Not-so-welcome snow day

Oh it’s been a long day.  Ghaith injured his back again, at work this time.  The good thing is, since he was at work he’ll likely get workers’ comp so he can actually go to a good doctor and get proper healing.  He was injured in the same way before, but we couldn’t afford the doctor visits and G was less than diligent about his home care.  So here’s what made for a long day today.  It snowed last night, and school was canceled.  A Snow day would normally be a welcome surprise, but because I’m a substitute now, I don’t get paid if I don’t go to work.  Normally on a snow day, even as an adult, I would go play outside, go for a walk, throw some snowballs or slide down some hills.  Since Ghaith is injured, there was none of that today.  And it seems the few times we’ve had a bit of snow, my initial excitement melts quickly with the realization that Rami’s not here to share it with me.  And he never will be.  I wonder how much longer I’m gonna feel this way. 

We spent the day driving around taking care of Ghaith’s needs… chiropractor, workers’ comp paperwork at his new job, and a deposit of his paycheck at the bank.  It was snowing most of the time we were in the car, and I am not a confident driver in the snow, but with G in pain the was he is right now I didn't want him to have to drive.  I was tense and worried I was gonna wreck all day.  And to top off an already long day, I fell in the parking lot at the bank – and it wasn’t even snowy or icy in that spot!  I don’t know exactly how it happened, but all of the sudden I found myself headed for the ground and unable to stop.  The fall knocked the wind out of me, scraped up my leg, and has left my neck and entire spine in pain.  I’ve been doing so well with exercise and yoga lately, hopefully my new strong body will heal quickly.

Don't surrender your loneliness so quickly.

I have felt so alone in my grief these past few months.  I don’t mean actually, physically alone – I have wished for that many times and when I get it, it never lasts long enough.  No, the alone I have felt is in the depth and grandness of the sorrow I feel day in and day out, as I walk through my days and dredge through long, sleepless nights.  I know that others in my life are grieving too, wishing Rami was here.  In losing Rami, they lost their grandson, nephew, or dearest friends’ little boy… and that is a sad and difficult thing to maneuver, I know.  They think of him often, mostly every day.  They cry over missing him, and weep for me, their daughter, niece, sister, friend.  But I… I have lost my child, my firstborn, flesh of my flesh, or as is said in Arabic of someone you love deeply and cannot imagine living without,

عروق قلبي

"shreyan gelby"

(veins of my heart).

Today I found the quote below, written by Hafiz, an author I’d not heard of until now.  I looked him up.  Turns out he was an Iranian poet who’s lifelong desire was to be ever closer to God.  My friend Nate, who’s currently living in India, posted this quote online with a recent picture of himself from the back, walking through an alleyway somewhere in India.  The alleyway is lined with ancient buildings painted in bold colors, and it's full of passersby including a guy on a mo-ped,  a cow standing near a pile of garbage, several Indian people, and tall, white Nate.  Just by looking at the picture, it seems to me Nate is surrounded by people, but his Hafiz quote indicates he is experiencing something of loneliness.  

"Don't surrender your loneliness so quickly. Let it cut more deep. Let it ferment and season you as few human or even divine ingredients can. Something missing in my heart tonight has made my eyes so soft, my voice so tender, my need of God absolutely clear."  ~ Hafiz

It’s easy to feel the pang of loneliness even while amongst others.  Nate and Hafiz remind me now of something I’m becoming increasingly aware of…

Something missing in my heart tonight is drawing me closer to the Lord.

Papercut by Faith

My friend Faith and I met in Switzerland two years ago.  She was studying at the L'Abri there in the Alps, and I went to stay for a long weekend.  She and I had one amazing hike up a snow-covered hill, and have been buddies every since.  She now lives in Texas and we have kept in touch, sometimes better than others, over these past few years.  Her faith has played an important role in my own faith over these past few months.  Faith is an incredibly talented artist who happens to possess the gift of prophetic prayer as well.  I treasure her friendship and the encouragement she has given me - directly from the Spirit.  She made a piece of artwork for Ghaith and I to commemorate Rami's life.  She posted it on her blog.  We have it in our home, framed.  It is more special to Ghaith and I than we could ever put words to.

Thank you dear Faith.

Visiting Rami and enjoying the Gorge.

Rami's Resting Place

We went to visit Rami's resting place on Sunday.  It was the first time back for Ghaith and his parents.  I've been once each month.  I went on my birthday with a few good girlfriends, when Rami would have been one month old.  I went last month with my mom, and this month with Ghaith and his parents.  Going there is a journey each time.  It's never easy but it feels good... right... sad yet peaceful.

We chose to bury Rami in the cemetery of a small town in the Columbia Gorge.  The cemetery is old, small and beautiful.  In its grounds lay at rest some of the first pioneers who came out west.  I've always been inspired by the pioneer spirit.

There is a big tree in the middle of the cemetery.  Rami is buried under it.  Ghaith and I find comfort in its protection and strength.

Last month I brought socks for Rami.  It has just started snowing and I was so sad that I hadn't put socks on his feet before he was buried.  I was crying when I went to lay them at his grave.  I used his socks to wipe my tears, and was surprised that I left an imprint of my eyes with my mascara.  It felt right, like I can be there watching over him.

This month our grooming of his grave included adding some moss and lichen to the sticks we've had outlining his space.  The greens are so vibrant.

Our little angel.  I look at his precious face every night as I fall asleep.

Rami

Oh sweetheart, I miss you so much.

Weeping through the sunset

This is the end of the glorious sunset I watched as I tried to keep my eyes on the road on my drive home after work today.  I am currently tutoring at a school not too far from Marine Drive, so I get to enjoy the scenes of the Columbia River while driving to and from work every day.  It’s really lovely, but as I realized while trying to enjoy today’s sunset, life’s simple enjoyments don’t come as easily for me these days.  Today, when I first noticed the radiant orange-pink sky of the setting sun, I felt that rush I’ve always gotten when I am impressed with one of God’s great shows in nature.  It felt good to enjoy, if only for a moment, for what followed was something that has become all too familiar.  Anger… then hurt… then despair. 

How could I be feeling such strong, negative emotions while enjoying the sunset?  At first I was perplexed, but then it came to me.  I was enjoying God’s beauty in nature, which made me think of God.  And in thinking of God, I became angry.  And I then had to face, once again, my anger toward God for taking my baby away.  I feel cheated.  It hit me hard, as He was showing me something beautiful, which normally I would enjoy as fully as I could, right to the last drop.  But it seems that these days any inkling of joy that I experience is quickly saturated and overtaken by the darkness of my sorrow.  A bit of laughter, a sweet caress, a thoughtful gift, the satisfaction of a good workout, a kind or encouraging word… are all followed by tinges of guilt and waves of sadness.  Sometimes it’s just a small wave that returns to calm in the next moment, but other times, times like today, the waves of sadness awaken the sea of sorrow that constantly stirs just below the surface.  On days like today, the sea quickly turns dark and the waves become nearly unmanageable swells leading steadily into a full-fledged storm of emotions.  I am all-to-easily overcome by the harsh waves of sadness, doubt, regret, grief, anger and despair. 

I acknowledged all of this as I drove along the river.  I told God how angry I am, how hard it is for me to trust that I will ever be o.k. again.  I asked him how long I would hurt like this.  At one point I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the road through my tears.  I pulled over, let myself cry good and hard, and once I calmed down I tried to enjoy the rest of the sunset.  I stayed for a few minutes, but realized if I stayed for the entire sunset (try to enjoy it to the last drop), I would delay my arrival to that nasty traffic jam at the I-5 bridge, causing Ghaith to worry about me by getting home late.  Rather than try to later explain my desire to stay and enjoy the sunset’s last drops, I decided to keep going.   As I drove, the sun got lower and lower in the sky and I was somehow able to let myself anticipate the joy of those last moments when the sun gets even brighter right before slipping below the horizon for the night.  As I drove, the road came to a place where it drops lower for a stretch and I couldn’t see the horizon from there.  Not wanting to speed, but also not wanting to miss the last drop, I hurried along.  As the road rose again and I could see the horizon, I saw that the sun had already set.  It happened without my knowing. 

Again, I felt cheated.  It felt similar to how we lost Rami, on a much smaller scale of course.  But it was the same feeling. 

As excited as I was to be pregnant, I was hesitant to love my baby in the beginning, for fear of losing him – I think a lot of pregnant women must experience that.  And as he grew, I let myself start to enjoy him, his movements, his personality.  I would sing to him, dance with him, and rub my belly to comfort him and show him my love.  It was such a wonderful time in my life.  It was the happiest I’ve ever been and the most beautiful I have ever felt.  Ghaith too let himself love our boy in meaningful ways.  He talked to Rami every night as we laid down to sleep, and every morning before he left for work.  He would give my belly big noisy kisses, and Rami would be just tickled with joy.  Rami knew his baba.  He reacted to Ghaith like he did with no one else.  Just the presence of Ghaith’s hand on my belly, and Rami would move toward him, like gravitation or a magnetic pull.  It was the most amazing feeling.  And if I hadn’t felt Rami move much on a particular day, Ghaith could always get a reaction out of him… except for that last morning before Ghaith left for work.  I remember feeling a little worried when Rami didn’t respond to his baba’s voice or touch or noisy kisses.  It was later that day we learned that he had slipped away without our knowing. 

And I felt cheated.  And I still do.

There is a verse, ONE verse in the Bible that seems to consistently bring me comfort.  It was written to Rami in a letter the pastor at his funeral wrote and read aloud.  I didn’t know where in the Bible it came from but I’ve had it written on a scratch piece of paper and taped to the wall beside my bed for the past few months.   It helps me get through those long, dark hours at night when I am most vulnerable.  When the rest of the world sleeps, I weep. Ghaith and I resdiscovered that verse last Sunday.  We haven’t been reading together as much as we’d like, but felt we should seek the Lord before going to visit Rami’s grave that day.  It was Ghaith’s first time back since the burial 3 months ago.  Ghaith prayed that morning, and felt we should read Psalm 30.  Not knowing, what was in it, we opened our Bibles and were comforted by God’s words there, the same words I cling to every night:

“weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” ~Psalm 30:5

See you in the morning my sweet Rami.