Sunday, November 6, 2005
Sunday morning. Brunch, communion, the buzz of children. I don't remember details; maybe someday I will, but I know it was a beautiful day.
I remember frittata, cheese grits, music, coffee, kids outside, a smoky kitchen (bacon frying), a quiet Brian, and an angry self. Max had spent the night at my mother's house, his Nana, so he didn't spend this morning with his father. But how blessed we were to have the Parkers, the Belzes, and Lillian and Grayson all milling around my house. I remember feeling a bit anxious. Or maybe, more appropriately, alone. I was surrounded by friends and family, loving and serving in a terrifying time, but still, I felt incredibly alone. I'm sure Brian, in his quietness, would say the same thing, even more so. How I wish I could go back and slow down and just sit by his side and soak up his presence. Instead, I found myself making sure everyone had coffee and food and comfort. Not that I could fulfill all their wishes, but somehow that was safer than facing the impending realiy.
But before long, I held his hand, stroked his arm, his hair, his face, and knew he was with me for the moment. There was fritatta and bacon and grits and coffee and intensity and tension and grief and pain and forced laughter and peace. Yes, peace that transcended reality, normality, and understanding.
I think church began sometime in the noon hour. Brian couldn't talk much, but he sat in "his" chair, relaxed and peaceful. Lillian found her way into his chair and sat with him, not saying anything, which is a miracle in and of itself.
I cried most of the time, and I honestly only remember sitting with him trying to listen to the Word being read. We sang songs, we read verses. At some point, Peter said, "Brian, what do you want us to read?" and Psalm 116 became intimate in all of our lives. I served my husband communion, I stroked his hair, I rubbed his feet, his hands, and I wrestled with God.
The more I get away from this day, the more I remember, but yet it still seems a blur. I know I heard kids playing outside while Brian and I took a nap. And I tried to read a book. I remember feeling angry and agitated because the whole day felt so wrong and so uncomfortable, in the midst of great beauty and great friendship and great peace.
I remember frittata, cheese grits, music, coffee, kids outside, a smoky kitchen (bacon frying), a quiet Brian, and an angry self. Max had spent the night at my mother's house, his Nana, so he didn't spend this morning with his father. But how blessed we were to have the Parkers, the Belzes, and Lillian and Grayson all milling around my house. I remember feeling a bit anxious. Or maybe, more appropriately, alone. I was surrounded by friends and family, loving and serving in a terrifying time, but still, I felt incredibly alone. I'm sure Brian, in his quietness, would say the same thing, even more so. How I wish I could go back and slow down and just sit by his side and soak up his presence. Instead, I found myself making sure everyone had coffee and food and comfort. Not that I could fulfill all their wishes, but somehow that was safer than facing the impending realiy.
But before long, I held his hand, stroked his arm, his hair, his face, and knew he was with me for the moment. There was fritatta and bacon and grits and coffee and intensity and tension and grief and pain and forced laughter and peace. Yes, peace that transcended reality, normality, and understanding.
I think church began sometime in the noon hour. Brian couldn't talk much, but he sat in "his" chair, relaxed and peaceful. Lillian found her way into his chair and sat with him, not saying anything, which is a miracle in and of itself.
I cried most of the time, and I honestly only remember sitting with him trying to listen to the Word being read. We sang songs, we read verses. At some point, Peter said, "Brian, what do you want us to read?" and Psalm 116 became intimate in all of our lives. I served my husband communion, I stroked his hair, I rubbed his feet, his hands, and I wrestled with God.
The more I get away from this day, the more I remember, but yet it still seems a blur. I know I heard kids playing outside while Brian and I took a nap. And I tried to read a book. I remember feeling angry and agitated because the whole day felt so wrong and so uncomfortable, in the midst of great beauty and great friendship and great peace.
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