Dad

When you lose someone a love, even if you have time to prepare, you are never ready.

You can heart wrenchingly try to imagine a world without them, do everything in your power to cling to every moment; embrace all of the goodness life has to hold with them in it. But in the end, you have lost someone…and in return find yourself lost.

And this was when you have had the time to prepare.

When my father was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, even with a top notch battle plan, the odds were not ever truly in his favor. It was a year filled with appointments, medications, cutting back on social stuff, trying to maintain normalcy, and being ever so positive.

It was treating every day like a gift.

And when suddenly, swiftly, he was rushed to the emergency room…and then an ICU; Those final hours were a lifetime and a nanosecond, a breath, a vapor, and an eternity.

You are never ready.

Me and Dad

Three years later and even now it’s hard to write about. Three years later and my brain is starting to piece back the events that happened in that window of time. Physician’s words, nurses who worked with my father during his career at the hospital stopping in to check on him. Being cold, and having some kind person give my mother and I blankets. People to keep my children safe and fed while we spend two long days in the intensive care unit.

My brother, making it home just in time.

There are just some days you need to stop, and let your mind roll through the waves and memories so you can find yourself again. So you can say, “yes, this thing was real, and happened. This sad, awful journey happened.” Let it shape you. Leave its mark on your heart.

When I was younger, my father dabbled in fly fishing. Very “A River Runs Through It.” Ten and Two O’ Clock (if you never read the book, you may not get that reference).  He had a fly tying station, and even went to Orvis to build his own rod.

Dad’s Fly Fishing Gear

I picked these up yesterday.

And everything is fresh again.

Why the anniversary of my father’s passing and my children’s father’s passing is back to back, I do not know, but I know my role in each is leader. Leader of

a home, leader of my family, leader in the journey of being fatherless but being anchored all the same. I hold the lantern on the path of grieving. I hold the hand and try to be more…always more than I am.

My point in all this is to say, I do cook and bake all of the time, we have an abundance of recipe trials and rotation of suppers, home cooked beautiful meals and time around the table, because my father believed in family dinners. If you were late, you were in trouble. Even as an adult, with children of my own, people know I would hustle for Cliff’s family dinner.

But some days, you need to be kind to yourself. It’s ok to bake potatoes and put out an assortment of toppings, maybe even pan sear some broccoli and call it supper. It’s ok to eat a salad and a bowl of soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, or a bowl of cereal, and call it family dinner. It’s ok to cut up cheese and fruit and crackers and call it snack plate supper. Or make pancakes. Or yogurt, or chicken nuggets on a sheet pan. Nutritional needs are met and bellies are full.

It’s OK.

It’s OK to say, “Today, it is too hard to cook, too hard to do more than I am doing.”

I remember every fruit basket, muffin container, soup bowl, Shepherd’s Pie, sandwich tray that was brought to our door. We didn’t ask for food but it was there. People stopped over and hugged us and loved us and fed us. That is a gift. Kindness is a gift. Gathering together as a community-big or small is a gift.

When someone is grieving, there is never any kind thing that another does that goes unnoticed.

If you don’t know what to do for a family who is suffering, do any kind thing.

Kind isn’t something people push away or get angry over. Even the small stuff, the things you think won’t matter, matter.

In our town this week, we have suffered an unthinkable and unexpected tragedy- the kind that makes you hug your children closer. The kind that makes you wonder how the human heart can go on.

Blue balloons throughout my hometown symbolize a life a a precious boy who is no longer with us. As a community, we do the small things together to make the big hurt less.

We ask ourselves, “How can I help share this burden?” 

We rally. We act.

We do go on, even shattered, in spite of loss.

The posts have been sparse this week, and I will get back to my banging out of treats and recipes. I will.

But this past week for me has been one where I am kind to myself, kind to my kids, kind to my Momma. Where I choose to sit with my daughter on the couch, or teach her to make scrunchies (they are back, did you know that?), or watch my son hit the punching bag, or eat the soup that was supposed to be for library cook book club but I forgot to plug the crock pot in, or go to my mom’s to get my father’s fishing stuff.

We walk on this earth, and every day is a gift.

Every. Day. A. Gift.

So, my recipe for you today at my thankful table, is this:

1 Cup of Kindness

1 Cup of Patience

1 Cup of Helpfulness

1 Cup of Seeing a Need

1 Cup of Meeting the Need

1 Overflowing Cup of Love

1 Cup of Healing

1 Cup of Grace

1 Cup of Mercy

1 Cup of Understanding

1 Overflowing Cup of Gratitude

1 Cup of Empathy

1 Cup of Resilience

1 Cup of Past Heartache that Made You Stronger

1 Cup of Wildfire

1 Cup of Sass

1 Strong Backbone

1 Big Heart

2 Willing Hands

1 Cup of Strength

1 Cup of Rest

Mix it together, and you have yourself one remarkably amazing human. This is you, friend. This is you.

I hope you enjoy this post today, and I thank you, truly, for coming to the table.

Much love,

Chrissy