Hello all,

I'm not dead, and I'm hoping to get a spot in Exhibit A.

Bring on the challenge. I should have the attention span for this one. ;)

Ready, set, therealljidol

Hello lovelies,

I thought I'd post these here just in case anyone is interested.

Macys

Sur La Table

And
myregistry.com

The myregistry.com account has a button to contribute to our honeymoon if so desired.

If nothing else, you will benefit from all of my extensive research about cookware and home appliances :).

Steel skeletons and concrete skin
span over waters cold and wide.

My two homes lie on either side,
the sins that divided them buried in the deep.

Childhood journeys in rusty cars,
my father and I together and alone.

Music fills the great divide,
our bridge between absence and truth.

Steel skeletons and concrete skin
will never let me forget.

I'm slightly concerned.

I have not been on line a lot due to real life (and that giant holiday us Christians love called Easter) so I don't have a partner for LJI.

I have to write "Bridge" and need a "straw that stirs the drink" partner.

Anyone free?

Please say you are free, lest I weep with sadness.

And when my task on earth is done,
When by Thy grace the victory’s won,
Even death’s cold wave I will not flee,
Since God through Jordan leadeth me.
-He Leadeth Me (Hymn)

Our three voices melted together in the southern style that Grandma loved so dearly. These two talented women on either side of me had known her for twenty years and generously gave of their talents to the joyous gospel tune that would have thrilled her heart.

"When I die, I want them to sing at my funeral," Grandma had declared countless times after a rousing performance by the mother-daughter duo in a Sunday service.

"Ok, Grandma," I would always respond, knowing full well that death could never claim a woman so strong and vivacious.

I never thought two falls and a bruised brain would be enough to steal her from me. And yet, less than a month after my engagement, I found myself in a church full to bursting with those who had been touched by the vibrant woman I called Grandma. I was in awe of the impact of one life on so many and wondered who else would be in the room if she had remained on this Earth for as long as we had all hoped? Surely an extra 15 years would have allowed her to share her broad smile and biting wit with new friends. My teenage children might have been sitting on the first row, hands entangled with those of their older cousins, hearts broken at the loss of their vivacious great-grandmother.

I realized with a sudden sense of irony that there never would have been a right time for her to die. I would miss her fried chicken, tightly curled silver hair, and bell-like laugh whether she had left me last week or 15 years from now. As transient as my life had been, Grandma was the solid bridge that kept me connected to home.

As I reclaimed my seat on the stage, my mercifully dry eyes fell on my sweet mother who stood to deliver a tribute to the woman who had given her life. Their relationship had been troubled at times, but grief remembers no conflict and the loss of a parent creates a chasm that swallows harsh words. She spoke of a bond forged later in life by a shared faith and commitment to a family that struggled to keep its head above water.

It didn't take long for us all to drown.

Death unmasks the monsters long dormant in those who cannot face it. They emerge, angry and hungry, tearing family ties with their claws of bitterness and greed. Two of the three men that called my mother "sister" betrayed us with their words, accusing her of treachery and forever destroying the tenuous peace that had existed for so long. It didn't matter that she was the one who had moved in with Grandma, feeding her meals and dealing with the doctors while they retreated to safer places. Their rage at the universe for stealing their mother was satisfied by punishing my mother and fleeing with the material possessions left in the wreckage. The guilt and shame they try to hide has left our family fractured, the empty chairs at holiday meals reminding us that we have lost more than one piece of our puzzle.

I don't believe in closure anymore. By definition, that term conjures up the image of closing a door and moving forward as you were before. Loss is not like that. Grief is the process of letting a new reality absorb into your soul. As time goes on, the pain lessens, but the change is permanent. As much as I would like to forever leave them all behind me and travel on without regard for their existence, I don't believe that is possible. These turbulent times have shaped my understanding of family and how to maintain the foundation no matter the circumstance. Freedom has come from realizing that we all viewed Grandma as the glue rather than laboring to maintain relationships independent of her. This lesson has stirred within my heart a sense of urgency to protect the family I do have from the ravages of these eventual tragedies. Leaving the door open to look back and remember without bitterness is what will bring true healing and help me to grow my family with care. I am learning to wish the same for them.

I think Grandma would be proud.

**My intersection parter for this week is the lovely and talented
dblicher

Tinley sat on the front porch steps, bathing in the amethyst light of early evening, cigarette dangling lazily from her left hand. She hadn't smoked in five years, but under the circumstances, it seemed like the least destructive option. She had seriously considered dragging all of the nursery furniture to the curb for the garbage truck to collect, or starting a large bonfire in the front yard using the 60 congratulations cards they had received as kindling. In the end, she opted for pilfering a few of Carter's cigarettes from the "secret stash" he kept in his guitar case under the bed. She figured she would smoke until she passed out or felt better; which ever one came first.

She could hear Carter inside, yelling at someone (probably the lawyer) on the phone.

"We have given thousands to this girl… You said it was a done deal!… How can she do this?"

Tinley fixed her emerald eyes on her bare feet and began counting the veins she could see poking out through her tanned skin. No matter how much she smoked and counted, the vision of that tiny baby…her baby…would not retreat. It clung to her brain and forced out defiant angry tears.

The phone had rang at 4 AM that morning, pulling both of them from a fitful sleep. Tinley flew for the phone, hoping this was the call she had been awaiting for seven months…and ten years.

"Tinley," it was Eliza's desperate teenage voice on the other end, "Tinley, I'm in labor. I'm in labor…"

Tinley had tried to calm the sobbing girl while pulling on old jeans and one of Carter's faded Rolling Stones T-Shirts.

"Don't worry, we're coming…we're coming…everything is going to be ok, Eliza."

Carter was ten steps ahead of her, waving the car keys around in the air hurrying her off the phone. She smiled and hung up, filled with an overwhelming sense of joy.

As they pulled into the hospital parking lot ten minutes later, Carter paused before getting out of the car. He held his wife's hand tightly and smiled in a way she had never seen.

"Ready, Mama?" He asked, reaching for his door handle.

Without a word, she kissed him and jumped from the car, racing frantically toward the front doors and the future that was finally theirs. After years of wrestling with infertility, God had brought them Eliza, the girl who was going to let them raise her baby as their own. Tinley was initially nervous about this arrangement. There had been so many failed attempts that she didn't dare to hope this could be different. But as she entered the hospital, faithful husband by her side, she knew the little girl that was coming to them was meant to be her daughter.

Now, just 12 hours later, the dream had evaporated. Tinley was holding her little angel in her arms when Eliza announced she wanted to keep her. The rest of the morning was a blur. The one thing Tinley did recall was that a nurse had to practically wrestle the baby from her grasp.

Carter came out of the house and settled in next to her. He slipped his arm around her and she melted into him, still clutching the smoldering cigarette.

"What did he say?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"We…we might have a chance. Maybe Eliza will change her mind." He ran a hand through her thick brown hair but couldn't bring himself to look at her.

She breathed in the warmth of his lie and offered him one of her own.

"I think she will…I think she will."

They sat in the empty silence watching the sun, and their hope, disappear.

As someone who was once remarkably gifted at self sabotage, I understand you better than you'd like to believe. Time has past and we are both very different now. You have a toddler, hair that's too long, and a Quaker sensibility that seems to keep you from the bottom of a bottle. I'm almost married, have slightly more fluff around the middle than you remember, and am still hunting for my life's purpose. The chasm of four years lies between what we shared and who we have become. In my darker moments, I feel as if those are our real selves back there now buried under age and an obligation to let go. Then I remind myself that gaping wounds don't make a person more valid or relevant and thank God I heal a little every day.

Do you have to do that too?

Our's was a destructive love born out of dysfunction on both our parts. Perhaps that is why you were easier to forgive than the others; we are still the same inside, you and I. We've had to forgive ourself and those who have hurt us for a lot. True forgiveness is a salve that heals over time. It is slow and I eventually learned that it is more about setting myself free from the anger and bitterness than releasing those who have hurt me from all responsibility. It just isn't my job to punish them…or you.

You were raised in a culture of lies. Adopted into a family who used your warm body for money, deceived you about your age and origin, and left you to an institution as a teenager, I find it natural that the distortion of truth became your natural coping mechanism. I admit, when I discovered you were with three other women while you claimed I was the one and only, I dissolved. Crushed under the weight of that truth (which to this day we have never spoken openly about) I didn't ever want to let anyone put me back together.

I'm sorry I called you so much that October. Your abrupt disappearance left me lost and I held out hope I could fix you. That was who I had always been, the one who could repair the broken…everyone besides myself. Lying on my bathroom floor dialing your number over and over again seemed like a perfectly rational response to your declaration that we could no longer speak. If I showed you how much I loved you, it would all be made right. It didn't matter to me in that moment how many pills I had taken or how loud I was screaming into your voicemail that would never talk back. All that mattered was convincing you that us being together would make everything right. O, how wrong I was.

The end of us was the beginning of my healing. I dragged my bedraggled body and heart into therapy, hanging on by a strand of hope that life was worth living. I was never really angry at you. I was angry about a lot of things that have happened to me, but never you. I was hurt by your betrayal, but I understood it. Damaged people damage others. It is a harsh fact of life and I've hurt my fair share in my time.

There was never any closure with us; no long conversation where we hashed everything out and apologized through stale tears. There were only a few dramatic phone calls from you (usually incredibly drunk) and a sudden wedding announcement that arrived in the mail. As strange as it sounds, that paper crane was the closest you ever got to an apology. It was as if you said, "That man who hurt you so is dead. I'm starting over and I need your acceptance."

Some might view sending your X a wedding announcement between you and one of the women with whom you cheated on me cruel. I don't. Truthfully, I think it was brave.

I wish I was that brave.

I pray you've found your peace. I believe I've finally found mine.

I just wanted you to know.

 Michicant by Bon Iver from Bon Iver (Rating: 0)

 Michicant by Bon Iver from Bon Iver (Rating: 0)

Thanks everyone who has voted for me so far in the SCI poll. I have never been at the very top of one of these before, and I admit, it feels really nice. Even if the results change over the next day, I just wanted to thank everyone for voting for the piece. It made me smile.

You are all dear, sweet things.

B

Hi all.

I've really been pouring my little heart out in these SCI entries and I'd really really really really like a spot back in the game. I almost feel like I've used up all my creative on these battle rounds, but I know that isn't true. If you could just take one tiny little moment and click
here to vote
I'd love you always and forever. The top half of the polls go back into the main go while the rest get the ax.

Thanks for all of our support. If you loved the entry in question, please consider poking a friend or two for a vote. Last week I really laid it all out there, but I still stand by this piece.

Hearts to all.

There is nothing more soothing to my soul than memories of hot North Carolina summers spent at family reunions. July afternoons spent in the grass with rabbit dogs, red plastic cups filled with sweet tea, and bellies full of fried chicken colored my early childhood with southern bliss. Even now, I harbor fantasies of picking up and moving to a tiny farming town to raise my yet to be born children and three beagles. I will be hard pressed to convince my city dweller fiancé of the beauty of this kind of life, but a girl can dream.

One visit to the home of my dearly departed Great Grandma Briley stands out in my memory. I'm unable to recall the exact day and year, but I remember important aspects in crystal clear detail; the way Great Grandma's hands moved as she crocheted a bright blue afghan, how the sun poured through the dusty windows of her tiny old house and lit up her snowy crown of hair, the lilting sound of her voice as she told stories of times long past. I didn't understand at the time that she didn't know half of us gathered around her in the room due to the hurricane called dementia that had ravaged her brain. All I knew was that the woman who had given me her name told fabulous stories about her childhood spend reading under the porch of her daddy's farm at the turn of the 20th century. It was a time I had only read of in books and was enraptured by her tales.

"I once stole Daddy's chew," she recalled, her eyes meeting mine.

"What's chew?" I asked from my section of pine floor next to her rocking chair.

"It's tobacco that you chew. Nasty stuff if you ask me, but I wanted to be like daddy."

"So what did you do?"

A smiled played at the corners of her delicate mouth. "I crawled under the porch where I loved to sit, and I chewed it. I mean I chewed that entire tin of tobacco. O child, I tell you, I've never been sicker in my life."

We all laughed hardily, including my Meme (Great Grandma's daughter) who had spent most of the day uncharacteristically quiet. She had heard this story a thousand times but she still found it in her heart to let out a chuckle.

It is a simple memory, but one I cherish. It was the last time I saw that institution of a lady alive. Since then, I've heard so many stories about who Great Grandma Briley was. But, somehow, in the midst of the 98 years she was on this earth, we all make our way back to the telling of this simple story. Not only is the image of a four year old girl chomping on chew amusing, but there was something in the way she spoke about her childhood that pulled us all into her memory. Somewhere in her frayed and torn mind, she still had the will to share with those in her home the gems from her childhood. We were virtually strangers to her at the end of her days, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the sharing of stories, precious memories, so they wouldn't whither away.

Maybe what I really want isn't about raising my family in the deep south. Maybe what I want is the kind of closeness that comes with the sharing of those stories. I want a place to hold my children and grandchildren close and to make sure they know how to remember…even if I one day forget.