The Estate Sale

There is a lady who has pulled up to the house in an old Mercedes Benz, the kind that runs on diesel and sighs a little when the ignition is turned off. She makes halting steps to the front door, slightly stooping, and offers to preview the estate sale. I tell her that the sale is tomorrow and she tells me she might not come tomorrow and I might lose her sales. There is a glint in her eyes which turns to fire when I tell her I'm sorry, no, you must come tomorrow. 

The next morning a mass of people has congregated on the driveway forming a rough line, anxious to see what's inside. Presumably they have all found the large, bold signs my mother posted with arrows on the electric poles in the general vicinity of the house. I go out to greet the crowd and tell them the sale is about to begin. They ask pointed questions about things like books for sale and I answer them.

Inside the house are hundreds of decorations and housewares and pieces of furniture affixed with little price tags. Furniture which does not convey wears a bright little sign or Post-It note saying so. 

I have flown in to Maryland from Chicago to help with the sale.

My sister has flown in from Charlotte to help. She leaves four children at home in the care of others. This may even feel like a vacation to her.

My youngest brother has also journeyed north to assist. He is accompanied by his pit bull terrier, Taj. 

I have mentally prepared for long days and negotiations but not the spectrum of humanity I would encounter these two days of this sale.

The older lady with the Mercedes does, in fact, return and buys a glass bowl or plate. She places the item on the cash table and fingers her change purse, looking sad and offering a pitiable sum. Feeling feisty, I counter that I would accept her number if she could produce some sort of happiness. Maybe a smile. I'm not sure what came over me to ask another person to change her countenance, but I did and she did and in the end we both laugh. 

A middle-aged woman arrives with her son, only it wasn't her son it was her grandson. She is such a young grandmother. I tell her so and she smiles. The boy wants toy dinosaurs and we have so many. I almost force the prehistoric figures in their arms and watch with joy as they walk away.

One woman clearly confuses the boundaries of which rooms were for purchasers and begins to find the kitchen and eat our sandwiches.

I descend to the basement to help my sister and a man stops me. He takes my hand and thrusts some change in it. He is smiling brightly, charmingly and I am taken aback by his boldness. "I am buying this," he says, looking at the item, then me and then his family. I look into my hands and see a range of coins which, at first glance, definitely don't add up anywhere near to what this man is buying. I tell him I'm sorry and try to return his money, but he refuses and then I tell him no and return his money. He decides to not be charming anymore and says words. His family is hiding behind him. I don't have time to address "Mr. Ego" and return to organizing things which have been pawed through.

I walk to the back yard and see a woman who is unlike the other buyers. She is walking quietly and contemplating the things strewn in the yard. She is in no hurry. I say hello and she says hello and she tells me she has breast cancer. I have heard a lot of stories today; people like to tell sad stories in order to score great deals at the sale, but I can tell that this woman has no such motive. She is serene and intentional. I can't really remember much else of what she said because when someone says the word "cancer" my senses stop. I can't get over that word. The woman has the face of a warrior, kind but set, and buys something small before leaving.

I make my way to the front yard to help people load furniture when "Mr. Ego" reappears. He drives past our house in a pickup truck and yells numbers, then turns his vehicle around and yells more numbers, back and forth, multiple times. I have never seen this type of negotiation before. I don't think he even needs anything we are selling, I think that maybe this is a game to him, to get something for an abysmally small price. But this is the second day of the sale and I am tired and I simply stop interacting with him. Eventually he drives away for good.

I return to help at the cash box table and see people walking out with things I grew up with. Without any notice, the little girl who I have been trying to suppress inside me springs forth and begins weeping. My mother comes to me and tries to comfort me, but now her eyes are wells and we are both crying and holding each other for a minute, releasing the weight of the day. Some estate sales are happy but this one feels heavy. There will be a fresh start and our family will adjust. 

We are tired of gossip and advice and prying people. Though I live in Illinois people have called me from Maryland and in their fear said very unhelpful things.  One man liked to give me updates about my parents. Another person called and simply ranted. A well meaning older couple sent me books to give my parents on how to stay married, as if they had not considered that option. Others start to say things that at first sound gentle and maybe hopeful but end up soliciting information. The people who choose to speak to us, all of them, have never entered these waters but somehow believe they are fit to captain our ship. Being an adult offspring in this situation feels like standing onboard a sinking boat whose deck is aflame while others look on, eye us with curiosity and douse us with buckets of water. They think they are extinguishing the fire, but their actions only serve to sink our vessel more quickly. Finally, one bold soul suggested that if I don't keep my parents together, the same will fall upon my marriage, citing statistics. Hearing this, I push back. "You know what? No. No. This is their choice and I have my own choices. This has nothing to do with me."

Now my mother and I are finished crying. We wipe the wet off our faces and smile at each other and help the next purchaser.

Things are quieting down and I take a moment to survey the house. My mother tells me I can take whatever I want and my first thought is that I want all of it right now to come back to me but I know that can't be. There are three acrylic shoeboxes full with multiple colors of bias tape, every color you can imagine. They smell of old fabric but are not dryrotted. They are clearly the collection of someone who was frugal and careful, my great grandmother. Dear woman. I scoop up all three boxes and place them in a corner. No one will buy them, but the sentimental value is enough for me.

At the end of the sale we all go upstairs to sit on whatever furniture remains. We fall in a heap and laugh at how exhausted we are.

Later that evening I walk through the halls of my former house. It's so empty that it echoes. I see only a shell; the spirit is gone. I expect to cry, but I don't. Not one tear. I am grateful.

Magic + Ocean

I am standing in front of the Atlantic Ocean, mesmerized by the push and pull of the waves. How do all of the molecules of water know their place? They gather in groups and increase and increase still more until they erupt in a blanket of bubbles and murmurs, teasing the toes of people walking by. It's the same pattern every five seconds. Push and pull, gather and erupt, mound and level. 

While the ocean is happily dancing, there is a greater force at work which is causing the ocean to be fuller, to rise higher for hours and hours until it needs to deflate. What an odd force. It's such magic, those great waters.

I miss the ocean. I miss the sound of the waves. They deafen me to my troubles. 

When I was twenty years old and navigating some greater questions of direction in life, I went to the ocean and sat for hours in her presence, watching her tides pull. I let her strength wash away all the unnecessary in my mind until I was left with the essence of why I was there. I didn't leave until she made me a child again: small, innocent, playful, simple. 

I brought so many questions to the ocean. Why am I so sensitive? Why do I love this man? Why am I so awkward? Why do I overthink things? It was here at the ocean where I shed my girlhood and accepted my adult self. I didn't pray to the ocean. I just left my worries there. The ocean is great and simple, cleansing and terrible. I wasn't the same person after meeting it. 

Today I am in an ocean of laundry, with equally rhythmic tides. Mondays the tide is high with four or five loads of clothing and towels and little girl socks strewn on the living room floor. The washing machine whirs all morning long, pulsing with soap and life and dirt. 

The dishes are the same, mounting high in the sink, then increasing more exactly when my children are home from school. The counters are layered with schoolwork and sticky peanut butter. 

I don't despise the constant chores, but I can't say they soothe me or make me childlike. They require a certain amount of effort. 

A responsible person goes grocery shopping and chops vegetables and minds the tides of running a household. 

A person who wants to be made new spends time being small, unnecessary, plain. She heeds the vastness of the ocean. 

Advent-ure

It is Advent season in the church and I am walking into a room filled with my friends. We are all smiling. It is Christmas and there are pretty lights and rich decorations. Everyone loves Christmas. I love Christmas. And this year I love Christmas even more because I am wide with child. I can feel her kicking inside me. I'm large and I'm proud. I'm grateful. 

When people are uttering "Come, Lord Jesus," I am thinking, "Come, little baby." I am not thinking about anything except my baby. I don't even care what they're teaching today about God. I am too busy with happiness. I can't concentrate. Occasionally a tear rolls down my face, but it's the kind that is hot and fierce joy. A hymn suggests that baby Jesus "be born in us today" but all I can think about is how excited I am to give birth to this wild child inside me. Come, my baby.

I am a large, joyful pregnant woman and I will own it all.

My previous declarations of baby were more fragile due to an uncooperative womb. I would say the good news and watch my body swell, then deflate, swell and deflate. It was very confusing. Sometimes I felt like I was lying to people, which is an odd thing to think in retrospect. 

People became weary of my news and gave me some suggestions. 

It's hard to know which people are tender and strong enough to walk with you in hope knowing that there's a possibility of... you know. The thing we don't like to talk about.

December is tricky, too. There is a central figure being talked about and that figure is a baby. So if you have a baby crib on your mind, the feelings tend to be polar in nature, either very bad or very good.

Prior to this year, Advent songs were less delightful. All that baby talk. In church there was a felt banner which held an image of a baby and rendered me temporarily asthmatic. My lungs decided that there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. I was dizzy with grief and teasing.

I wonder if people who lost a loved one at Easter dislike the Easter story. All that talk about someone coming back from the dead. I imagine that to be very hard.

But now I am expecting at Christmastime and I will do anything to give birth to this child. Now I am in the hospital being induced, a week before Christmas. There is a full moon and an ice storm. And there is no room in the hospital. It's beginning to sound a little too familiar. At least I didn't have to ride there on a donkey.

The baby comes, a girl,  and I scoop her into my arms. The nurse asks to take her from me, gesturing that she wants to wash her and without breaking gaze of my new gift I say, "No. You can't have her." I'm fierce with protection now. I will fight this lady if necessary. Nothing can take this warm bundle from me. Come again, tomorrow, nurse. Maybe.

Now it is Christmas day and I have a six day old baby on my chest, sleeping, breathing. I am sitting on the couch, watching my 5 year old open her presents. It has been a long journey for us all. We are wrecked with joy. Hope seen. Arms full. Heart fuller.

Let

I was reading the creation story this week, rewriting the story for a younger audience, marveling at the orderliness of it all. I realized in my efforts of doing this that a singular word kept popping off the page.
Let. 

Let there be light.
Let there be land.
Let there be vegetation.

The command is so frugal, curt, forthright, and productive that all I can say in reply is: DANG. More like this, actually: DAAAANNNNNGGGGG.

I sat with the word for some time and marveled at the simplicity and power of it. How can someone talk into nothing and say "Let this happen" and their ideas perfectly mold into the shape made in their head? 

The clearest communication I have in my house is with my dog. When I say "Crate," she obediently walks to her crate every time. Seriously. That is the only power I have. It's pitiful how little power I have over my words.

I'm a little jealous at the ease of God's ability to create. In my design work, I noodle over a shape or color for long periods of time, often with mediocre results. It's just mesmerizing to think of creation with such ease. 

The word "Let" suggests that these things were already created somehow, that they were being held back until the one syllable was uttered. Can you imagine being the great Creator, holding back the hot, eager, pulsing sun, like a horse snorting and stomping at the starting gate of the Derby, smiling at its enthusiasm, telling it to wait until day four? 

That's the power of God. A single syllable and entire universes emerge, erupting and twirling, perfect and swirling, pulsing with life and planets and movement. 

My dance with words is far more complicated. I stutter over how many words to say, what volume, what choice. I question if I needed to say something with more softness or more cold, hard truth. Or maybe nothing at all. I never communicate perfectly. And to make matters more difficult, the receiver has their own set of problems in hearing what I say. 

It's such hard work, being a human on this side of Eden, the side where words are twisted or crescendoed or hardened more than they're supposed to be. 

Our hearts tell us that it was mean to be easier. We were meant for such ease. We long for it. 

For now I take my conversations, hard and soft, and I offer them back to the Genesis story, to the God who made goodness out of darkness. I say, "Let there be light again." 

And because he loves creating still, he says, "Yes. Let."

Colliding with Jupiter

Eve is waking up and promptly hands me a paper. It describes the stars and the sky. She desperately wants people to know that the sky is not plain. It's not a big, dark abyss. She loves the sky and outer space. Thumbtacked to her ceiling are individual model planets, each in their proper place with a proper, scientific distance between them. Sometimes when I tuck her in bed at night, I flick her covers up in the air to straighten them and they hit the orbs above her, planets colliding playfully. She shouts, "Oh, no! Jupiter!" as if it was a person who she tenderly loved.

Eve tells me about the stars. She keeps talking in swirls and sentences that have no end. I hear bits of her story, aware that she will not be stopped until all the information has been released from her brain, the way a person feels when they recover from influenza.

She tells me that the North Star doesn't move but that all the other constellations do. While she is talking I realize that I am her North Star and she is a constellation, trying to avoid colliding as she navigates the dark, stories trailing behind her.

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We are in a hotel and Eve is drawing a map of the room. We cannot leave the hotel room until she is done drawing the map. There is an earnest look on her face. We pack the car while she draws, until all her anxieties subside. It's a very accurate drawing.

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We are in an airport. The place is thick with people. But Eve must touch the mosaic floor, so playful and bumpy and colorful. She lays on the floor and touches it and I stand over to protect her from the herd. 

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The doctor smiles at me and tells me that Eve has autism. She tells me that a few years ago it would be considered Asperger's but now we're not allowed to say that anymore. It's an old term. She says this confidently. I trust her. But in my heart I want to call it Asperger's. It doesn't carry the weight of the word autism. It sounds lighter, almost fun.
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Now I am wondering if a man I knew 20 years ago had autism and I'm thinking yes, yes he did. History is being rewritten in my mind. I don't see him as a man who is trying to be obnoxious. I see him as an autistic.

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There is no perfect way to tell a story. No one has the perfect volume, the perfect words and pitch and tone. Some people will think that you don't have enough adjectives and others will find any emotion as being sensational. 

That's how I feel with telling our story of autism.

I'm not sure how loud to be or how soft to be. All I know is that autism has changed my life in the same way that divorce has changed my life. First, there are the broken waters, the tears, the wrestling with the way life should have been. It's loud and chaotic and expensive and life draining. And then, over time, things change. I walk differently. My brain fires neurons in a new way. I can't explain it. It's chemical. I wouldn't want it, I didn't choose it, but I've been changed, I think for the better. It's an awful kind of grace. 

Some days I feel strong and mighty. I read the books and I know the words about autism in order to feel strong.
But earlier this week my husband came home to a woman who uttered such desperation that I wondered if he might not want to come home again. I told him I would rather wash a hundred bathrooms than deal with this. Autism is hard. 

Sometimes I shake my fist, vainly.

At the chaos of it all.
At all the insurance hoops.

At the perky way teachers describe the way they'll work with Eve. Wink, wink.

And in my gentler moments, I see that I am an actress in the play of life, doing my part, saying my lines and that the story wouldn't be the same without all of us.

Yes, all of us.

One of my daughters is poetry. She feels first, always. She is calligraphy. She is theater. She is emotions. She can take the simplest of ingredients and make it into something special. She can make the ordinary not ordinary. She is organic and kind and plays guitar. She bakes. She likes to give people gifts, especially when people are hurting.

One of my daughters is geometry. She loves math and angles and formulae. Give her dates. Give her numbers. Recently we went to a doctor's appointment where a key code was required for the bathroom. She remembered the code weeks later, all five digits. She knows movies verbatim. She sees the world as one big combination. She sees people the same.

One of my daughters is mercy, one is truth. 
One is adventure novels, one is maps.
One is the sun, one is the moon. 

These two creatures pull me into two different directions of love, enlarging me, making me a better version of myself. I wasn't as organized until I became a mother and saw the importance of health and schedules. I wasn't as fluid until I saw the flow necessary for my children to create, to know experience without time boundaries. To play with LEGO bricks for hours. To take pieces of cardboard and bring life to them. 

They need a mother who is an ocean, with kind boundaries and strong tides, respectable depths and playful shallows. Before they came into my life I was a pool, exactly five feet deep in all corners, clear, predictable. More perfect, maybe? But then I entered the world of motherhood. 

For years I was lost. I couldn't see the shore. Life was murky. 
Until I accepted the gift.

I let their laughter and curiosity and intelligence and grace enter my life. I laid down the mantle of "I am parent and I know best" and became, simply, their servant and their student. The only way I know to grow servants and students it to model it. 

Before then, I yelled at them and they returned the favor.
I barked. They barked.
I was turning them into very loud people.
And then there was a day when I reached deep inside and treated my children with respect and learned that they mirror what they see. I'm not perfect. They're not perfect. We try. Love is work. But love works. It's worth it.

My children are not my friends, not yet. They're not my enemies. They're in my care. I am their mother; not their equal, not their better and not lesser either. I have more say in their life than a friendship would warrant. It's unique work, motherhood. Any other relationship like this would be labeled as "inappropriate" or "codependent." One day I hope to be more of a friend to them. But I will always be their mother.

I worry a lot. I think that comes with the territory of motherhood. I'm working on not worrying so much. Many years ago my husband and I were marveling that we accidentally named our children versions of "Morning" and "Evening." And then we laughed because they were born in the morning and evening, respectively. For a moment it felt serendipitous and romantic. We were anchored in the thought that there was a bigger picture at hand, a larger story, something beyond our grasp. 

One of my daughters is poetry and one is geometry. Both are needed to build a home.

The Shape of Now

I'm sitting in a medical office, reading a book of poetry. Maybe I'm not reading it. I've been on the same page for 15 minutes, rereading the same words until they take root. There is a television with hockey on it playing in the background. In the time that I am sitting, a woman is struggling to breathe. She is having a panic attack about the MRI she is about to undergo. The nurse calms her and they talk options.

A teen girl is weeping loudly, taking great gasps of breath and her mother is saying, "You have to do this. You have to do this. You have to get an MRI or else they won't know why you have the migraines."

I desperately want to encourage her, but I hold my tongue and incline towards prayer. Perhaps that is my purpose in this moment.

My husband comes out of his MRI and we leave.

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Dan is struggling to sit up. He is laughing the kind of laugh which I associate with the midwest. It's the kind of half-laugh which says, "I'm hurting, but I'm not interested in talking about it." So we don't. I'm helping him putting his tshirt on over his head. He holds his head against me to steady himself. He hasn't showered or shaved in a while, which I know bothers him. He doesn't mention it. Instead he says, "This wasn't in our marriage vows, was it?" We both smile.

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I go outside and realize suddenly that it is spring. It's an unsteady definition in Chicago. The first day of spring here it was hailing. But now there is a robin squatting on her nest, the sun is warm and everything is very green. My eyes are happy and so it my skin. It feels warm and hopeful outside.

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My daughter was diagnosed with autism a month ago. I was grateful for the diagnosis. I rolled up my sleeves and began learning the terminology. The words felt important, some with as many as five syllables. Sometimes words with many syllables feel like they can take care of us. I felt strong and knowledgable which made me want to do things more quickly to "get it over with." But then I let the information wash over me in a more accepting way, seeing that some things I will not change and some things I will. I felt less powerful but more anchored.

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A stranger with a dog outside hears me tell a neighbor that my husband has a herniated disc and asks if I have a doctor. Her eyes suggest that she has a lot of information. A lot of people have a lot of information. Even the doctors have information that doesn't agree. So I tell her, quite plainly, "We're good in the advice department." In my mind I tell myself that I will never offer advice to anyone else ever in my entire life. But I know that isn't true.

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I am tucking Eve in bed at night. She tells me that Montana is the fourth biggest state. She has been studying a map on the floor. I smile at her mind.

She tells me that a boy in school farted and said "Excuse me." She thinks he is very brave for owning up to it. She thinks other people wouldn't do that. She admires him. Her thoughts are so special to me.

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My thirteen year old is going to an orthodontics appointment today. It feels nice to go to a non emergency doctor appointment. 

My husband remarked this week that she is looking more like a woman than a girl. He's right. She's lovely. Perhaps most parents look at their children and think, "I didn't know this beauty could come from me." Which a form of grace that all parents need, that their work in not in vain.

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I have two medical conditions in two members of my family which will require a lot of care on my part. I must be their advocate. That is the word you use if you are speaking up for someone else: Advocate. It's trendy and sounds better than the word "naggy."

I'm struck with how tired I am. It's more a fact than asking for pity. How curious, I think, that I am so tired. I must be practical: How can I care for myself so I don't burn out? I remember that my modus operandi isn't working:
Typically I buy a lot of office supplies to help me feel organized.
I lay out some half-hearted prayers.
And then I become overly responsible and think condescending thoughts on anyone who is not responsible. 

I decide that something needs to change. I want to ask Jesus how useful he is. He is telling me that he is very useful. I ask him to provide a plumber and he does. And now I am asking for an electrician to show up. I am saying that I'm not interested in being shiny or rested or skinny or organized or anything that gets good grades. I want my eyes to stop stinging. I want a shower. And I just want to rest in the knowing that I don't have to play God. I can just be Emily. 

I sit in the unknown and wait.