Jilly Brandon

The empty chair beckons to be filled, to be utilized for what it  was fitted for..

Its scary… and foreboding.. this standing on your own, in your space, and wondering where  on God’s green earth, these individuals that once filled up your life have gotten to?

The chair screams for attention, look at me, concentrate on me… get lost in me.. Don’t move on… If you do.. your brain teases.. it will mean that you have forgotten me.. that I wasn’t very important, that I didn’t count, that my life, while imperfect, and difficult, wasn’t enough , no matter how short your time was on this planet.. you impacted.. you left your footprint upon our very beings in multiple indelible ways.

So.. you concentrate, what was their smell like, their voice, the softness of their  hair between your two fingers.. It feels as if it’s on the periphery of your eye scape .. and yet it is blurry, and cannot quite come into focus.. It’s the misty chilled morning, as you drive down the country road, once familiar, but now thickened with grey fog.  You strain for a glimpse.. to focus..

It is elusive, the standing still, and recognizing the moment for what it is.. It is the missing, and the dreadful “ gone-ness “ that emanates from every fiber of your being.

I don’t like standing still much, and I’ve finally figured out the why if it.  It is there as you sit and stare into the unknown, that it catches up with you.. It is lingering and waiting for you to sit alongside this grief parade, yes I said parade, and recognize the futility of the fight, not to feel it. The roller coaster of emotions that swirls within you in any unsuspecting moment of time, threatening to take you down into the abysss, and stop your beating heart.

It’s coming for you.. the surge that starts with the pain in your chest, and raises itself up, until your eyes burn, and the tears well up.. I don’t want the people that I love to be gone.. I just don’t.. I don’t want to feel it, and I definitely don’t want to stay there.

How can life keep moving forward when parts of you are gone… but it does… and it will.

I’ve decided that I’m consuming too much alcohol.  I live alone, and it’s too tempting to drown myself, to dull the edges.. so yesterday, I decided.. enough is enough.. it’s time to feel, substance free…

March is the season when Spring comes, when from somewhere down deep beneath the frozen tundra of the snowy earth, there are those determined sprouts, ready to push and shove their way through …..no matter what.  They were birthed to bloom, and that is their mission…. their goal.

What if they gave up, and withered away thinking there is no way I can get through all of this ice.. what a loss it would be to not get to see their color.. their beauty.. their uniqueness.

In this new season where our clocks change, and we look forward to the warmth of  sun on our skin,  and the greenery that will sprout forth, it all will gradually  come back into  focus,   the fog of the barren landscape  will indeed  come alive with vibrant splendor.  I’m trying to recognize that it is ok, that I can acknowledge that  yet another season has passed by without them, and I’m still here.

It is not wrong to move on, it does not diminish their importance.  In fact, perhaps this shifting into the challenges ahead somehow gives honour to those that have gone before.

As we experience new growth pangs, sore knees, and feet.. ( speaking for myself,) it is with gratitude that I recognize how blessed I was, and am to have been able to share my life with another that I loved..

The blessing of remembering…

On Sunday, as Mum was visiting overnight, we tuned into “ Flatirons Community Church” live podcast, from Lafayette, Colorado, and listened to the pastor’s words.  It was an unplanned, and rather organic experience, unrehearsed just like life.   In my head, I was thinking, I’ve never just “remembered,” and taken communion with my Mum just the “ two of us gathered together” before.  I kept this thought to myself..

A few moments later, while still listening to  the podcast, my Mum said, “ I really miss attending the breaking of bread on a Sunday morning.”

I returned with, “ do you want to do it together now, as they are doing it?”

My Mother nodded her head, and the white curls of her head swayed  back and forth.

She broke the cracker, we shared in it, and each took a sip of the thimble of wine, and prayed, and remembered Jesus’ death on the cross on our behalf.  We were both in tears, as we shared this most intimate experience.  This was, and will remain, one of the most precious experiences of my life.. I almost couldn’t share this.. it was that private..

So many gifts, as Ann Voskamp writes, “ 1000 Gifts.” What a difference life makes when we count our gifts, and recognize them as they are occurring.

It makes all the difference I’m finding..

My boss sent me these lovely flowers that I showcased, and I am thankful for my new vocation, challenges, and career goals, that I never realized had been buried beneath that cold frozen tundra for so  long in my previous life.  it does feel as if Ive lived a few lives at this juncture.

It is scary… but I’m thinking feeling excited  with anticipation, and with trepidation, is not the same as the fear of standing still, and never breaking free of bad habits, and hinderances, that are clothed in my insecurities to face what lies next.. whatever it is.. it’s our one life… I want to live it like it’s my last day..

I love that tune by Nickleback,” If today was your last day.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.. the little things are really the big things..

Progress.. one moment at a time..

Thinking of, and praying for those that I know, who are living with various kinds of addictions, and asking for strength and perseverance for them to get clean, find their new path, and that they would be able to live in recovery, and know that they, and their loved  ones, are supported, and cared for… you matter..I matter.. we all do. Whether  the brokenness that we are living in, the battle wounds that scar our bodies… which are visible to the naked eye.. or invisible.. I acknowledge it’s all real..

Thinking of my Dad’s empty chair… for all that he taught me, how he loved me, and the incredible legacy he bequeathed his wife, children, and grandchildren.

The wheelchair is symbolic, and the old life that they left behind has been replaced by the new life that they are  living now… This is an astounding, and unbelievable comfort..no more wheelchairs baby.. only wholeness, and newness of spirit.. free of pain, and suffering… that is an incredible gift to lean into..

Making a difference no matter where we are, picking ourselves up, dusting off the old, and being ready for the new buds, the fresh choices, and the forgiving of ourselves for things left behind that cannot be changed.. just accepted, and released..into the present… which as it turns out.. is today..