alive. There had been some major gaps in my understanding. I’ve needed context and answers, and I was finally getting them. There were actually answers and explanations to some of my biggest questions!

I started reading more scholarly apologetics-type writings, which hit me differently than typical topical sermons. Preaching has its place, absolutely, but I wasn’t lacking good preaching. I needed something more. In my readings, I learned that there was a method and a structure and a plan to each of the gospels. Nothing was willy-nilly. I soaked up what other ladies said in our Bible study discussions and gleaned from their learning, too. I dove into the Bible and listened to commentaries to help further my understanding of certain passages.

I wasn’t looking at a felt board anymore; I was seeing layers and meaning and purpose and an overall story arc and theme written by an infinite God who was good and whose principles were consistent and orderly and true.

And because He is infinite, our relationship with Him has infinite depth and potential. It’s just based on our willingness to open ourselves up to that (which, honestly, I found a little scary).

Privately, I wondered why nobody had made it clear to me that there’s a difference between the flannel graph and true life in Christ. But then I began to wonder (somewhat pridefully) if maybe THEY didn’t know either. Maybe they were content to live out the humdrum of a flannel-graphy, two-dimensional, legalistic version of Christianity.

Did I just stumble across something here? I thought. Is it possible that I’m the only one God has shown this to?

Stupid spiritual pride! Ha! I can be so dumb. But I share that just to show you how vast the difference was between the two-dimensional belief and the three-dimensional belief. It was so eye-opening that I wondered how I hadn’t known such a difference existed! 

And then, suddenly, the person that was kind of the “crazy” happy Christian at church? They didn’t seem so crazy anymore. They’d been living the truth, while I’d been quietly judging them for their eccentricity and excitement. I obviously wasn’t the first that God had revealed His infinity to. But each person has to come to understand the truth of Jesus on their own. And because of my growth in the last year, in case you’re in the same place I was, I want you to know that it IS out there. There are more dimensions and levels and layers.

And the devil is working every day to make sure we don’t experience it.

I look back at our lives in Colorado, and I feel like I just floated through my 30s in a haze—in survival mode. Sometimes I get down on myself for the clarity I’m having now that I never had before. Like, why did I never have these thoughts? How much time did I waste just skirting through my life? Well, I hadn’t asked Him to show me Himself—not like I did most recently anyway.

When I look at coworkers’ LinkedIn accounts, I’m a little envious, realizing that at my age or younger, everyone is so much more accomplished in their lives — so smart. I do feel behind. Yet, I know that God was there in those years, in that cloud of mere existence. He was teaching me, and I was learning where I was, even if it doesn’t seem particularly profound now. It was profound to me then.

But now I have a hunger to be better, to care for myself, to grow in Jesus. So, in addition to the Bible study, I joined another support group, a book club, and a monthly bunco group in my neighborhood. I’m committed to reading more, to writing more, to doing a daily devotional reading, to making friends and reaching out. I’m hopelessly awkward in situations where I feel like an outsider, so it all takes time and a little bit of bravery.

In all of this, I came to the realization that one of my biggest hang-ups has always been anxiety and a fear of internal pain and suffering—of loss.

I think it started when my uncle was killed in a car accident when I was 11, and it continued when my best friend’s mom was killed in a car accident when we were 16. I became deeply afraid of losing people I loved, and the devil used that fear as a weapon against me for more than half my life. The war between the desire for a pain-free existence and my inner anxiety of imminent pain was brewing within me for years. I still occasionally struggle with the gnawing feeling of impending doom and gloom.

I had to be willing to do some inner work to dig all that out.

I had erred by operating under the assumption that I shouldn’t have pain in this life. And I had some pretty high expectations that were dashed quite low. The truth is, there is no avoidance of pain, whatever that word looks like to each of us.

The prosperity gospel misses the mark on this. It’s taught us to believe that we are entitled to a life of abundance—without pain and suffering. But it’s simply not true. Life is filled with pain. And Jesus wants to show us his abundance of peace in the midst of a storm—His abundance of spiritual life, as opposed to spiritual death. He wants to show us that His yoke is easy, and His burden is light.

“I wish that you prosper and be in health, as your soul prospers,” John wrote.

The given there is that our soul is already prospering in Jesus. Anything above that is just gravy.

So, that’s where I’m at. I’m still working at digging out all the anxieties and this limited two-dimensional mindset about God, letting Him do what He wants to do in me. And because He is infinitely good and I am inherently flawed, there will always be more work He can do.

I guess my point is this: sometimes when you’re happily empty-nesting, God will decide to disrupt your little nest with some intense soul-searching. And you’ll finally have to deal with some of the deep-seated issues that have been plaguing you for the last two decades! Because, without the incessant mess and noise that comes along with kids, you finally have the time to think. 😉

Here’s to our souls prospering in Jesus! 😘 

 

Musings From the Other Side

How is it possible that a fleeting thought – "What if we moved to Texas?" – can become a more concrete thought – "We should move to Texas" – and then an action – "We're moving to Texas" – all within a matter of weeks and months? 

I remember dreading the process ... being fearful of it, having never sold a house before. I remember April – in the midst of going through all our things ... looking at that dumpster we rented for a week, wondering how everything was going to play out. Somewhere out there, there was a couple-thousand-square-foot plot of earth that was destined to become the next Moore family home. 

On Google Earth and Zillow, I'd zoom out and look at the whole of central Texas and think, "One of those pinpoints – those tiny pixels – will become ours. Now, which one will it be??"

I'd think ahead to August and wonder what life would be like on the other side of all the work of moving. I'd wonder about our new routine and about the emotions I would be experiencing as Ryley packed for college from the safety and security of our new (but then unimaginable) home.

I'd think ahead to November and December and try to picture Ryan and me as empty-nesters, preparing for our first holidays as Texans.

What will it be like on the other side of all this?

But it was still May, and we had a long way to go. We'd pore over listing after listing, despite the fact that we knew none of them would still be available by the time our house sold and we could move forward. Such a massive task lay ahead of us, and its importance was not lost on us – It was the chance to create the life we wanted – to choose our neighborhood and our Walmart and our doctor's office and the overall vibe of the community. To say, "This is what I want my commute to look like." Or "This is the road I want to drive down a million times." We pictured our lives in Temple, in Belton, in Killeen, in Lago Vista, in Manor, in Cedar Park, in Pflugerville, in Kyle. 

But it was the charming and quaint town of Buda, nestled between Austin and Texas' gorgeous Hill Country, that would steal our hearts. The delightful marriage of rustic and city convenience, with big, sprawling century-old oak trees hanging over the streets. The two-lane road from Main Street to our subdivision passes a mule farm and a historic settlement and cemetery of freed slaves. We have both cows and a Starbucks within a half mile of our house. Haystacks and a Sonic. An old drug store and a modern CVS. And food trucks selling the best BBQ we've ever tasted in our lives.

I had not relocated out-of-state since I was 26. At 44, I'm impressed with how I've adapted – impressed with my know-how of all the adulting tasks, like signing up for a toll pass and transferring our prescriptions. I've joined the online neighborhood pages, where I've both sold and bought furniture. I've arranged to give away moving boxes and spent several Saturday mornings tinkering with our sprinkler system to see how it worked. While shopping for college, Ryley and I visited every Walmart and Target within a 20-mile radius, as well as the outlet mall. 

The sweet tea and tortilla chips from H-E-B are worth the extra grocery store trip (and groceries are cheaper in general!). Ryley and I also learned that if we don't get to the farmer's market right when they open, they'll run out of doggie ice cream before we get to buy any for Juliet. My salsa gal is hit or miss on farmer's market attendance, it seems, but my plant guy is there every week, tempting me with unique houseplant species to add to my collection.

The intricacies of what makes up a culture fascinate me ...

Strands of bulbs stretch between trees and around almost every patio, lighting Texas backyards with warmth and ambience. Sidewalks are regularly cleaned with pressure-washers; I'd never heard of that, myself, but I can't deny that the sidewalks here do seem to need a good scrub-down every now and then.

People are people wherever you go. But the ones in Texas? So friendly and hospitable, so polite. Yes, ma'am; yes, sir. The neighbors actually want to get to know each other here; our cul-de-sac even gathered for a pre-trick-or-treating BBQ on Halloween. 

As friendly as they are in person, however, Texans' aggressive driving game is strong – especially the big, oversized pickup trucks that ride our backside.  

It took us awhile to catch on, but the infrastructure of one-way service/frontage roads along the highways actually makes some sense. We only had to drive several miles past our missed exit a few times before we learned that these roads are extensions of the highways themselves, consolidating the entrances and exits. And the U-turn lanes that flip you around to the other side of the highway? Brilliant.

I still don't get why Texas highway interchanges have to rise 300 feet up in the air. Everything here is bigger just for the sake of being bigger and more dramatic, as if to say, "We have so much room here; look how high and wide we can build!"

Storms don't just come from the West – they come from the Gulf, too. I'm relearning everything I thought I knew about weather patterns. And because we're so far south, it stayed dark until almost 8 a.m. (pre-Daylight Savings). But the bushes and flowers and plants are so tropical-looking – so alive and colorful even into November. We haven't had any frost yet! And while the fall colors here aren't as brilliant as they are in Colorado or New England, there's something cozy and comforting about the way the Hill Country brush is beginning to rust, turning a dullish burnt-orange.

We counted more than 80 vineyards between here and Fredericksburg, and 70 of those were within a 30-mile stretch! The topography is unlike any place I've lived before; magnificent oak trees with gnarly branches dot the brush-covered hills, alternating with meadows and creeks, a honey stand, a food truck – unpredicted treasures lying around every bend and tucked into the valleys behind thick woods.

There's so much new to explore. New roads lead to new towns where we find new scenery, new markets, new restaurants, and new people. At this time in our lives, the ability to follow new paths and fill our eyes and minds with new things, new ideas, and new beauty ... is simply priceless. 

Texas life is a good life. I marvel at God's creation – at how vast and different it is all over the world. And yet, in a lot of ways, it's the same.

***

I thank God multiple times a day for giving us this house; it is absolutely too good for us. We bought it for less than what our Colorado house sold for, and yet it is bigger and newer and has everything we asked God for – down to the pretty backyard and the soaking tub in the master bathroom.

You're going to think we'd been living like savages, previously – and rightfully so. But here is just a partial list of the things in this house that have changed our lives:

The doggie door

The air conditioning

The sprinkler system

The filtered water/ice dispenser in the fridge

A garage door

A two-car garage

This rolling four-part laundry hamper cart we bought from Amazon

When I think about the way God delivered us from our Colorado house, with all its quirks and needs? (Don't get me wrong; that house was a true blessing to us for 14 years. But the upkeep an older house like that required was beyond our means). It's like He plucked us out of the miry, stinky pit and set us upon a rock. And He set the whole move in motion a year ago, by giving me a job that I can do from anywhere. He was laying it all out for us, piece by piece.

We are not worthy.

At the Halloween get-together at our neighbor's house, someone asked, "So ... are you renting? Or did you buy it?" 

"We bought it," Ryan and I answered in unison.

I think someone squealed with glee.

"Perhaps the curse is broken!" they joked.

As it turns out, this was a rental house for many years and, apparently, always a centerpiece for drama. In fact, the most recent renters ran a marijuana grow operation – They filled every room with pot plants (even the attic) until one day the cops showed up and busted the whole thing. That's when the landlord decided to put the house up for sale, just in time for the Moore family to stumble across it in June.

My biggest takeaway from this is that apparently this house is a great growing environment for my lovely new houseplants. 👍

***

I think I'm ready to talk about August – which was, arguably, one of the most difficult months of our lives. 

Ryan has had back issues since Ryley was a baby; it's been an ongoing rollercoaster for years. Every six months or so, he reinjures it, but after he rests for a few days, he's typically good to go. It's become a pretty predictable pattern.

Of course, the last thing we needed was for him to hurt himself during the moving process, so with his history, he made it a point of going easy; we even hired movers to load and unload. Throughout the drive down in the moving truck, however, his back started to really stiffen up. And within a few days of our arrival, he found himself laid up in bed.

No worries, we thought. This has happened before. Just a few days of rest is all he needs.

Except it wasn't getting better. It was getting worse by the day.

We'd just barely pulled into town, but here we were googling urgent cares and doctors and pharmacies. Mobility was almost impossible. I bought him a walker so he could drag himself to the restroom or to doctor appointments and MRIs and injections that didn't even seem to put a dent in the pain.

Most of you know the story, so I'll be brief. But I just want to say that I had personally never experienced seeing someone in that kind of excruciating pain, for that long. It was wearing on all of us. For the first time I began to notice and pay attention to ads for pain management doctors; I have new-found sympathy and respect for my friends that deal with unmanaged chronic pain.

I dropped Ryan off at work on his first day of his new job (teacher in-service), and my heart broke watching him drag himself across the plaza and into the building, one walker clomp at a time. He made it through four days at work before he simply could not anymore. On a Sunday morning, Ryley and I dropped him off at the ER in downtown Austin (COVID protocol wouldn't let us stay), and at his urging, went to breakfast at a snazzy hotel brunch place. Two days later he would have emergency surgery, and even after the operation, he would go through three to four weeks of intense pain as the compressed nerve went through its wake-up process. 

Months later, I can look back and mostly forget how utterly awful and scary it was in the moment. 

But there was one particular day, five days after I dropped Ryley off at college, that I hit rock-bottom emotionally. Ryan was two weeks post-op, and the nerve pain was worse than the back pain had been pre-surgery. He was crying out in agony ... again. He had spent more time in our bedroom than anywhere in the house, and though I tried to keep him comfortable and keep him company, the very thought of being in our bedroom made me depressed. But I felt guilty being anywhere else.

We'd lived in the house for more than a month and Ryan didn't know where Ryley and I had unpacked anything. He'd never even made it as far as the closet to see how I'd organized our clothes. While he was tethered to the bed, I had the whole house (even the whole town) to explore, but I felt frozen. I didn't want to live in the rest of the house without him. I didn't want to drive around town without him. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. 

I'd driven our daughter to college and dropped her off myself. Now, the house was big and empty without her. Big and empty without Ryan. I was lonely and tired and bored and afraid. All my excitement about this grand adventure had melted into a heap of disappointment.

My courage crumpled. I cried for an entire day.

Ryan would later say that the whole back injury situation was very humbling for him. The staff and parents at his school came together and graciously blessed us with gift cards for meals. The administration was so supportive. We were held up in prayer by so many friends and family members. And because of that, we kept going. I dropped him off at work in the mornings and picked him up in the afternoons. He was on so many painkillers that he'd fall asleep in the car and then crash in bed as soon as we got home.

But ever so gradually, things began to improve. Eventually, he could bear the pain without taking meds. Then, he felt like walking a little bit. At some point, he wanted to see what our grocery store was like, so we took an after-work field trip. One weekend, we went for a long drive to see Ryley. And then one day, about two months after our move and the start of the whole debacle, he could finally drive himself. 

Today, his back is still a little stiff. But he's come such a long way. I still don't let him bend over to pick things up or lift anything heavy. But he is so much better. Thank You, Jesus.

***

We've seen Ryley a handful of times since she left for college. She's been home three times, and we've gone up there four times, I think, for different reasons. It's maybe getting a little easier to say goodbye? 

After we drive away, and for the next day or two, we feel her absence deeply. We miss her. But it's just the transition between two existences – the one with her and the one without her. 

This applies to her, too. She cries when we drop her off at the campus, but as soon as she's back in her dorm, her life there resumes and picks up where it left off. Mom and Dad are but a distant memory.

After a couple days, Ryan and I get back into our routine. We are comfortable with it. It's quiet and peaceful. I mean, I talk more – It's like my tongue is finally loosed to tell Ryan everything on my mind, just like in the olden days, before we gave life to a chatterbox and I suddenly couldn't get a word in edgewise. 😂

We take care of Ryley's dog. We try to provide her with the level of care that Ryley would approve of, but we fall painfully short. I refuse to let her lick my face; I have to draw the line somewhere.

The house stays clean.

Laundry is done in three loads instead of five.

There are no water cups or half-empty cans of LaCroix sitting around, and I don't know what to do with all the space!

We're a little bored.

We eat out, and we marvel at how cheap it is with just two people instead of three. 

We go to an antique fair and have an absolute blast – but we're mindful of how much Ryley would love this place, and when we leave, we commit to coming back with her in tow.

She calls here and there.

We text her, but we don't hear back. 

I'm sad when we don't hear from her, but I'm happy, too. Because it means she's okay. She's thriving. She has overcome the bad bout with homesickness she had in the beginning of October, and she's developing her ecosystem of friends. She's gaining knowledge and wisdom. She's becoming empowered and confident and Spirit-led. She's where she's supposed to be. 

For a fleeting moment, I let sadness wash over me that we didn't have more kids, because then her absence wouldn't feel quite as raw. But I quickly remind myself that this was the lot we were given, and we've always made the best of it.   

We build new furniture from a kit, and we can't wait for her to see it when she comes home. We need her help hanging our wall art, too; she calls herself a "human level," after all, and she's always had strong opinions about the way we decorate the house. She's always the biggest cheerleader for any kind of home improvement! 

We fill our weekends with home projects, coffee, football, farmer's markets, church, good food, TV series, books, day trips to new places, and deep conversations, and we slip easily back into our pre-parenting selves, like pulling on a comfy pair of old snow boots from our previous life in Montana. 

It's amazing how easy it is to remember how to be with just each other, almost like we haven't been preoccupied with child-rearing for nearly two decades – almost like a sassy green-eyed cherub hasn't been the very center of our lives.

I kill 20 wasps in our house over the course of a day. When Ryan gets home, I suggest that they're coming from the fireplace. He sticks his head in and sees a dozen wasps flying around the inside of the chimney. He lights the fireplace, and we roast the wasp nest. He calls me "The Wasp Slayer" in honor of my bravery and 20 conquests.

A neighbor's cat sneaks into our house via the doggie door in the middle of the night, laying a present on our sofa. For the next several nights, I lie awake waiting to hear the doggie door flap open and shut so I can catch the perpetrator in the act. I get close a couple of times, but the sensor light on the patio scares it away. 

We still have our adventures. We are still ourselves, this side of parenthood.

But the farther we get from the last time we saw Ryley, the harder it becomes. Two weeks go by, then three. Our hearts ache. We can hardly wait for her to be home – to simply be together in the same room.

A Marvel movie comes out. Ryan wants to go, and he knows I will go with him. But Ryley is his movie buddy, and it just won't be the same. He puts it off. He hears she's going to the movie with friends, so we talk briefly again about going, just the two of us. But it doesn't materialize.

Then she calls. 

"Dad, my friends are going to see the movie tonight, but I'm going to stay back and do homework and get the dorm ready for a surprise birthday party. Can we go see it together when I'm home for Thanksgiving?"

It's a date. 💕