Today Sucks

It’s Monday but it’s Monday-ier than most. Thick and heavy like a London fog. Thick with loss. Heavy with chaos.

Three years ago today began about as normal as a day could. So normal that but for the events that transpired later in the day, I wouldn’t be able to detail a single thing about that day. The events later in the day, however, have forever seared this date into my consciousness. It’s the day that a reckless driver stole my daughter, Brooke, from us. Thick with loss.

To make matters more Monday-ier, SARS-C0V-2/Covid-19 (“Coronavirus”) has the entire world in turmoil. The state of world affairs is literally changing at a pace not before seen in my lifetime. These Coronavirus flood waters are still rising so it is yet to be seen where it will leave its final mark. Heavy with chaos.

Yet, even in the middle of this sucky, thick, heavy day – I have to remind myself that loss and chaos DO NOT reign. Loss and chaos DO NOT get the final word.

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Mark it with a “B”

My guess is that most of you do not know what you were doing twenty years ago today at precisely 4:58 a.m. Just as quickly, as I typed that last sentence, it dawned on me that a lot of you were probably sleeping. The anti-climactic intro aside – I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was doing.

I was in a labor and delivery room at Baptist Hospital on Napoleon Avenue (New Orleans). After less than three hours at the hospital, the medical staff was placing a wiggly 7lb 3oz baby girl in my arms – Shannon Marie Posey.

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Grief School Lesson #1: They Said What?

Grief isn’t taught in schools. Most of us learn about grief and how to grieve in the “school of hard knocks.” Baptism by fire, if there ever was. Because we are running around not knowing what to do or what to say, it often falls upon those who are grieving to “teach” those around them what to do and say. With that in mind, every now and then, we’ll open up the doors of “Grief School” here at Dances With a Limp. 

Ready for Lesson #1?

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Thy Will Be Done

For most of my conscious memory, I’ve had a black thumb. Cacti didn’t stand a chance. Does anyone know how to perform CPR on an air plant? Do rock gardens need water?

Yet, I really enjoy the beauty of nature. Lush greenery and vibrant flowers literally breathe out life to us. The coolness that creeps off the shade of tropical foliage brings restoration. It’s so easy to see how gardeners are transported to another place has they dig through the soil and tend their plots.

Don’t be surprised if you feel this way too. Our souls are wired for garden life. In the beginning when God deemed things “very good,” there we were winding through plush paths lined with breath-taking flora. No weeds. Perfect temps (You can read the details yourself, but no one was hunting for a jacket in Eden). And at the end of the days, “happy hour” was spent hanging out with God himself. 

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One More Mile

This morning, I overhead some crazy talk. One of the the girls at physical therapy said, “I had the urge to go on a run last night.” Yeah, you heard right. Then, she proceeded to explain that “a run” meant six miles. You may be one of those people who loves to run. I am not. Every fiber of my being resists “the urge.” 

Still, there was that one time.

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It’s All So Puzzling

Imagine the scene (and you can because you’ve been there) – First, you dump all of the pieces out of the box onto the table. If there are any pieces that remain joined from the factory, you have to tear them apart. Then, you begin the process of putting it all back together. Find the four corners and all of the edges. (Don’t cha hate when that one middle piece with a nearly straight side gets mixed in with the real edges.) Separate the remaining pieces based on color and/or where you think they fit into the overall picture.

Doesn’t life often feel a lot like working on a 5,000-piece puzzle without a box top and with six similar pieces from an unrelated puzzle mixed in? Sometimes, I feel like God has dumped thousands of puzzle pieces in my lap. Taken a few out. Added a few that don’t belong. And, expects me to put it all together without any reference. It’s worse than one of those solid color puzzles. You know the one where thousands of pieces come together to form the solid white or yellow or blue square that graces the top of the box. 

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You Say It’s Your Birthday

Funny thing before we delve into this week’s blog – first, I’m late again. Thankfully, I might be the only one keeping track. Second – I’m early. Yep, this is the blog that I had in mind for next week – when my daughter, Megan, turns 21. Due to a twisted turn of events – namely that I am wholly unable to keep proper track of time these days – I present next week’s blog this week:

Do you remember what you did for your 21st birthday? Or your 18th? 10th? 30? 50? – pick your milestone poison. You likely have fond memories of that day, unless you landed in jail, in which case I hope enough time has passed that you can look back and laugh.

What if something worse (much worse) than jail happened on your birthday?  My mother’s oldest brother, Mike, died of a heart attack – on his daughter’s birthday. Yes, there isn’t much worse that can happen on your birthday than for your dad to die of a heart attack.  It’s awfully hard after that to look forward to another birthday much less ever to look upon that particular day with anything other than heartbreak. Or is there?

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