Grief baking...like grief shopping, only less expensive
I've been awake since 3am. There were messages already waiting for me from people who were letting me know I'm not alone today. Over the last couple weeks, since I uncharacteristically showed vulnerability and asked people to remember the 15th, I've been thinking that might have been the most ill-advised thing I could have done. As in everything in my life, the moment of vulnerability that the Lord prompted me to share has turned out to be a blessing. All day long I've received texts, emails, and messages from people letting me know that they are thinking about us and praying for us today. I've needed that. More than I realize.
My mom asked me a couple weeks ago what I wanted to do about Valentine's Day. I told her I wanted to pretend the day didn't exist. However, I teach in an elementary school, so that was only a pipe dream. I did alright most the day, but, right before I left , one of my sweet 1st graders, who I have nicknamed my Undercover Rockstar, knocked on my door and gave me a little candy box. My heart was so deeply touched by this little gift, and also so broken. Just when I thought that I just wanted to go hide in my bed and let my children fend for themselves, my girlfriend arrived with fajitas. I knew she was coming; we had planned to spend the evening together. For a couple hours, I could forget the pain in my heart and focus on my friend and my children. It was really nice.
This morning, I had plans to go to the indoor playground with another friend. Her kids are one week older than Mr. M and five weeks younger than Little Miss. I have known this woman for years, longer than I knew Andrew. She met her husband a couple of months before I met Andrew, and she got married six months after we did. We have walked through every single phase together. She is one of those friends that knows everything about me, literally, and doesn't care. We all need a couple of those. So while our kids wore themselves out at the indoor playground, we talked. And we lamented the two and four-year-olds that we are responsible for. And laughed. It was really nice.
As the day wore on, the ache in my heart and the pain became more and more palatable. We played with Hot Wheels, we watched Mario on YouTube, we threw tennis balls in the backyard and made Buddy Lee chase them. Mr. M left to go hit the houses in the neighborhood to see who could play. Little Miss started asking if we could make cookies. I found her an apron (that was longer than she was), I donned one of my old Starbucks aprons, and we baked. We started with cookies. We made gluten-free chocolate chip cookies because every little girl needs to make chocolate chip cookies with her mom. I remember baking cookies with my mom. Two months ago, I couldn't bake cookies. I couldn't make Christmas cookies with my children, like we do every year. I couldn't put up stockings or ornaments. No decorations or holiday merriment went up this year. The very thought of opening the color-coded tubs of decorations made me want to crawl in a hole and hide. I baked cookies today, because I couldn't bake them two months ago.
While the cookies were cooling, Little Miss went off to play with her "Paw Patrol friends" and I kept baking. See, I'm not a great cook. Me and cooking? Nope. Baking is my jam. After the cookies, I made apple crisp. I'm known for my apple crisp. Normally, I make it several times in the fall. With Andrew spiraling into mental crisis this fall, we didn't go apple picking in September. With no fresh apples, I didn't make apple crisp, and, given the circumstances, it didn't seem important. My sister, whose birthday is at the end of January, only told us last year that she doesn't really like birthday cake (at age 40), but she likes my apple crisp. My mom's birthday is two weeks after my sister's, and they requested my apple crisp for their birthday dessert. Three weeks ago, when it was their birthdays, I had Influenza B. I couldn't make apple crisp. My body, living on borrowed time for so long, had had enough. Two days in bed at Hotel Mom and Dad. I baked apple crisp today, because I couldn't bake it a month ago.
While the apple crisp was in the oven, I started to make banana bread. The banana bread was my original baking project for the weekend. When you are a member of the Celiac community, you have an immediate connection with anyone who is unfortunate enough to have no other option than the gluten-free life. Why anyone would voluntarily choose the gluten-free life is beyond me. I have a coworker who is Celiac. I asked her on Friday if she liked banana bread. See, I have been where she is. I've been in a situation where I am living my dream of being a teacher, but every day ends up feeling like a nightmare. No matter what I did, I couldn't do it correctly. The pain and pressure of knowing I was never going to measure up was awful. I baked her (what ended up as) banana bread muffins with chocolate chips because, 17 years ago, I wish I had someone offer to make me banana bread and tell me that just because my first job out of school was rough, and I spend every day wondering if I chose the correct career, I'm here for a reason, and it will be okay. I baked her muffins because we all need to know that, in spite of present circumstances, God is in control.
After all the baking was finished and I was washing the dishes, the tears came. The tears came for the window sill that was empty, where for the previous six years, roses had sat. I cried as I washed the mini-muffin pan that was given to me at one of my bridal showers six years ago, when I could think of nothing more than the amazing life Andrew and I were going to forge together. I cried as I accepted that another month has passed and it hasn't gotten easier. If anything, the pain is worse. Three months ago, the pain was acute and raw, like an amputated limb. Overnight I had to learn how to function without my right arm. And the wound hurt. I kept bumping into it at every turn. Today, it feels like the phantom pain. I remember what it was like to have that arm. I remember the excitement of driving home from work, wondering what color roses I would be receiving. I remember the card I would get, only because I always asked for a card, and the sentiments inside of it. Remembering has its own breathtaking level of pain, because remembering means it doesn't exist anymore in my present.
Over the next couple days, I'll be delivering the apple crisp and the banana chocolate chip muffins. And I'll thank God that I can bake again. Maybe tomorrow it won't hurt so bad, but it probably will. Maybe I won't cry, but I probably will. But I'm not alone. Thank you to all who reminded me today that I'm not alone. As tobymac says, "Until God opens the door, we'll praise him in the hallway." I'm still singing. Tonight I'm singing Little Miss's favorite song:
Jesus loves me, this I know,
for the Bible tells me so,
little ones to Him belong,
they are weak, but he is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me!
The Bible tells me so.
My mom asked me a couple weeks ago what I wanted to do about Valentine's Day. I told her I wanted to pretend the day didn't exist. However, I teach in an elementary school, so that was only a pipe dream. I did alright most the day, but, right before I left , one of my sweet 1st graders, who I have nicknamed my Undercover Rockstar, knocked on my door and gave me a little candy box. My heart was so deeply touched by this little gift, and also so broken. Just when I thought that I just wanted to go hide in my bed and let my children fend for themselves, my girlfriend arrived with fajitas. I knew she was coming; we had planned to spend the evening together. For a couple hours, I could forget the pain in my heart and focus on my friend and my children. It was really nice.
This morning, I had plans to go to the indoor playground with another friend. Her kids are one week older than Mr. M and five weeks younger than Little Miss. I have known this woman for years, longer than I knew Andrew. She met her husband a couple of months before I met Andrew, and she got married six months after we did. We have walked through every single phase together. She is one of those friends that knows everything about me, literally, and doesn't care. We all need a couple of those. So while our kids wore themselves out at the indoor playground, we talked. And we lamented the two and four-year-olds that we are responsible for. And laughed. It was really nice.
As the day wore on, the ache in my heart and the pain became more and more palatable. We played with Hot Wheels, we watched Mario on YouTube, we threw tennis balls in the backyard and made Buddy Lee chase them. Mr. M left to go hit the houses in the neighborhood to see who could play. Little Miss started asking if we could make cookies. I found her an apron (that was longer than she was), I donned one of my old Starbucks aprons, and we baked. We started with cookies. We made gluten-free chocolate chip cookies because every little girl needs to make chocolate chip cookies with her mom. I remember baking cookies with my mom. Two months ago, I couldn't bake cookies. I couldn't make Christmas cookies with my children, like we do every year. I couldn't put up stockings or ornaments. No decorations or holiday merriment went up this year. The very thought of opening the color-coded tubs of decorations made me want to crawl in a hole and hide. I baked cookies today, because I couldn't bake them two months ago.
While the cookies were cooling, Little Miss went off to play with her "Paw Patrol friends" and I kept baking. See, I'm not a great cook. Me and cooking? Nope. Baking is my jam. After the cookies, I made apple crisp. I'm known for my apple crisp. Normally, I make it several times in the fall. With Andrew spiraling into mental crisis this fall, we didn't go apple picking in September. With no fresh apples, I didn't make apple crisp, and, given the circumstances, it didn't seem important. My sister, whose birthday is at the end of January, only told us last year that she doesn't really like birthday cake (at age 40), but she likes my apple crisp. My mom's birthday is two weeks after my sister's, and they requested my apple crisp for their birthday dessert. Three weeks ago, when it was their birthdays, I had Influenza B. I couldn't make apple crisp. My body, living on borrowed time for so long, had had enough. Two days in bed at Hotel Mom and Dad. I baked apple crisp today, because I couldn't bake it a month ago.
While the apple crisp was in the oven, I started to make banana bread. The banana bread was my original baking project for the weekend. When you are a member of the Celiac community, you have an immediate connection with anyone who is unfortunate enough to have no other option than the gluten-free life. Why anyone would voluntarily choose the gluten-free life is beyond me. I have a coworker who is Celiac. I asked her on Friday if she liked banana bread. See, I have been where she is. I've been in a situation where I am living my dream of being a teacher, but every day ends up feeling like a nightmare. No matter what I did, I couldn't do it correctly. The pain and pressure of knowing I was never going to measure up was awful. I baked her (what ended up as) banana bread muffins with chocolate chips because, 17 years ago, I wish I had someone offer to make me banana bread and tell me that just because my first job out of school was rough, and I spend every day wondering if I chose the correct career, I'm here for a reason, and it will be okay. I baked her muffins because we all need to know that, in spite of present circumstances, God is in control.
After all the baking was finished and I was washing the dishes, the tears came. The tears came for the window sill that was empty, where for the previous six years, roses had sat. I cried as I washed the mini-muffin pan that was given to me at one of my bridal showers six years ago, when I could think of nothing more than the amazing life Andrew and I were going to forge together. I cried as I accepted that another month has passed and it hasn't gotten easier. If anything, the pain is worse. Three months ago, the pain was acute and raw, like an amputated limb. Overnight I had to learn how to function without my right arm. And the wound hurt. I kept bumping into it at every turn. Today, it feels like the phantom pain. I remember what it was like to have that arm. I remember the excitement of driving home from work, wondering what color roses I would be receiving. I remember the card I would get, only because I always asked for a card, and the sentiments inside of it. Remembering has its own breathtaking level of pain, because remembering means it doesn't exist anymore in my present.
Over the next couple days, I'll be delivering the apple crisp and the banana chocolate chip muffins. And I'll thank God that I can bake again. Maybe tomorrow it won't hurt so bad, but it probably will. Maybe I won't cry, but I probably will. But I'm not alone. Thank you to all who reminded me today that I'm not alone. As tobymac says, "Until God opens the door, we'll praise him in the hallway." I'm still singing. Tonight I'm singing Little Miss's favorite song:
Jesus loves me, this I know,
for the Bible tells me so,
little ones to Him belong,
they are weak, but he is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me!
The Bible tells me so.
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