Siren Song

I’m sitting—Surpriiiise! not at the beach— in the lone chair in my kitchen, my hair twisted up in sticky coils in my second attempt to make my gray dye stick (I'll update on that later, but whatever happens, we know the dye works on fingernails). I’ve got half a bagel in front of me, and now I’m debating if I even can stomach it.

A month or so ago, I wrote a blog that was vague and a little sideways and everything I hate when people write that way... that vague sense of humble superiority, the one that says, “I’m going through SO much and it sucks SO bad, and I want your sympathy but, sorryyyy, can’t tell you why.” I didn’t write it that way because it’s what I wanted. That’s not my writing “voice”, as we all unfortunately know. But at the time, there were things going on that weren’t definite, answers we were still waiting on, and fears I, in all honestly, did not want to give voice and shape and power to.
It’s been about six weeks now, and I have a few answers, although they aren’t what I’d prefer. At this point it seems that maybe giving voice and shape and power to it all doesn’t even matter, because it’s already there.


My stepdad is sick. He’s really, really sick. They’re throwing out terms like “mass on the pancreas”, “spots on the lungs are likely metastasized”, “keep him comfortable”. Bad things. Things you don’t want to hear doctors ever, ever say to you, and at the same time, part of me wants to reach out and hug the doctor, because my God, I can’t even imagine it being my job to constantly give these reports to terrified families.I’ve been blessed to have a stepdad I can truly, deeply love, whom my kids view as their grandfather, no caveats, no questions asked. The way my parents’ marriage ended almost 17 years ago has left its marks, that’s for damn sure. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t find a new normal, and we couldn’t create some love out of that chaotic explosion. And to bear witness to this, to yet another loss in my life, and, God help me, in my kids’ lives... it’s killing me. It’s the thing that keeps me awake at night, watching the ceiling fan spin around and around in the dark, wondering how am I supposed to tell them? Do I let them see him the way he is now, or let them remember the way he was and take away what is, in all likelihood, their chance to say goodbye? Do I ask them and let them decide? Are they even old enough to make that kind of decision? Why is this happening? I can’t bear it. I honestly feel like I can’t bear it.


Add to all of this something else I’ve only touched on here and there— Atleigh has struggled with anxiety and mood swings ever since the loss of Jeremy’s grandparents. Things got hard and kept getting harder ever since. Finally, after some bullying incidents at school and a disturbing drawing done during class by Atleigh, we’ve put her in therapy. And yes, I can hear a lot of you now, probably we should have gotten her into therapy sooner. We didn't know. We just didn't. And we aren't perfect. We made a mistake, and we're doing our best to combat that now. I'm grateful we've gotten her in to an amazing, faith-based local practice, where they work on healing as well as treating any issues that come up.
Emotionally reactionary.... that’s a phrase they used to describe her extremely volatile, up in the air emotional state, what they said to me as they told me they’d like her to undergo a psychiatric assessment. Out of all of my kids, she’s the one to whom I’m most terrified to tell this news about her grandfather. How do I do it? What do I say? How do we all handle the fallout together?

Jesus, this is hard to write out. Hard because it's vulnerable, it exposes me, it exposes her, it opens up a situation that strangers feel they can be experts on and give me advice about. But as usual, part of it is to let you know, you’re not alone. You’re NOT. I'm not alone either. We’re here in the trenches right next to each other. Maybe fighting a different battle, a different demon, with different weapons, but still together.


I’m so tired, friends. So, so tired. Even when I sleep, I’m tired. There’s a weight on me that feels like it can’t be lifted. The weight of grief, the weight of uncertainty, the weight of expectations and responsibility, the weight of disappointment, the weight of love. So heavy. So heavy.
There have been two things getting me through this week, which has been an especially hard week— two things that two of my brothers have said and given to me, complete unconscious of the gift they’ve offered. I suspect they’ll be getting me through a good many months.

This past Sunday, my brother Ben said in a prayer, completely randomly, completely without inkling of how hard it would hit me, “God, broaden their shoulders.” That was it. He prayed other things too, but after that I didn’t hear anything else. I immediately picked up my phone (yes, in the middle of a prayer, okay??) and typed into my notes is all caps

BROADEN MY SHOULDERS

Then I scrawled that same phrase at the top of the page of my notebook. Then I repeated it to myself every day, every hour, every minute of exhaustion, because. I can’t broaden my own shoulders. It can’t come from me. But my shoulders CAN be broadened. Even so, God. Even so. Broaden my shoulders.

The second strengthening came in the form of a few quotes from a story my youngest brother Isaac has been working on and shared with me. Actually, he shared the first chapter or so with me about two years ago, and I was so hooked I haven’t forgotten it since. I brought it up to him again earlier this week, and he shared it with me again, now new and improved with two whole chapters (HURRY UP, WILL YA IKE??). I won’t go into the whole plot, backstory, et al. Just a few short lines. The protagonist’s mother says to her, in the midst of hardship, war, gripping fear and gaping hunger,

“Hope is a song.... God’s favorite song, I think–beautiful when sung and played by His own grand choirs and orchestras, yes, but I think He likes it better still when you sing it.”

A few paragraphs down, there’s a reference to that first line about Hope, that says,

“Hope was a gateway to loss. God’s favorite song was that of a Siren.”

I don’t think I’ve ever, in my entire life, read anything that struck me quite so deeply. God’s favorite song is that of a Siren. According to mythology, once a person heard the song of the Siren, they chased it until they died. Until they dashed themselves upon the rocks. And isn’t that what Hope is? A Siren song that we so desperately need to grasp onto that we will dash ourselves upon the rocks again and again and again, in order to reach it? Maybe it’s a bit of that innate human selfishness we all have. We need that Hope. We’ll do anything to know a few lines of that song. Maybe we’re all a little greedy. Or maybe, God’s favorite song floats around us, in us, through us, waiting for us to recognize it and sing it with Him.

Broaden my shoulders. Hope. Broaden my shoulders. Hope.

Chasing each other around and around in my head, in my sleep, every day and night, every hour.
I’m tired. My shoulders feel thin. But I’m not without Hope. Dash me on the rocks, if that’s what it takes. I won’t be without Hope, I’ll be as greedy for it as I need to be. I’ll remember the song sung to me from the foundations of the earth and of my being and I’ll sing it back to the One who loves it best from me; I’ll allow my shoulders to be broadened, and I’ll be strong.