I can't decide if I should blog about my new chore chart, the cat's amputated toes, going to Enchanted Forest, the new tire swing Jeff constructed this weekend, or my nightmares about Dad's death.
Hmmm... let's see...
I'm using a new chore chart. It rocks. I actually would like to write a whole blog post about it. So I think I will. So never mind about the chore chart right now.
Jack got a tumor and two toes removed at the beginning of August, but he did not lose his whole foot. The vet did not remove the whole tumor because she would have had to remove the whole foot, so we are just supposed to see if the remaining tumor grows.
Jack finally has his bandage off, so now he can scratch his neck again. He is pleased about that. I'm not sure if he knows he's missing toes. Also, with his bandage off, he is an outside kitty again, which means I am off kitty litter duty. I am exceedingly pleased about that.
We went to Enchanted Forest with Jeff's family last weekend. Good times were had by all. I took pictures. I'm too lazy to post them. Wait. Here's one.
I heart Jeff.
On our way home from Enchanted Forest, we stopped at Rosedale Friends Church Cemetery just south of Salem so I could show the boys a bit of their family history.
Here we are sitting on my grandpa's memorial bench. The angel in the foreground sits atop my aunt's grave, and directly behind the angel is my grandma's headstone. These are my dad's parents and his sister. I miss them.
Jeff built a cool tire swing this weekend. He, like, braided rope and stuff. He's nifty. I think I'm going to write a whole post about the tire swing, too. The boys liked my stories about velveteen joey and the lonely house, so I will write them a story about the tire swing. I'm going to try to avoid repeating the basic plot of something tattered finding love and acceptance. Maybe the tire will have lots of historical adventures of his time on the road or something. Maybe he's always been a happy tire. Ooo. I know. Maybe he had to learn to be content to let the rubber hit the road when what he really always wanted was to fly. And now he can fly. There. That story's all written. Thanks for helping me talk that out.
Well, so I guess now it's time to talk about my nightmares.
The thing is... I can't really call them nightmares because nightmares are pretend. When someone has a nightmare, they get to wake up the next morning and tell themselves it was just a dream.
When I wake from a dream about Dad, gasping for air and trying to remember where I am, my first fuzzy thought is that he is somehow still alive. It takes me sometimes a full minute to remember that he's gone. Each time, the pain hits my chest fresh, just like it did in the slipper aisle at Fred Meyer, and I hear again my brother's voice in my mind. "Becky, he's not alive anymore... He hung himself out Wolftone." And the break in his voice when he told me vehemently, "Becky, it's not your fault."
I can't wake up from that.
So I don't think it really falls into the category of a nightmare.
But I didn't tell you that to end my potpourri post on a morose note, even though suicide truly does call for a moment of moroseness now and again.
I told you that to tell you this:
God sees my dreams. He watches me wake. He feels my gasps for air. He understands the anvil-weight of pain in my chest. And He is ready. Every time. His comfort is tangible. He holds me and presses peace into my pain until I no longer feel as though I'm being crushed, but instead I feel like I'm floating.
He is always here. For me, and for you.
(You may need to visit my blog to view this video.)