The Conversation I Didn't Know I Had

Recently I went to the San Diego County Police Memorial. I arrived with my Aunt and a mind teaming with thoughts. This is the first year that we have ever attended the memorial without my grandma. She passed away just two weeks ago. Her absence was palpable. My aunt and I drove to the site reminiscing and discussing the loss we have been feeling in this past week. Recent loss felt compounded by this memorial of past loss (31 years for my dad, and 30 for my uncle). We are the only survivors at the memorial to be representing two officers...for me, my father and uncle...for my Aunt, her brother and brother-in-law. There is so much to this story and the loss, so profound. It's hard to even know how to begin.

I grew up on stories about my dad. I wish I could say that I have stories of my own to share with others, but I don't. My memory is a stagnant cloud that refuses the urging of the winds of time. While the speakers were on stage, sharing their own stories and thoughts, I couldn't hear them over the commotion invading my consciousness. My scars that have grown rough with time began to burn around the edges. If it were me, what would I say? I would talk about the sacrifice not just of the officers, but of the families as well. My dad willingly put himself in harms way, for the sake of the community, for the sake of every person that crossed his path. If I understood, as a child, what his job truly meant, I would have fought tooth and nail to keep him from work every day. My sacrifice was ultimately an unwilling one. That's why my dad is the hero, why he is deserving of honor.

There are very few stories I hear that are of just me and my dad. Actually, there are none that I can remember hearing. They always entail what he thought of all of us as a whole, how he loved being a father, or of things that happened with my older siblings. I was so little that there were few stories, or they just aren't remembered. You see, my sisters and brother have some memory of my dad. They know their own story with him, they remember his hands, his embrace, and maybe even his voice. I do not. For a long time I felt as if maybe my dad just connected with them better or that my time with him was so minuscule that nobody thought it valuable enough to share. Many people tell me stories about my dad, and it is so surreal to have loved ones and strangers tell me a part of my story as if I wasn't there...but I was there, I just can't remember. I feel disconnected from my origin sometimes. Some people even act as if my lack of memory diminishes my sense of loss. This is utterly untrue...it deepens it. The fact that people even think this actually amplifies my grief. At least others can soften their fall with a pillow of memory, I merely hit the ground. There is this man who was incredible, loving, and gentle that I cannot even recognize. I don't know what it would feel like to hear him sing to me, or to be held by his Popeye arms. I don't know him, I know the lack of him. I didn't get him then and I don't get him now.

At the memorial my Aunt and I were approached by a man that knew my dad. He was his training officer. Without knowing which of the four children I was, he begins to tell a story. He said he remembered my dad talking about his youngest, he also added that it was probably my younger sibling. He said that the baby was sleeping in bed with him and he was just in awe of her and how much he loved having another little one. He loved to watch her sleep. This was my story, one that I never heard before. This was for me. I was barely keeping myself together in this moment. What a precious gift, and he didn't even know he was giving it. This man proceeded to say things that spoke directly into my swirling thoughts from the service. I realized that the whole time, God was listening. There was a conversation that I didn't know I had. God met me there in my loss, my turmoil, and my silence. I didn't even ask for it, He just gave it to me.

2 Corinthians 1: 3-5 The Message Bible "...We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort—we get a full measure of that, too."

Increasing the Love

I love you and I've never met you.
I miss you and I've never had your company.
I long for your hugs and I've never known your embrace.
I look for you although I've never seen your eyes.
I fear for you,
I'm protective of you,
and I can't even stand between you and the world.
I know you are there and I can't quite reach you.
I'm waiting for you and I don't know how long till you are here.

I can hear your heartbeat in the echo of my own
Your laughter is blended with the children in my home
I imagine your thoughts when my mind goes astray
Your words won't go unheard and you'll never be alone

---

I hate waiting. Waiting scares me...as if what I want so badly will scatter in the winds of time. I can feel this child. It sounds crazy and maybe even cliche, but they are with me. Their spirit mingles with mine. Do he or she feel me too? If they do, do they know what that means? Do they recognize my heartbeat that lingers at the fringes of their consciousness? Will they know me when we meet?

How long will this take? My baby is alive and living in a world I cannot control, and I cannot protect them...not yet. The cost of this is my heart, mine and my family's. It has to be. The greatest gifts must cost...they are worth every beat, every pulse, every tear, every fear, every part of what makes one a parent...every part of what makes one a piece in a family.

Oh sweet little one, it may be years for you to understand or know, but we pray for you...not just to be ours, for that would be amazing, but for your heart, your safety, your life, your mind, your body, and your soul. Every part of you is thought about.  We want you to know you were loved before we met you. You are so worthy, so valuable, so precious. We want to be what you need and we want to love you without abandon. Yes, we will adopt you, but you will adopt us too.