Category: Family

Family, Gratitude, Hope, Intentionality, Personal Reflection

Birthday Lilacs and Sister Walks

Carrie Sue Barnes

Today is my sister’s birthday and I woke up with a familiar ache in my heart. Something I’ve learned about grief is it’s not all that accurate to say it gets easier with time. Rather, the spaces between the difficult moments gradually grow larger.

It’s been a good while since I’ve had an especially emotional day of grief, but when it came today, it felt much like so many days crammed into the last three years. Today arrived with the same instantly recognizable longing for my sister–to hear her voice and laugh, to see her smile, to know she is here and will be here tomorrow.

Stepping outside with my Bible as the day began, I spotted the new blossoms in my bed of irises. Somehow their purple and white petals brought my mind round to Cheryl’s red and pink rose bushes. I sat down to read and pray but my thoughts remained unsettled, and I soon found myself standing in front of the flowers again. I caught the odor of lilacs from the bush a few feet away. The first bunches of blossoms had opened and the scent pulled me closer.

Cheryl loved lilacs as much as I do. I gave up blinking away my tears and inhaled the gorgeous scent. In my mind’s eye, I could see the text I would’ve sent with a photo.

The lilacs bloomed for your birthday! They smell heavenly.

How I wanted to send that text.

The tears came and went through the day. I confided in a friend who knows the pain of losing family to terrible cancer battles, and pushing through the workdays despite the distraction of that pain. I glanced through favorite photos and smiled at her smile. Cheryl hovered in my thoughts in each hour, sometimes in the foreground and sometimes in the back. When evening came and my kids were settled at their dad’s for the night, the restlessness crowded me in the quiet of my home. You know, that restlessness that comes with a longing that can’t be eased.

Take a walk.

The suggestion rose over the mental noise. I wanted a walk with Cheryl though.

Cheryl loved walks. I loved walking with Cheryl. I think we all did. Walking with Cheryl meant talking with Cheryl. She rarely pushed the pace because, I suppose, if you were out of breath you couldn’t be talking. Cheryl didn’t do much small talk. A little perhaps, but it’d pass quickly and the rest was spent on the real stuff. That’s not to say every conversation was intense, but every conversation was intentional. Cheryl knew what mattered and didn’t pretend otherwise. She treated time with you as a valuable part of her day. She listened. She drew you out. On a walk was a natural time to do all of that.

As I walked tonight, I thought how it’d be if she were at my side. We’d comment on the proud orange poppies swaying in the dim twilight. Marveling at the sunset, we might voice a scripture verse or worship song brought to mind by the beauty. She would ask questions that got to the heart of whatever burdened my shoulders. Walks with Cheryl were a treasure.

I want another. I want to end it in my front yard where we can smell the lilacs. But I’m thankful the lilacs are here. I’m grateful for each walk that we had. I’m eager for the walks we’ll take again someday.

I know the walks with her have not run out. There’s only more space in between them.

Catholicism, Faith, Family, Gratitude, Holiness, Jesus, Lent, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Every Day All Day

Carrie Sue Barnes

“I want to be with God and receive God and have him in my heart every day all day.”

Annie’s 1st Eucharist is approaching and this was her note written at the end of yesterday’s retreat day for the 2nd graders preparing for the sacrament. Today when we came home from Mass, she and Tim were playing. In the middle of a Lego battle, Tim paused and looked at her.

“I’m so excited for you to receive Communion.”

Oh, the beauty of a child’s faith. That eagerness to encounter Jesus. These two little people have no idea how often they help renew my joy.

Family, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Playing Cards and Memories

Carrie Sue Barnes

On Wednesday night, one of my fifth graders asked how we still have so many stories and traditions from lots and lots of years ago. I talked about the natural passing of such things from grandparents and parents to children and grandchildren by living and sharing traditions and stories together, as well as other sources for passing on those pieces of life. We moved on with our class lesson then, but tonight his question popped back into my head

This is how it happens.

Playing Skip-Bo with my children for the first time and explaining how it was my favorite game to play with my Grandma Ebsch when I was a kid. Playing it with Grandma’s own set of cards, passed on to me after she died, I described how Grandma Ebsch adored playing card games of any kind and spent hours teaching her grandchildren the games too. Even as teens, we loved playing cards with Grandma, and I never tired of Skip-Bo.

Confiding these memories – smiling over it all and imagining how Grandma would be thrilled if she could play with us tonight – watching the two of them excitedly catch on to the game – this is how it happens.

We played Twister too, but that piece of entertainment affected my back more than my nostalgic heart.

Family, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Things to Teach and Things to Learn

Carrie Sue Barnes

He talked me into introducing him to racquetball this week. I found it laughable that I’d be able to teach him a game that I never knew how to play well. I hadn’t even played it badly since college. That’s nearly twenty years, fyi. I’m on that ‘getting old’ track nowadays.

My boy sees it so differently. He was excited for a full week for this. He counted days until his sister’s next gymnastics class. He dressed with this event in mind when he got ready for school. When I’d asked him that morning why he was wearing an undershirt beneath his t-shirt, he explained that he’d be more comfortable in the tank top during racquetball so now all he had to do was take off his t-shirt to be ready to play.

He was ready.

Each time it came up, I warned him that I wasn’t very good at it but I’d try. I didn’t want him to expect too much. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

He could not have cared less. That’s a contagious thing and by the time we got onto that well-worn court, I was inching closer to that same state of mind. A freeing change, by all means.

We had a blast. It was SO MUCH FUN. We both just tried. We celebrated the times it played out in our favor. We talked through some of the times it didn’t.

What hit me afterward was how I could have spent the past week looking forward to this. I could have joined in my son’s excitement. I could have rejected focusing on something negative that was not in my power to change (in this case, my past experience).

The things we sacrifice on the altar of self-doubt. Of fear. Of unfounded expectations.

My boy did not care about my skill level when he asked me to play the game together. I felt compelled to answer an expectation he never even held. I needed to soften the blow of disappointment when he discovered how little I could do.

Whether or not I could teach him the game of racquetball, I did have options of what else to teach him. Confidence or doubt. Whether the good should eclipse the imperfection, or vice versa. Believing in strength or highlighting weakness.

When he asked me at the end if we could play again next week, I didn’t miss a beat in answering yes. Nor did I hesitate to declare that I would be excited for it until then.

Lesson learned, this time around.

Dignity, Family, Gratitude, Motherhood, Personal Reflection, Worthy

Believing Them

Carrie Sue Barnes

One of the things my kids have taught me is to believe I’m worthy of admiration. For all the years I can recall, I’ve felt like a pretender whenever I received recognition, whether big or small. I felt like an impostor or a fraud as I thanked anyone for a compliment. I wondered how long it’d take for someone to figure out my actual abilities and charms, or lack thereof.

In their earliest years, children are blunt, honest creatures. This applies to the positive and negative alike, as there is no natural filter between their thoughts and their tongues. As much as this exposes us adults to harsh critiques and awkward commentaries from our little chatterboxes, it also pours over us the soul-saturating water of honest praise. Their compliments are pure. Their admiration is authentic. What else could be right but to accept the gifts of them? To BELIEVE them?

This lesson hasn’t squashed the voice that whispers I’m a pretender. Now there’s a contradictory voice though, and it sounds a lot like my children.

#parenthood #parenting #momlife #boymom #girlmom #mothersday #worthy #nofilter

Faith, Family, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Until Then

Carrie Sue Barnes

A week ago, I snuggled my 5 1/2 year old daughter as she cried through question after question about Heaven and her Auntie Cheryl. When I’d hugged her goodnight several minutes earlier, Annie became teary eyed and said she wished she could see Cheryl. I squeezed her and told her it was okay to be sad and at the same time we could remember the things that made us happy while we were with Cheryl. Her smiles and laughter and hugs. She nodded and kissed me goodnight. Then as I reached her doorway,  Annie blurted, “But Mom, all those hugs and smiles and laughs are done!” and broke down in tears.

So we hugged each other some more and both our tears wet her pillow. Eventually the tears mostly ceased and she began with her questions.

How will we find Cheryl when we get there?

Are you sure she’ll remember us?

What does Heaven look like?

And several more.

I did my best and waited until much later to let my sobs out. I tried to share her sadness while also sharing wisdom. But, oh, how far from wise I always feel now.

The next morning, after she was dressed for school, she came to my desk where I’d started my workday.

“Mommy, when you and Daddy go to Heaven, I’ll want to go too, but I won’t get to yet.”

A few more tears. More hugs. How do I explain? How do I accept it all myself? I don’t know, but for her sake and mine, I’m trying.

The next day, these photos were in my Facebook memories. I marveled at the time that passed. How could that Christmas be nine years ago? How could Cheryl be gone almost 5 months now? As I considered these numbers, I thought next of eternity. Nine years – a blip on the spectrum of time. 5 months – next to nothing. Someday… someday that’s what it will feel like too. Until then, it simply feels like too much.

Faith, Family, Personal Reflection

Writing It Out

Carrie Sue Barnes

I will write today. I’ve been telling myself this all day. I will write. Whether merely some thoughts extracted from brain to page, or a post to share, or a little story – it doesn’t matter. I only care if I write.

There are parts of me that feel incapable of engaging with the world. They are inclined to hibernate while my efforts and attention are needed where the wounds need healing. I understand the nature of that need well enough to give those parts of me some grace. I’m complacent over the bowing out to backstage for now. Except with this. Writing can’t go.

Today marks two weeks since my sister died.

It took me ten minutes of staring at the space around me before I could write that sentence. I’m not sure how, but it makes it more real than before I wrote it down there. It doesn’t need to feel any more real.

Knowing it’s coming, barring a genuine hand-of-God miracle, did not leave me prepared for the loss. The expectancy only took away the element of surprise, not any of the pain. It felt… feels… far worse than I’d even told myself it would.

*The message from my brother, minutes afterward, letting me know she’d passed.

*Crying into the phone while my husband drove home, then crying in his arms.

*Telling my children and holding them through tears. Watching them watch me in concern.

*The surreal phone calls, emails, and texts about funeral details.

*The changes in my prayers, from begging for Cheryl’s healing to requesting strength and comfort for the rest of us.

*That first hug from a sibling two days later.

*Gathering with my sisters to arrange photo displays. Looking into Cheryl’s face through the years and milestones of the past.

*Writing a eulogy and sobbing through a different part each time I practiced aloud.

*The visitation, with its combined acceptance and avoidance of whichever moment will be the last of looking upon my sister face to face.

*The funeral, which managed an almost equal balance of sadness and beauty.

*The burial, which shook me and stripped away any lingering surreality.

Each was a brick to solidify the reality of Cheryl being gone.

On Tuesday the 18th, Cheryl told her doctor and her husband that she was finished with treatment. She signed the papers for hospice care in her home.

On Wednesday, my family visited her. We sat beside her bed, hugged her, held her hand, and conversed as much as we could. Sentences formed slowly as her eyes drifted shut between words, but we talked. I wish I could package up that visit in a vacuum to preserve without any faded or forgotten bits.

On Friday the 21st, with family gathered around her bed, she released her last breath and went to Jesus.

Tuesday evening, after receiving the update that she’d begun hospice care, I went for a run through my town. The sunset that evening was beautiful. Soft, pink sky with orange-streaked wisps of clouds. I remember feeling so angry about it. I was angry that, with all the awfulness of that day, the world dared to be beautiful. I was angry with myself for still noticing that beauty. It did not seem right. It took until near the end of my run, when I stopped beside the river in town to reconsider things. I leaned against a tree, cried, and realized how right it was after all.

Cheryl never stopped seeing God’s hand in this world. She saw reasons for joy and gratitude. His love, generosity, and care remained true and detectable to her. Even in the lowest times, when she felt distance between her and God, the awareness of his presence in this world did not leave her.

Right now, I’m most aware of pain. I see it in people’s faces. I wince at casual harshness from one to another. I wonder what this or that person is keeping to themselves behind an unaffected expression and ordinary words. I read between the lines of guarded social media posts. Then there are the unguarded ones, exposing their wounds and admitting their pain, and I’m reduced to tears once again.

For several months now, I’ve had a terribly hard time singing along to any songs. It doesn’t seem to matter what the song may be. There is something about the enlivening that comes from singing aloud. It cracks through my precarious grip every single time. A week before Cheryl died, I heard one I hadn’t heard before: MercyMe’s “Even If.”

God, when you choose to leave mountains unmovable, oh give me the strength to be able to sing, ‘It is well with my soul.’

MercyMe, “Even If”

This song has stayed with me through these days. I plan to sing along sometime soon.