From the Ashes of Our Past...

I imagine myself wandering through the smoldering ruins after a house fire.  Most of what was a life is dust and ashes now.  There are glowing embers, still hot, that hurt when I touch them.  Nothing is left to recover.  Everything that is not a cinder still burns.

That is what life feels like in Lincoln now--in many ways for me, the city of death.  The year began with the death of Ben Larson, my former parish intern, in the Haitian earthquake.  Other local tragedies followed, culminating in Anne's death.  Mostly ashes with hot spots here and there--and when I reach out to grab anything, the result is likely to be pain.

The folks at Anne's workplace invited me to their Christmas luncheon today.  I want to be clear that I am so very grateful for the invitation, and I really enjoyed my time with all of Anne's very good friends and co-workers.  They even presented me with a birthday brownie complete with candle and song!  It was very meaningful.  I stayed as long as I could and then went into the parking lot and cried.

Anne's absence was so deep in that place and in that moment.  It was more than I could bear.  I've noticed, of course, that when I am in other locales, I don't have such experiences.  I really think I will need to find another place to live in the long run, but that decisions is at least months away.  For now, I think I can take Lincoln in small doses and then need to escape for a while.  Eventually I will, I think, start my new life elsewhere.

The same is true of many people from our life together here.  I'm sorry that I don't have more interest in seeing people from the past thirteen years.  But emotionally I'm leaving Lincoln, whether I do so physically right now or not.  The connections that exist are mostly painful if they exist at all.  The house has been burned to the ground.  I will need to rebuild elsewhere.

I visited our attorney to secure some necessary documents and to begin the process of creating an up to date will and powers of attorney.  That certainly brought home again the reality of my own death.  I pray that my boys don't have to deal with that any time soon.

So I did something that has been therapeutic in the past.  I cooked.  I hadn't cooked in our kitchen since Anne died.  Granted, it was hamburger helper stroganoff and I had to substitute a few ingredients, but the process was life-giving and the product was fairly edible.  Now I also have leftovers...something that might not have happened before.

A phone call with sister, Judy, helped to right the emotional ship a bit.  Another day in paradise.