Sunsets in the southern Appalachians are one of my favorite
times of day. The sun slips away
quietly here, earlier than in the flatlands, sliding behind the soft edges of
these old mountaintops. Color
lingers in the sky a little longer, shades of pinks and oranges. Today in the early days of Spring, bare
tree branches are outlined against the fading colors.
And so here I sit, watching the colors change, a glass of
decent wine beside me. It’s quiet,
peaceful and I have music on in the background to keep me company. So much to be grateful for, and I am
thankful beyond words for all of it.
And yet I struggle mightily to keep the sadness at bay because it’s one
of those weekends – the really long ones that stretch from Thursday
night to Tuesday afternoon without a glimpse of the little blond-haired,
blue-eyed girl that calls me Mama.
These are the hardest days of the month. While I am certain the same is true for her other parent
when my daughter is with me, I am learning to not try and tell a story that is
not mine to tell.
Letting go of what I had known with certainty would be my
life – what I knew deep down in the blood and guts that make up who I am –
letting go of that life is a daily practice, and I suspect will be so for a
long time. Because it doesn’t get
easier to not have those running feet of my girl running around me
everyday. It doesn’t get easier to
wake up thinking I’ve heard her cry out and then realizing it was just a dream
because her bed is filled only with her stuffed animals and princess
pillow. It doesn’t get easier to
stumble over the school bus she’s left near the door, causing me to smile at
her remarkable imagination while tears run into an empty room so full of her presence. It is harder now than ever.
I went to church early on Easter Sunday, a tradition my
parents began long ago with Easter sunrise service when I was growing up. Grieving because there was no small
hand holding mine, no pulpit waiting for me -- but showing up because I knew
that I needed to. Grateful for the
inner push that got me into the pew, and for my girlfriend sitting beside me
who weathers all my lows and highs and everything in between. The
priest said that believing is sometimes as basic as showing up, time after
time. Maybe as simple as choosing
to get out of bed when you can’t find a reason why getting up matters. And I wondered, as I was weeping silently and holding out my hand for the Eucharist, if faith and believing and hope could be as messy and as earthy as the blessed bread and wine
becoming part of my sore and bruised and wanting body.
Maybe this is why I cherish the sunset so much. Because it shows up, one of the most
primal of acts that keeps our world turning and surviving – reminding me that
showing up for my life is just as primal an act. It’s not the life I was certain I would inhabit. Much of it is far richer than I could
have ever dreamed possible; much of it more difficult than I thought I could survive. I am learning to show up
for a life that is chaotic and predictable, painful and exquisitely joyful,
heart-breaking and soul-mending – often all in the same moment.
The sun has set for today on this part of the southern
Appalachians that is becoming my home.
A few more tentative roots have gone into the ground from my heart and
soul, watered by my modern-day tears into the soil made up of my ancestors’
toil and heartache and joy. It’s
enough for now.
