where have all the blog posts gone?

Cue that one Paula Cole song. Which is funny, because I've been listening to this:

I'm sorry for my absence. I'm actually not sorry as much to you, my sweet readers (or lack thereof), but more to myself. I love this little space. I write in it because it's my way of throwing open a window and breathing in fresh air. Which means that I have spent a fair amount of time twiddling my thumbs, wasting time, dreaming of the written word and not partaking in it. I'm not even reading very much. It's like my soul is tired.

I know, that's terribly dramatic, but actually not far from accurate. These last 9 months (how has it really been 9 months since I last wrote?) have been so hard. How do you halt a blog in the middle of its frivolity (of course it has had its moments of depth, but let's be real here...recipes and DIYs aren't really of soul-bearing nature) and talk about the death of my sister...and then pick the happy-go-lucky back up again? Well you can't really. I mean, I care about all these things. I care about my paragraphs about sweet nothings and my long drawn out ramblings about life. They're all so relevant, because dammit, life is NOT happy-go-lucky OR super emo all of the time. It's both, and.

So I want to resume, which is why I'm typing again. Besides the fact that I love it, my sweet sister would be disheartened to know I had pushed it aside. I'm thinking of giving her a different title though (the blog, I mean. She's a girl.) Suggestions? 

Since I last wrote, I have picked up and moved with my ever-loving babies to Atlanta, Jaw-gia where one of my babes is working a big ol' job (right outta grad school at that, clap, clap clap), and I'm working a...job. Making a little coffee, interned at a magazine, volunteering with a start-up biking magazine, sleeping a lot and loving on my sweet furry boothang. 

said boothang at the park

I am learning to live without my sister. I think by living in separate cities for most of our lives, I assumed her death wouldn't hurt as bad as it has. I mean, there isn't this constant reminder of her all over my house or on the street corners. She was 18 years older than me, so we didn't even share many of the same memories. Despite that, she was such a big part of my life. She was one of my good friends. My second mom. My counselor. One of my biggest fans. I think in many ways I knew how much more loved I was by my Creator because of how LIKED I was by my sister. She lavished. She encouraged. She spoke truth and wisdom in some of my darkest places, including the darkness of her illness. Some of my greatest joys was being able to do that for her when she was struggling. In the last two months of her life - when I had no idea she was that close to the end - she wept with me like I had never seen her weep and talked about how tired she was and expressed, "how did we get here? How am I already here?". And all I could do was cry and sing "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" (NO idea where that song came from) because I had no clue what to say. Even in that sorrow - because sorrow is the only word for what we were experiencing - the bonding moment of singing and inviting Jesus into where we were - brought us even closer. I've thought about that time over and over and over, especially when I'm sitting in that same spot on her bed when I'm at her house.

me, my sister's kids and my mom at Christmas

I miss her. And that's how I'll begin this blog again. My new year's resolve. A little piece of my heart is missing, but I really want to keep moving. More people in my life will be lost, more tragedies will turn our world upside down, I will still struggle with writer's block, and yet writing is just the most poignant way to get through it. Love to you all from my living room floor in front of my yet-to-be-taken down tree...to yours. 

Happy Christmas and merry 2015!

P.s. This is refreshing to look back on. I feel basically the exact same way. And I'm so glad I hugged my sister tighter.

back to business

Whatever that means. The times they are a changin, Monsieur Dylan says. The past two months I have been sitting in a boat on choppy waters. Philip sits with me. Our boat has not faced any particular direction, and it is rocked by imminent change. Where is this boat going? we think. Half of me doesn't care, because my heart is so sad that my sister is gone. But the other half is jumping from foot to foot like I used to do as a little kid when I needed to go the bathroom but refused to stop playing. Eeeh adventure, what's next, what's next, what's next! Some of my sadness has been suppressed by job hunting and then house hunting. When our boat turned south toward Geawgia, the logistics of everything kept me busy, making plans, giving my two week's notice, finding a place to live, traveling for anniversary and summer...We moved down south on Sunday with a full moving truck, finally secured a place to live on Tuesday, moved in on Wed., and then I went back to DC on Thursday morning to stay with a friend and finish out my last couple weeks of work in the office.

When the boat changed directions, our hearts did too. We began researching Atlanta, google-mapping distances to friends and family and the beach. So arriving back in DC yesterday was hard. When hard things like moving or losing someone happen, your heart begins to embrace something new and find a new happy place.

When I moved from TN to DC, my sister told me she could not wait to see what God was going to do. I had NO earthly idea what career path I should take, and I was mostly resigned to an eternal destiny/fallback of barista-ing. But then a new job fell into my lap with lots of possibility, and my sister just smiled and said, "See? He takes such good care of you." What an encouragement.

After arriving on a bus from Atlanta after 13 hours, the only thing I wanted to do was go running, and after I arrived at my destination, I promptly plopped my suitcase down on the floor, unpacked my running shoes, and departed. As I ran in this familiar territory, literally on my old stomping grounds (which I'd had until this last Sunday for the last two years), I felt sad. Running through Lincoln Park, I missed my dog who I brought to this park all the time to play. As I ran towards the Capitol, emotionally exhausted from all this change, I realized what was possibly the hardest thing about this move. My sister wasn't here to see this new phase of life. She wasn't here to walk me through it, to assure me that even though I'm quitting my job in DC that I'll be fine in Atlanta. This city - DC - is last place I lived when she was alive, and that made this city both heartbreaking while also comforting. I remember where I was when I got those phone calls from her and when we talked and talked about how she was doing. DC is a painful place to be and a

good grief

So many things to say and so many ways I could start. I could avoid writing about this but that would feel dishonest to the kinds of things I talk about, which is real life. Oh blogging world, it's been a really hard two weeks. To be honest, it's been a really hard year and a half since November 8th, 2012 when I got a text from my big sister at 10:18pm that said "Can you talk?" I was getting off work after the world's longest happy hour, walking towards the Archives metro station in DC, and I immediately called Rhonda back. We knew she'd been having gastric issues and weird itching (the concept of the itching was so bizarre...who itches all over their body?) So I knew the phone call would be about whatever was wrong with her, and in my tipsy state, I held back tipsy tears as soon as I heard her voice.

Her calm voice said, "All right. So. They're saying it's cancer..."[Tears spill over]..."But they think it's just stage 1."

I react in disbelief, and Rhonda says, "But they caught it SO early, Steph. Don't worry. I'm really not worried. It's God's grace that I even had symptoms this early in the game."

Of course I was in agreement, but my heart broke in half. The C word was finally happening. You know it's going to happen. I mean, what is it - like 1 in 3 people get cancer in their lifetime, right? So I knew at some point, someone in my family or group of friends would be affected, and it would be hard. And here it was. It's super surreal when that happens, and it all plays out just like a movie. 

I went home and curled up on the floor and put my head in my husband's lap, and he let me cry. Mina came over and whined and licked my hands because she cannot handle crying.

Thus ensued the months ahead. Whipple procedure. Me in DC, calling and texting family constantly for updates. Christmas in the hospital. 6 months of chemo. Her losing weight but looking like the super hottie she is. She and my other sister come to DC to visit me in June of 2013, and we drink fruit and wine smoothies and talk about Jesus on my bed and go shopping for swimsuits at Macy's. Then she continues to lose weight. Cancer recurrence. More weight loss. 2 rounds of chemo before the doctor says she's too weak to handle it without gaining more weight. Our family looks into more integrative care. Rhonda weakens, pain increases, weight continues to drop. She is unable to hold much, if any, food down. She is given TPN to help her gain weight since she struggles to digest food. Loses weight despite the TPN. Admitted into the hospital for more pain. Hospice for two weeks. Home with Jesus.

It's been a whirlwind. I often felt very disconnected from my sister's illness because I live 11 hours from Nashville. Even though Rhonda and I talked a lot, and I always got updates on how she was doing, I had a hard time balancing my worries about everything going on in Nashville with the new world we had just months before settled into in DC. I feel sort of sorry for DC, because I didn't give it fair chance to put down  roots with so much of my heart back where my sister was.

When cancer came back last August, I remember sending her this entry from Jesus Calling that I had read on the day she called to tell me about the recurrence.

To which she replied (her words are in gray):

Of course her response is exactly what she would have said to ME if I were the sick one asking her why this was happening to me. Faith is a remarkable thing; It's like this little fire burning in our hearts that all of struggles throw kindling on, and that we tend and stoke based on how much we need Jesus. Rhonda's flame shined so incredibly bright that everyone saw it as soon as they met her both before she was sick, but especially after she got sick.

Grief has come slowly. "Good grief" takes on a new meaning, because rather than just an exclamatory remark, it's a statement that clearly acknowledges where we are right now. The grief that we feel is good. Right now it is full of memories and smiles and laughter through tears.

The weeks that we had with her in hospice room were some of the most precious moments - all of us in one room - my mom and Rhonda's step dad, Rhonda's dad and stepmother and stepsisters, my sister, Rhonda's cousins, Mark and the kids intermittently - all keeping watch over her like our little duckling. Ruthanne sat and held her hand, and we all talked about how much we loved her. I swear she was rolling her eyes half the time, especially when we said "Rhonda, do you feel like Jesus is calling you home?" To which she responded in her half-lucid state, "STOP talking about it", which made us laugh. When Ruthanne asked her another time, Rhonda replied, "Not yet." Ruthanne said, "All right then, we'll keep you hear as long as you want to stay." Rhonda half smiled and said, "Well, I'll keep you too."

In the midst of it all, she kept her humor, even if all she could muster was a silly little grin. I came into the room one day, and she said that I had a cute butt. She has a tendency to say things like this, but it was a pleasant surprise to hear her say it when she was so weak and out of it.

She got to talk to each of the kids and Mark one at a time two nights before she died, and even though it wore her out, I'm so grateful she got that time. We convinced her to record herself reading aloud a kids book that had a video recorder inside of it, and even though her voice was weaker than normal, it will be such a precious gift to the kids, especially in the later months.

Finally, on her last full day, we were sitting with her talking, and out of nowhere Rhonda whispered, "yes." Ruthanne asked her if she was saying yes to something else or yes to Jesus this time, and Rhonda said, "Yes to Jesus."

I honestly think that the hardest thing for her was letting go. Some of the last words that she whispered over and over were "four little kids..." It's interesting because you hear about the death of people who love Jesus, and it often seems that they are totally at peace with dying, which in and of itself is a miracle. But Rhonda's response was very much (I think) like Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane where He says, "My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done." And then she went. And now she's with Jesus, and it is beautiful and good and well with our souls, even though it really sucks. The prayers of the people have carried us in so many ways, showering this incredibly heavy grace over our family. I can definitely feel our "faith fires" growing throughout all of it.

If you would like to come celebrate Rhonda's life with us, her memorial service will be Saturday, April 20 at 10:00am at Belmont Church, 68 Music Square East, Nashville, TN. We would LOVE for you to come. There will be lots of worship with lots of people who love her dearly.

And because I heard this last night, and it made me think of her:

a table for coffee and other things - a tutorial

About a month and a half ago, I found a coffee table sitting by its lonesome on the curb. To be fair, Philip saw it from afar. Regardless, both of us could see beams of light and possibility shining down from the heavens as we approached it on an afternoon run. We traded looks, knew we should at least give it a try, and I ran back home to get the car.