beets

This is a story about pickled beets, but mostly, not. 

I am meal planning for Easter. I realize that my table will not be filled except for my essential peeps, there will be leftovers to share and people can drop in for dessert as the day allows, but still, the planning and the prepping are all part of the joy for me. It’s like vacation; the planning part is almost as much fun as the going part. I’m a fan of anticipation and delayed gratification. For the most part, anyways.

I have been brewing a post about one year anniversaries of loss and navigating a year of parenting children who have lost their Dad, and how to write about it…but the things in my head and my heart don’t always mean I have the words to say them, or that anyone would want to read them, so they stay put.

Then, I come across a recipe from a lifetime ago, and I can hear his voice,

“Hey, do you have that recipe from those people out in the country? The Beet Recipe? I just got my hands on a ton of beets and want to try to make it.”

And there it is, all the good and the bad and the life that was and is. A woman named Tootie gave us her beet recipe when our son was just a baby…and it has stayed with me ever since. And yes, I shared the recipe, and he made a batch of these beets all of those years later.

So, I thought, instead of remembering all of the things we didn’t do the best, I would write about the things we did right.

We cooked, and made meals, and fed people. We loved people. We loved each other.

Even when it was ugly ugly. Even when it all fell apart. Even when all the things you think are safe and protected aren’t. Even when the worst happens and the bottom falls out. We had grace and respect. Sometimes better-late-than-never grace and respect, but it showed up eventually.

We did disagreeing until it was appropriate right. We did long distance parenting as best as we could. We did making sure as much of their lives was accessible to you to celebrate and participate in could happen. Made it so you were there for the every day ear-piercing stuff as well as the end of the year concert stuff. They talk to your parents at least once a week.

We had two great kids.

They are such a blend. They have a drive for adventure. They love to eat and cook new foods. They find a reverence in the cool old things one finds along the journey. They like competition, they see the best in people.

They flow. They wear ball caps, like you. They sing along to country music. These are just some their Dad’s qualities.

They have chosen to remember both the good and the bad things.

They have chosen to hold their questions for you, until they see you again.

And, even when you disappeared, we were there when you came back. We did a lot of it right. Or, at least the best “right” we could.

I don’t even begin to know what it is to wrestle with addiction, other than to have lived it from the outside. I know it doesn’t respect race or religion or socio-economic status. Addiction touches more people than we realize. I know there can be so much shame associated with addiction, for all who are touched by it.

Even though the world is changing, even though there is help out there, many people stay silent. It’s destructive and devastating and exhausting. It’s smoke and mirrors, weeding through to get to the real story, and building gut-wrenching boundaries.

I’ve read that addiction is the only illness that convinces you that you can cure yourself.

For those on the outside, it’s a briar patch of wanting to help and protecting what you can. There is no one-size-fits-all hand book for it. There is no easy way for anyone involved.

I wish I knew how to do more. I wish I knew how to do things the right way. Or how to have gotten through.  I will always wish these things, I think.

We did as much “right,” for the space of time and life that we were given. The things we didn’t do right shape my point of view for the rest of my days as well as the stuff we did.

Some days, I just sort through it. Some days, the fact that you are gone is still an elusive, shimmering truth that I can’t wrap myself around just yet.

He got into college. He made it to States. He got the Most Improved Award for the second year in a row. She makes honor roll every quarter. She won the Italian competition. She played field hockey all fall and winter long. They are sarcastic and funny and kind. They are amazing. They work together and laugh and play their ukuleles and guitars. They protect each other.

And you are missing all of it.

The list of stuff you are missing is overwhelming if I allow myself the time to think it.

Then I think, no. You aren’t. And maybe, from where you are, a safer, quieter place, where you don’t battle anymore, you can see them better. You can really see all of the things that perhaps, you wouldn’t have if things ended differently.  I don’t have the answers.

We did not do all things right, but these two kids, we did.

Sometimes my blog is all about the recipe, and this has one too, but sometimes, it’s about the stuff the recipe holds that doesn’t involve ingredient lists or cooking time. It’s about the other parts of life. Which is all a part of being welcome to come to the table.

I hope you enjoy it, and as always, thank you for coming to the table.

Chrissy

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