Slow to Anger

June 26, 2013 in Uncategorized

James 1:19

My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,

I like kneeling in church. At Saint Ann’s, there were many parts of the service where we knelt. At our new church, there are only a few; still, I kneel at all the points in the service where I did back at Saint Ann’s. i feel more prayerful, sure; but I also feel more connected to the energy that first brought me into the Episcopalian fold.

Our pew at Saint S— is wide. It is a special pew for families, right up front. Rather than a kneeler, there is a wide space with a carpet runner for children to play during services. A basket full of toys sits on the floor, along with a tote full of crafting supplies. Children’s books generously donated by Mother K’s son sit next to hymnals and prayer books in the racks.

As I kneel, secreted in the curtain of my long hair, little cars make roads around me. Chubby hands push crumpled bits of glue covered paper beneath the veil. Sometimes, the privacy of my meditative curtain is pushed aside, and two dark brown eyes light up the space beneath.

Mama? Mama?? Can you hear me? Watch this!” comes the small, urgent whisper of my son, He is reaching through the foil. He has found me.

My boy loves this set-up. This is the perfect mix for a kid like him. At once deeply spiritual, and yet only four, he can be four and still be a part of church. When Mother K moves down the aisle, he stops playing and moves toward her. If the time is right, she puts out her hand and he joins the procession.

Last summer, after the storm that changed our lives, we spent a few months living at Saint Ann’s. One late night my then 3 1/2-year-old son asked me, “Mama, can I be the one who stands up front and teaches about love and peace?”

I think I stopped breathing for a few small seconds.

“You mean the priest?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “I want to teach about love and peace. I want to be the one to give the communion.”

Since then, he has continued to tell me this. Whenever he can get involved more deeply in the services at Saint S—, he does. Bits of folded paper pile up around me, beads and feathers in my hands and shoes, but when Mother K moves, his energy shifts. He is ready to be mini-priest whenever he can.

Some at church are delighted by this. They can see his passion and they marvel at it. When he sprinkles them with holy water and unrelenting joy, the blessed drops fall like a living rain. “Your son!” they say to me during coffee hour, “He’s really something! He’s just so beautiful! So radiant!”

I don’t take credit for it. I am just as amazed at they. “He’s different,” I say to them, “He has a light inside.”

“Yes!” they say, “He shines!”

For some, a shine is dazzling. For some, it hurts the eyes. And ears. And any other sense that is touched by a child who is small, and four, and not completely still.

My son doesn’t sit in the pew next to me. He may crawl under it to get to a friend, or down the side isle to get to another. In our church, there are very few children. The few there are spend church in the nursery. J doesn’t want to be in the nursery. He wants to be with me, and he wants to be a part of the service.

We are a gentle parenting family. For those of you who don’t know what that means, it means that I am o.k. with him crawling down the side aisle, as long as others are not unduly disturbed in their worship. It means that I expect from my four-year-old boy behavior appropriate for a four-year-old boy, which doesn’t include sitting still in a seat in silence for 40 minutes. It means that no matter what I hope he will do or what I wish he would do, that I first consider what is developmentally appropriate before I respond.

And when I respond, it means I won’t respond with punishments. And I won’t respond with rewards (or bribes, whatever you might call them). I talk to my son like I want others to talk to me. I give weight to his position, his feelings, and realize that our priorities are probably not the same. We work for balance between us, and solutions that work for us as a team, not just forced compliance for the sake of saving public face.

Which is great for us as a family. We are Team Q, and we tackle everything together. When I need help, I call on Team Q. My sweet son never refuses to help me when I need him. He wipes tables, puts away dishes, folds clothes (that I usually refold later) and rushes to be a part of anything that needs to be done for the sake of the The Team.

I listen to him. What he wants matters. It matters that he needs to fold paper, or that he needs squish glue. As long as, in church, he can do it at a low volume, with respect to others, I call that harmony.

hearts with your hands

hearts with your hands

Of course, you can’t please all of the people all of the time. I have also heard from a minority at our church that my son and I spend too much time together (Attachment Parenting) and that his activity in church requires Discipline.

Just this past Sunday, I asked a friend at church if she had some beginner piano books to lend. My sweet budding priest is also a budding musician. In great kindness, she gave us a set of books for him to explore.

As we stood there talking my son was losing his patience. He had already spent an hour in church, an hour after church, had helped wash the dishes and was ready to play outside. He is four. And really, that is a pretty long day for four.

As she and I talked, J pulled on my sleeve. “Just a minute,” I said. She was talking about Discipline. I felt my face getting hot. I was anxious to finish my conversation and make my point.

I am very aware of how some people view my son. When he exhibits normal impatience, my own impatience starts to rise and I can forget my Gentle Parenting Credo. Instead of telling my ADULT friend, who is practiced in waiting, to wait, I asked my tiny son: WAIT.

“I have home schooled students,” said our friend. “I don’t know what this one mother does, but when she tells her kids to stop they will stop on a dime. Children need to be disciplined.”

My sleeve got longer as my adult friend told me how important discipline was for children. My embarrassment grew with my sleeve as I asked J again to Wait.

“Are you saying J lacks Discipline?” I heard myself say, through my haze of discomfort and impatience.

My mind was too mucky to really hear my friend or my son. I was stuck in the vile place of parenting sin and parenting shame, looking like a bad mother to her and acting like a bad mother to my son.

“Mama! Please! Come see this!”

Different priorities. Now, he was making small, punctuated growls. And I was trying to make a point.

I don’t even remember what she said. But as she made her Grand Point, I was hit by a small, black shoe.


She walked away, and I turned to my son. My connection button was disconnected. I was overstimulated. I could no longer think.


I stood in shock for a second, and then said no. I chose the no over losing my cool. I chose it over venting. I said no, and I walked to the door.

Behind me came a flurry of tiny feet, and a tearful voice shouting, “MAMA!”

I stopped.

My little guru shouted through his tears, “We need to Stop and HUG, right now! Do it!”

And there it was. The clarity of gentle parenting. The clarity of scripture. The clarity of all that matters at the center of our lives. Love.

I stopped. I hugged. I reconnected. I found our center.

I looked into the face of my remarkable child.

“Mama,” he said, “Let’s try again.

And in this expression of God’s grace, we did.


Favorite spot

Favorite spot

James 3:17

But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. 18 Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness. 

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Woman, Heal Thy Sink

June 22, 2013 in Uncategorized


Acts 2:37-47

All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day,…they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.


Life in our new world has a lovely rhythm. Two mothers flow through the challenges of parenting in a hand-in-hand friendship that fills former gaps. I can almost hear the house sigh as it settles into a new peace, and stretches it’s ribs with warm new relationships, hugs and laughter.


About a week ago, we were enjoying such a day. Jessica sat on the floor in front of the refrigerator, sorting through the edible and beyond edible. I stood at the sink, receiving suspicious containers and produce, dumping them either into the trash or down the sink. The garbage disposal’s deep growl created the back drop for our voices as we talked, sorted, chucked and laughed, taming disorder in the comfortable partnership we had recently formed.


Cucumber, I would come to hate you. Your pocked skin and moldy blossom end met the cut of my blade. Hunk by hunk, I fed you to the drain. Hungry blades made a meal of you, and swept you away.


Then it happened.


Suddenly, rather than going down, water was coming up. Wait a minute, now it was coming up on both sides of the sink. I shut off the disposal and stared at the two sinks now a quarter full of water. My formerly peaceful heart was now hammering on the top of my tongue. I tried to swallow it, but I couldn’t.


The effects of deep trauma and grief have compromised my ability to cope with normal stressors. Discomfort enters and I begin to collapse. Staring into the floating bits of cucumber, I saw my future. How could I be allowed to continue to dwell in this land of peace? I had just broken the sink.


Jessica’s eyes rolled as she swiped a hand down over her face. It was a gesture I was now well acquainted with. It was her gesture of exasperation. She rocked herself up from her spot on the floor.


“This has happened before,” she said.


“What do we do?” I asked in a voice knitted with fear.


She let out her breath in a puff. “Wait,” she told me.


I’m not good at waiting. I wasn’t good at waiting before all the trauma and I am less good at waiting now.


Do you know what waiting is? It is the space between the wondering and the knowing. And it is all filled up with the anxiety of the thing you are waiting to know. it’s like back on the farm, when i was being kept a prisoner. When he said I wouldn’t survive the night. I waited. It is like back in the NICU when they told me that there was one last thing they could try. I waited.


With the kinds of waiting I have done I have developed an aversion.


And here, in this new heaven, I waited. Had I just created a problem I couldn’t afford to solve? Visions of plumbers choked off my breath, tied knots in my intestines and painted sweat across my palms. I looked at the swirl of vegetable bits and thought of eating from dumpsters. I wondered where I would put our stuff. And I waited.


Hours later, the drains were still full of water, but it had gone down. I employed my non-toxic drain opening method immediately. This is supposed to be applied to a DRY drain, and has never failed me, but I couldn’t wait for a dry drain. I needed the sink fixed now.


I filled my largest pot and set it on to boil. This is the recipe for opening a drain without toxic chemicals


1. Put 1/2 a cup of DRY baking soda down the sink.


2. Add 3/4 of a cup of vinegar. Have a drain stopper on hand to cap the drain IMMEDIATELY as it will begin to fizz out and you need to trap this action in the drain itself. If you are working with a double sink, do both sides.


3. WAIT 30 minutes.


4. Pour a gallon of boiling water down each drain.


I’ve used this method before. I’ve used it when repeated applications of chemical drain openers failed and it worked. It has always worked. After 25 minutes (i couldn’t WAIT any longer), I poured the boiling water in. I watched the swirl of cucumber bits rise up to mock.


I talked to me. “Erika, don’t panic. Erika, breathe slowly. Erika, wait until the morning and try again.”


The next morning. i was jamming baking soda down the drain with a butter knife before Id even had coffee. By afternoon, I was teary eyed as I plunged the sink ferociously, cucumber bits flying up and sticking to the front of my shirt. Wet from within with sweat and wet from without with impossible sludge, the panic continued to rise. What was left?


The night before, I had reassured Jessica. My Uncle Ernest was a plumber. I would get his advice. I had a few more things to try. I would fix it.


At that moment, looking into the drain, I could hear Jessica’s voice in my mind. She would be talking to her grandmother. She would be telling her I broke the sink. I closed my eyes and took some breaths.


In the front yard, I heard the sound of our neighbor. Jack, a kind man who has developed an affection for this family, had come over to water the grass. I asked him to borrow a wrench.


Was there a part of me that hoped my request would be met with his offer to fix the sink? Of course. But there was another part. There was something deeper down. There was something more. There was a badly beaten woman who was still very much alive.


My hand raised up to touch my forehead. It protrudes more on one side than the other, a result of a severe beating back on the farm. It was a beating that left my entire face black and my forehead hanging over my eyes like a shelf. Sometimes I touch it, and I remember.


Remembering sometimes makes me want to lay down. It makes me tired and it makes me want to give up. Other times, it makes me take apart all the pipes under the sink.


I had done some reading.. The clog was probably in the trap. (That’s the curvy part, for those of you that don’t know.) When it wasn’t, I took apart more pipes. Soon, I was staring into a hole in the wall that went deep into the plumbing. I stuck my short, little finger in it and thought.


Downstairs in the garage, i rummaged for tools. Anything. Something stiff and long to poke into that hole. I found an old piece of T.V. cable and ran upstairs.


Back on the floor, I started feeding in the cable. About a foot down, it stopped. When i pulled it out, it was covered with grease. A grease clog. Not cucumber. It wasn’t my fault. And it was only a foot down. With the right tool, I could handle this.


Some people call them a snake. It’s really called a drain auger. Pictures I saw on line showed a coiled cable with a hand crank. I could use that. I got on the wire.


For such a fearful person, I know how to work a network. I emailed my priest for recommendations and anyone else i knew locally who was even remotely handy. Then, suddenly, I was struck by inspiration.


A few weeks ago, I was confirmed. I remembered a guy in my confirmation class, Mike, talking about his huge collection of tools. I grabbed the church directory (which I’d only just picked up) and sent him a text. Drain auger. Today. Do you have one?


He did.


My wee one and I had an unschoolers playdate. We were meeting several other unschooling friends at a great play space at Lifeworks for an afternoon of exploration and unwinding. I sent Mike the address there. He said he’d show up with the tool.


When Mike walked up I didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t have a coil with a crank. He was carrying a big, heavy power tool that probably used to have a manual.


“You are going to have to tell me how to use that,” I said.


Mike blinked. “I’ve never used it.”


We stood in silence.


“Um….” said friend Mike, “Maybe this is more of a man tool.”


I began to heat up.


“Um…. This thing is really gusto….” he stammered, “You know, like Tim the Toolman Taylor… guys kind of like to overdo it. This probably too much for you.”


My dam of fear broke and my feminist rage flowed through it.


“UM….. No offense! You probably just don’t know about how guys are into power!” came Mike’s frightened response to the Amazon glare he was now under.


“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Just the other day I was bragging to my friend about how my hand mixer was 300 watts and hers was only 120! Give me that tool!”


There is nothing you can’t learn from a Youtube video. My sweet babe and I watched one about the Super Vee Drain Auger and I went to work. It took several tries and I had to go down 12 feet into the pipes, but I didn’t let anything stop me.


N, Jessica’s son, was in the kitchen while I was working. “Wow… that thing shakes your whole body….” he said.


From deep inside my wounded core I felt myself snarl, “You bet it does.”


He and J were outside playing by the time I put the pipes back together for the final time. I turned on the water, and I waited. I watched it gurgle down and waited for it to rise back up. It never did.


I ran out on to the deck and screamed down into the yard to the boys, “I DID IT!!!!!!! I DID IT!!!!!!!!” They joined me in my victory dance and we all squealed and laughed and tickled and hugged. I cleaned up my mess and spent at least ten minutes just watching the water go down.


Now N says to me, “Who fixed the sink?” and I call back, “I fixed the sink!” and the house is filled with the warm, round, connected laughter of healing in progress.


Fix your own sink

Fix your own sink






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My Trust In You

June 12, 2013 in Uncategorized

Psalm 9

10   Those who know your Name will put their trust in you, *
for you never forsake those who seek you, O LORD.

The light of another rainy day is leaving us. Behind me, tall grass blows against the wide windows, flicking the glass with a cool evening spray. Across the long room, soft light shines through the scarf I’ve hung around the lamp. We are still lining the generous confines of this new nest with touches of our own.

The last time I wrote you, my son slept a few feet from me under the roof of the tiny 9′ x 11′ house. The occasional thud of a cat landing above kept company with the barks and meows of the family with whom we lived. We were warm, dry and loved; but my four-year-old ached for the space required for the active life of a young child.

My monk-like boy didn’t often complain. He spoke with love of every dog and cat who snuffled at our door. He ran to pet and hug any animal that would accept it, and my heart broke as I watched him. My beautiful child, a wellspring of love; he needed more. He deserved more.

What could I do? Starting over takes time. Building from the ground up with only ideas and faith happens slowly, one miracle at a time. My son would have to wait for a string of miracles to give him the things he needed to feed his young life, even simple things. Like space.

I looked at the houses we passed on our walks. I focused on the smallest ones. How much could it cost to live in a small place like that? Look at the yard… J could dig in that dirt. There is even a fence. But fence after fence kept us out. I squeezed my son’s tiny hand. We walked on.

God is always listening. God is always working. God is always weaving. And, if we listen, God is always talking.

We went to play groups, as many as we could. We went anywhere just to have a place to jump and tumble and stretch, things the tiny house did not allow. Most of the children there were younger than mine, children awaiting the day when they would start preschool. We are unschoolers. That day, for us, was not coming. We just needed a place to play.

At one of our groups, I started chatting with one of the other moms. We seemed to have a lot in common, or I hoped we did. I hoped that making friends here would be easier for different people like us. When I found this mom shared so many of my own philosophies, I thought I’d hit upon a match.

After group one day, I invited her out for fries. As I asked, another mother I had been talking to walked by with her own little one. As she looked up, I saw something in her eyes. It flashed for a second before she turned her eyes to the floor and moved on. I watched her get into her car and my heart stirred. I heard God speaking. I had made a mistake. It was to this woman I should reach out.

The next time, I asked the her to join us for fries. Her name was Jessica. Fries and the park led to invitations to her house. The friend I had been hoping to make rose up in front of me. I had put my own ideas aside and listened to a movement in my heart. The voice of God said, “Embrace Jessica.”

As I was helping Jessica fold laundry one day she said, “I’ve been thinking about your living situation. We have a lot of space, Erika. Would you guys consider living here?”

My first reaction was fear. Change. Unknown. I hadn’t known Jessica very long. Images of the tiny house rose up in my mind. The meows and barks and all the things that came with such a menagerie also rose up. I was afraid. As challenging as the tiny house was, our friend there had been in my life a long time. She was very familiar. Jessica was new to us. I asked to keep the question open.

A few weeks later, J and I were in our car, driving away from the little house. A sudden complication of circumstances required quick thinking, and I called Jessica. “Can we come over, just for the night?” She was ready.

When we got there, she showed us to the extra bedroom downstairs. The comfortable room had an even more comfortable bed sitting in the middle of it. My little one and I climbed into it’s luxuriously downy arms, and he fell asleep.

Later, on the back porch with Jessica, we talked over the tumultuous events of the day. Tenuously, I explored the edges of her offer. What would life look like in this new place? How would these two families work together while maintaining their own identities and habits? I watched Jessica’s dark eyes while she talked. My trauma kept my emotions high, but inside something else was talking. God said, “Listen. Look at her eyes. Look and listen.”

One car load at a time, we moved our things. Fear bit at my nerves with every gesture. I prayed. When the fear would rise I would close my eyes. “I rest it all on you, Lord. Lead me. I will follow You.”

As our boxes arrive, Jessica moved hers aside. When we took a tentative step forward, Jessica’s arm swept the path clear. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Packing and moving made me nervous. Jessica came with us to the old place for support. Her dark, determined eyes flashed over the tops of our well-traveled boxes as she carried load after load with ferocity and gusto. My friend had become a kind of champion. As I watched her move, I let a little of my fear slip away.

Upstairs, I can hear the soft voices of Jessica and her oldest son. The baby is asleep, now. This is their time. My own sweet son sleeps on the downy bed in the next room while I expand my psychic energy to fill the 25′ length of this room. If I need to use the bathroom, ours is just a few feet away. When I get tired, a soft bed waits. A kitchen and a refrigerator are only feet away. God has done this for us, God and Jessica.

Jessica is a young mother. She is new here; and the house was too big for them. Our presence here is medicine for her family. I am an older mother. We are new here, too; and our house was too small. Our life here is medicine for our family.

Talking to Jessica is changing me. I am seeing myself through new eyes. When she hugs me and thanks me for being here, I am stunned with amazement and gratitude.

I apologize for my deficits. I apologize for being too strange. She says they aren’t deficits. She says I am not strange. She says I am different, and magical, and wonderful. I think I have given up blinking.

A few nights ago, I sat with Jessica. All the children were in bed. She was showing me the string tricks she had been teaching to her oldest. It had been years since I had seen those old tricks. I thought of those old days. I glanced down at my hands.

When I was a child, I had rubbed the back of my left hand with a pencil erase until all of the outer skin had come off. A self-made, concentrated friction burn. Richie Mylar had shown me that trick. It was the trick of a child in pain. Pain to pain, we passed it. It left a scar. I lived with that scar all of my adult life. I couldn’t believe how tenacious it was, that little scar from an erase burn.

I sat with Jessica. I looked down at my scar. It was gone.

I turned my hand towards the light. I stroked. I looked. Nothing.

The tension of all of our recent experiences pressed hard against my heart. Fear, worry, insecurity, self-loathing, doubt, anxiety, pain of every stripe. I looked at the back of my hand. Smooth. No more scar.

Behind me, the living green of the grass reaches all the way back to the woods. On the way, it skips over the sand pit where my son digs almost every day. At the edge of the far woods is a row of lush blackberries canes, dotted with the buds of new flowers. In our new home we are warm and safe. And we wait for the harvest.

building a nest

building a nest




February 5, 2013 in Uncategorized


“You have to know what exclusion is to know what welcome is.”

Father Randy Goeke
St Mary’s Episcopal Church; Bassett, Nebraska

Psalm 56

  Whenever I am afraid, *
I will put my trust in you.

When a storm-felled tree cut through my complacency, it set in motion a continuously unfurling set of events that led us across the nation. Four months ago today, we entered the Sand Hills of Nebraska to spend the glorious 5th of October with Father Randy Goeke and the congregation of St. Mary’s.

I parked on the outskirts of a sand-blown, sand-colored town. It looked more like Old West movies than anything I had ever seen. I dropped from the truck, slipping into the blustery, sand-strewn cold. Ahead of me, another vehicle had parked. A radiant man turned to me, clutched his scarf and ran. I had found Father Goeke.

I fell instantly into the sea of Father Goeke’s eyes. The air crackled, and we were united. Loneliness fell away. In the arms of Father Goeke, and the people of St. Mary’s, we were home. At the dinner they held for us, there were real people, glowing with the desire for good. They reached out to take care of us. In the humility of their care, our souls rose.

For someone like me, these experiences are precious. All of my life, I have been different. Few hesitated to point it out, and I have been reminded time and again of how little I have in common with the “regular” world. An outsider who could never find the door, I had placed both of my hands on the gateway west; and pushed. A lonely heart hauled herself forward on a thin rope of hope. Maybe acceptance was on the other side.

Here we are. With few resources to explore, it can feel like we just shifted from one side of God’s immeasurable palm to the other. jettisoned, wormhole style, from an east coast pod to our west coast one, my heart sank as I again met the question: Where is the door?

Of course, upon arrival, I reminded myself of what a reject I have always been. I hoped for a nitch as I inched forward, heart-first. I spun on my heel from our new stuck place, meeting this new world with my open-book smile. “Hi! I’m really vulnerable! I am traumatized! I am a reject! Want to be my friend?”

That is a terrible approach, I know; but I don’t know any other way. In my life, where reservation would have protected me, I have stunt-cartwheeled through the paper walls. No matter how I try to hold back, ultimately, I loose my battle cry: Tada!  Here is everything I am! Do you like it??

Many have not. I am told that I am a little much for ordinary people. Too intense, too open, to emotional, too opinionated, too weird. Too much. Mostly, I have been a satellite on the edge of others’ lives. I was told a sea of ideas churned in the west. Here, it would be different.

One of the things that brought us west was the search for shared ideas. I wanted to be a part of a community that shared similar views regarding our planet, how we should live with it, and how we should live with one another. That is what I like so much about Jesus; and I wanted more of it in a more intense and immediate way. I wanted to know other parents like me, homeschoolers and unschoolers committed to creating a different kind of world.

Almost four months into this new world, we began discovering play groups and attending story hour at the library. These play groups are terrifying places for me. I am the freak. Single mother by choice, older mother, grieving mother, wild hippie-liberal-episcopalian-tattoo faced mother, I look around and I feel alone. The other mothers are not going to like someone like me. I am always an outsider. Still, I made my cartwheeling entrance and took my place on the floor.

Then, last week, I saw someone from our new church at story hour. We accidentally stumbled into the subject of home schooling. She shared with me about a new group forming, a group of homeschoolers/unschoolers wanting to connect. Was I seriously interested in home schooling, too? Good; then, I was welcome.

I moved forward with trepidation. Through the Facebook group, I reached out to a few of the parents before embarking. I hoped to break the ice. They seemed very nice; still, once they saw me and talked to me, they were going to know. They would see that thing that everyone always sees about me. They would see what others see in my disposition and personality that sets me apart. My invisible stain would let out its colors, marking me the clown.

We put some gas in the car and headed to the meeting place. The rare drive aired out our sails. The kid has been telling me recently that he needs to get back on the road. He wants to see more churches and stay in motels, he says. He wants to see new landscapes. Today, we scratched just a little of that itch as we headed into the hills.

Parents moved around in the parking lot, making their way upstairs. As soon as we neared the building, we could hear the tinkling sound of young joy above. Running across the wooden floor, they leapt through webs of shouts and laughter. The echo in the room came back to me. In all their happiness, my stomach cramped with fear. I was familiar with rooms like these. In rooms like these, I was never chosen. Last one picked for the team. Different different different, my mind told me as I went through the door.

I saw one of the women I had spoken to online. I hurried to her for an embrace. A small bit of fear rolled down my spine as I moved. A wild-haired artist and older mother, like me, I knew I had at least one familiar in the group. I tried to let go of a little more fear.

Soon, another new friend found me. Before I knew it, I was standing in small group sharing ideas and interests, climbing up, up, up through the varied landscape of our common ground. I drank yummy coffee and engaged in one comfortable chat after another. Before I knew it, my shoes were under the bench and I knew at least half of their names. I stood shoulder to shoulder, one of the crowd.

As I stood in the small group of chatting parents, a new couple came through the door. The man was smothered in tattoos, giant rings hanging from his stretched out ears. I reached toward his effervescent wife who immediately seized my hand and pumped it with great sincerity. “You are an amazing writer!” she cried, her eyes alive and connected. I felt my mouth fall open. My hungry heart ate from her generous plate. This was all so new.

She wasn’t the only one who mentioned having read my blog. Another mother told me that her and her husband both were exploring it. He had seen the link while hanging out with friends, she told me. “He was reading it while he was playing cards,” she said. “He started crying right at the table.” I imagined this, wrapped myself in it, and ate of their good food.

I wish I could have seen my own face in those moments. A zero, a nothing, a skittering shape at the edge of real life, people were seeing me. People were talking to me. People were embracing me. My ideas were not weird. My ideas were just like theirs. No one had to reach to find me. We were all right there.

My kid joined the mob of kids, running, crawling, bopping, zooming. Then, he needed to touch base. As I stood in the crowd of our new friends, a blue train tent edged in from below. My son was inside of it.

“Mama! Mama! Look at this!” A balloon exited a soft cloth window. With my toe, I poked it back in. “Mama! Mama! Look!” The balloon popped out, again. This time, I tucked it back in through the door. The cloth train jiggled and bounced, poking the gathered adults as they conversed. I felt myself grow anxious as he pushed forward even more. Just a week before someone had chided me for never leaving him with a sitter, for including him in all that I do.

I felt my face grow warm with apology, “He wants to be near mama. He needs to connect…”

“As he should!” a new friend cried, clapped a hand to my sagging shoulder. I blinked and blinked, unaccustomed to this new, accepting light. A few more offered the same. “Yes, of course!” I heard. After a few minutes, the little blue engine moved on.

One after the other, I made their acquaintance. One after the other, walls of my own making fell away. Soon, and maybe for the first time, I was one in the number. I was not the different one. I was just one. And One.

The group is full of ideas. We have walks to take, museums to visit, clay to mold, caves to explore. For me, this is like a miracle. I feel like a kid rolling down an ice cream mountain into a hot fudge lake. I have also changed my battle cry:


and WE.



Life After Death

January 25, 2013 in Uncategorized


They call it
this thin thing,
transparent as lacquer.
Its ghost appears,
hoarse scratches looped
on colored paper,
Restrained platitudes,
shaken out and reused.

Loss, Loss, Sorry
for you Loss.

They talk about time.
They talk as if they’ve done it.
They talk as if life burst
red from their uterus
has gone cold in their arms.
They talk
as if their throats
have split with howls
as grief fingers scrabbled
at insatiable ground.

They call it.
Bulged eyes dry with fear

We’re praying for you.

The subtext:

We pray we’re not you.

Wet hands stretch out,
impotent filmy palms,
a plea for absolution.
The hands clutch tighter
to their children
as they run.

as they run,
roll back like waves)

Loss, Loss, Sorry
for you Loss.

—Erika Quiroz


After Erik died, I took to the bed. I perched my computer in front of me on a portable computer table, and lay down. Through bootleg sites, I found movie after movie. I played them night and day. The horror from within was too much. I wanted to be go-go-gone. Deep reality scratched from inside my heart. When it broke through, I lost control.

Mostly, I lay on the bed. Rarely, I wanted to talk, needed to talk; I loathed to talk. I didn’t want to hear my own words exiting my mouth. I wanted to talk about caring for babies. I did not want to talk about grief. I told my sister that I felt like someone who had been horribly burned. The sensations in my mind and body were too much, and I had no medicine to take away this pain.

“I don’t want this identity!” I cried. For the rest of my life, I would have it. Now, I am “the one”. “O, she’s the one who…”. Two of my children, my only living children at the time, had died. I would be whispered about behind hands for the rest of my life. My real, warm, living babes had been replaced by a tag. It hung around my neck like a noose.

In early grief, I couldn’t control my body. I thrashed against the insistent rope with periodic, almost seizure-like spasms. Lying on the bed, I was gripped by near convulsions as the blackness of my situation broke through, over and over. Crazy, out-of-my-mind with pain, I would twist on my back and cry out, kicking walls and furniture, ache trumpeting with abandon. It was like being infected by a parasite, eating me from within.

I tried to be around people; but found that I couldn’t. On one of my first outings, I slumped in a chair in my aunt’s living room. Two of her neighbors were visiting. One of them declared, “I guess they just weren’t meant to be!”  A convulsion rumbled up from within. I stopped going out.

“You have an angel on each shoulder now!” others had proclaimed. “It was God’s will,” still others told me. Visions of angels and God deformed themselves into grotesque visions. Declarations of, “They are with God, now!” did not comfort me. God, with his uncountable collection of dead children, seemed ravenous and perverse. My Comforter and Teacher became a sickening, black hole lined with fearsome rows of bloody teeth. Behind me was oblivion, and in front an insatiable, sadistic creator. There was nowhere to turn.

I fell down and down and down and down. I heard voices in the darkness, snags that caught my shroud as I fell. Warm voices and hands left bruises and burns as the center of the earth demanded me. When I walked, I often fell. Convulsions would take me on my way to the bathroom leaving me writhing and kicking out in the hall. My world was black and nearly airless. My body was rejecting life.

Back in the PICU, when Erik was gone, I had stumbled into the arms of my friend, Heather. Her face broke with grief. “You are an amazing mother, Erika. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but you will be a mother again. I know it. I know it.”

Her words rested deep inside of me. Near them lay the words of Dr. Joe. “We lost four before we had our fifth. Remember, we lost four before we had our fifth.”

I was single. I was fresh from horrific abuse. I did not want a man. I wanted a baby, my baby, my babies, my soft warm, endlessly needful things. My loneliness ate at my living flesh. Erik was everywhere. In my grief, I thought him lost amongst the blankets. In the dark of night, I was sure he was there.

When he was with me, I never turned off the light and never used blankets. Now, the lights still burned. My mind would turn on itself. He is here. He is lost in the blankets. By the soft lamp light I would spring up and begin to scratch. Where where where was my child? He was suffocating! I tore the bed apart looking for him. In the mess of blankets, I was alone.

Where was my child? His car seat sat empty in the extra room. The blankets he’d last used were in it. He was in there. I saw the blankets and I saw he was lost. I fell, again and again, on my knees beside it. My hungry hands dug for my baby. My search ended with a convulsion on the floor. No Erik.

In every corner and forgotten space, I saw him. My son. If I found him before I’d grieved too long, he could come back. This is magical thinking. I have learned, from being friends with other grieving parents, that this is normal. There is a period of time where the grieving parent feels that the child can be resurrected without disturbing the fabric of the universe. I prayed to a God that was becoming a fiction. Give him back. Give him back.

I made promises. Give him back and we will disappear. I will never see or speak to any of the people I know, again. No one has to know that you gave me back my baby. Give him back. We will live to serve you. We will disappear.

“We lost four before we had our fifth,” Dr. Joe had whispered. When he said it, he gripped me tight. It was not a doctor grip; it was a grief grip. It was a rallying cry. “Remember,” he told me.

My mind, insane with grief, began to reach.



this used to be our time
this very very late time
this middle of the night time
the hours before morning time
my fingers on your body time
excited little spiders
happy in their web

this used to be our time
whispers over diapers time
my face in your hair time
can’t believe your mine time
warm-warm-warm-warm mouth time
drawn out of my breast.

now this time is my time
can’t believe your gone time
how can I go on time
I think I’ve lost my mind time
where did I go wrong time
can’t we turn back time time
come and take me too time
can’t believe it’s true time
now there’s too much time time
I am just a ghost time
in an empty bed

—–Erika Quiroz

Erik Never Comes Home

January 15, 2013 in Uncategorized

Psalm 10

  Why do you stand so far off, O LORD, *
and hide yourself in time of trouble?

On day ten of Erik’s stay in the hospital, a technician arrived with an EEG machine. The technician was quiet and somber. Careful hands covered my tiny son’s swollen scalp with electrodes. He was looking for a flicker of life.

I studied his face. His experience and training kept him level, but his soul was in his eyes. He tried not to look at my child. He kept his actions by-the-book as he moved efficiently around the tiny bed.

Once, he paused. For an instant, he looked directly into Erik’s face. His hands hovered like a hummingbird in front of a flower. A wave of pain crossed in front of his eyes. It was an instant, a passing shimmer. They had been talking. They were doing this test for me.

Another PICU mother made frequent stops to see us. Her own tiny daughter lay a few beds away, eyes rolling and darting, unable to focus or see. She was the recent recipient of a donor liver. Her mother, also named Erika, propped up the sagging portions of my faith. “He is going to be fine! Keep believing it! Keep praying!”

I did. Small successes like concentrated medications and unblocked catheters had lifted my insistent faith. This was a fight, just like it had been in the NICU. We had scary incidents then. We had apnea episodes. We had intestinal bleeding. Yet Erik had gone home. At four pounds. With no monitor. I hadn’t protested hard enough. That would not happen, again. I wouldn’t stop fighting until they speared me to the ground. They would have to spear me to the ground.

It was quiet around his bed during the test. Only the technician and I stood near him watching the jiggle of the EEG needle. I thought the jiggles were brainwaves. He told me they were only static. His tests showed nothing.

Dr. Joe was not there. Dr. Death was on duty. Soon, she began to circle. She was coming for my son.

I spoke to anyone and everyone I could. Was this test absolutely conclusive? Is there any way that it could be wrong?

There was enough doubt to cast a shadow. They would do one more test. Now, they would look for cerebral blood flow. This was the test of tests, the one test that, all on its own, could make the call. If there was no blood going to his brain, then there was no life.

Erik’s body fluttered on the bed. Shaken by the thump of the oscillator, he’d traveled a thousand miles. Part of me saw it clearly. How could he take anymore? Part of me was insistent and angry. He had been awake, responsive and crying before the sedation ten days ago. What happened? No one could tell me. Until they could tell me, I would hold on to the sound of his voice. He cried for me. “Mama, help me!”  I was trying.

I went from arms to arms as they set up the test. There was dye and some kind of scan. I can’t clearly remember. Heather’s red-rimmed eyes held me and Erika pushed with her impossible enthusiasm. I plucked the fruits from their vines to nourish me as I held my vigil.

The nurse who had done the catheter was there. She hadn’t stopped crying. PICU patients had a dedicated nurse, so Erik had been her only responsibility for the past two days. She and I had bonded over fears, frustrations and successes. She was there. Her whole being was there. She wanted life for my son, and she fought for it.

I want to write it out like a novel. I want the details to be exactly right. In truth, many details are lost in the grinding jaws that took my son from me, one little piece at a time.

There was no blood flow to his brain. Suddenly, all the carts and monitors were rolling away. All the technicians were gone. My son lay, bathed in white, with only the oscillator to rock him to sleep.

I was in the process of breaking down. Someone had said all hope was gone. Someone told me I had nothing more to fight for. I didn’t understand it. No more pumping? No more pink meal slips that meant it was time to eat? No more reading books? No more changing gauze? No more soft, warm cheeks to rub my cheeks against? No more twinkling eyes that knew more than such a small babe should? What were you saying? What were you people saying??

Fred appeared. I was gripping the foot of Erik’s bed and the back of my stool. When I felt him, I let go.

“THIS IS RIDICULOUS!!!” I cried. My voice came out in a blast, punctuated by helpless ire. My fingers dug into the furniture as I cried out, again, “THIS IS RIDICULOUS! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!

I cried out those words over and over. I lifted myself from the ground, holding on to the bed and chair. My feet paddled the air, kicking down nothing. “THIS IS RIDICULOUS!!!!!!!”

The soft voice of Fred scooped me up, “Yes!” he answered. “It is! It is ridiculous! It is!” It was such a relief. No talk of heaven, nor angels nor wills; Fred echoed my own heart. It was ridiculous.

Suddenly, the staff was in motion. With practiced efficiency, they organized a death. Erik was being taken from me. I couldn’t protest, anymore.

The Death Chair was rolled in. The well-worn armchair was stained in unseen blood. How many children had breathed their last in that chair? They would thrust me into it, and Erik would die in my arms.

I screamed when I saw it. “O, hear it comes!” I cried. “O, God! How can this be!!? What the hell is happening!? This is RIDICULOUS! This can’t be real!”

I wanted someone to tell me that it was not real. I wanted them to stop this ugly series of motions. But they were practiced; so they moved on.

In the cloud of my ending, Dr. Joe appeared. He was off-duty. They called him when the test results for Erik were confirmed. He came straight to me, without stopping. His eyes were red from tears.

His arms were around me. I couldn’t even cry as much as I wanted to cry. If I really fell on the floor, then this was real. What was I going to do? The Sculpture’s chisel felled blow after blow. My mind went, “break, break, break…” Things that once were, fell away.

Dr. Joe curled his long frame around me. Down at my level, he whispered in my ear, “My wife and I lost four before we had our fifth. We lost four before we had our fifth. I want you to listen to me: We lost four before we had our fifth.”

In the hotbed of hell, something happened. Though it wouldn’t connect for a long time later, Dr. Joe’s words had been very important. His arms pressed me in sincerity. As many deaths as he’d seen, he grieved with me; and his grief was real.

I didn’t go for the rituals. I was in the depths of horror. I wasn’t going to pretend it was any other way. Instead, I looked directly at individuals, “This is unspeakable!” I would say. How could I fluff the last moments of my son’s life? “This is unspeakable!!”

I made one important request: Don’t Let Dr. Death Near Me, or My Son.

I had to accept it at least some of their procedures. It was this; or never hold my child, again. These were the last mama and baby moments we would ever have. I had been terminated, let go. It was over.

They disconnected Erik from all his machines and brought him to me. His heart was beating. I wrapped my arms around my beautiful son, my reason for living. I let his tiny head rest on my hand so I could study his face.

He was gone. These swollen features were not my spirited child. I said good-bye to my handful of dreams, my son, dweller in the ether. At the same time, I rejected it. My mind broke, again.

Ten days ago, Erik had weighed five pounds. Now, he weighed about 15. As I cradled his head, I felt it shape itself around my hand. I wanted to scream. “Break…break…break…”, I kept on changed.

Dr. Death came from around the corner. With sufficient ceremony, she victoriously announced his death. From my underground cage, I clawed at my ceiling. Heavy earth rained down within.

Suddenly, blood pooled in his mouth. It welled up, and ran down his cheek. I dabbed with something I had in my hand as I watched it continue to flow. His blood vessels were rupturing. There was no miracle that would remake this child.

I dabbed and dabbed and dabbed. His head on my hand grew more and more visceral as I reached forward with all that I was. Blood began to run from his ears, and I couldn’t keep up. His little body kept bleeding, and suddenly it was gone.

I was in a room with a lot of chairs. I wouldn’t sit in the chairs. I wasn’t sure why I was waiting or what was going on. Two members of my family sat above me while I writhed around on the floor. I was screaming, and then I was kicking. I remember wanting to bite myself, but not wanting to go to the psych ward. Get away from these people. Then I would let go.

There had been a social worker in the PICU. I hated her. She came at me with a twisty-head style that broke off at the waist as she leaned in to my sphere. It wasn’t genuine. I could feel it.

The door opened to the room, and she was there. She had a bag in her hands. Her head twisted towards me like a chameleon. She pressed something into my hand.

“We cut off some of his hair for you.” Her mouth moved in front of me like ghostly “o”s. Eyes, without meaning, drifted above.

I looked into my hand and saw the golden sparkles. I screamed. I flailed like an animal caught in a trap. I kicked tables, chairs, boxes, and bags of death supplies gathered from my son. “Get away!” I screamed, “Get away!”

My family absorbed the auspicious duty of after death talks. They were naturals. As for me, I ran. I moved my feet faster and faster as their voices faded away. I had to get away from the social worker. If she saw into me, they would lock me away.

On the curb, at the exit, my two family members met me. They were ready to cling and cry for hours. I wouldn’t do it. Just like those practiced rituals above, I was out. I was gross and out of place. I didn’t want their company, now. I wanted their company when my son was premature and newly home. I wanted their support when it could have saved his life. Now, I wanted to get away.

“I’m sorry,” I told them. “I can’t grieve with you. I have to go. I’m sorry. I will see you later. I have to go.”

In the  Pittsburgh winter, it had started to snow. About three-inches lay on the ground. I parked near a state store a few blocks away and went in. I left with two pints of whiskey.

“My son just died,” I told the clerk. Not much about the clerk seemed to  change. “His brother died a few months ago.” Our transaction was over.

I sat out front of the family house in my Lincoln Towncar. It had been a gift from my ex’s grandparents after my ex destroyed my car. I had escaped from him in it to protect my sons. Today, both of my sons were gone.

I made crazy promises to myself. Give me back my son. We’ll walk away on foot, leave the car, leave everyone we know. We can make it. Give us a chance. Let us show you how we can make it, Lord. Give me back at least one.

I drank one bottle and half of another before I went in. I had the phone number of a PICU nurse. We talked. I heard a voice that sounded like mine as I died and I died and I died, again. I had traded all I had for motherhood. There was nothing left.


Erik at home. I miss you, sweet baby!!

Erik at home. I miss you, sweet baby!!

 Job 14

1“Mortals, born of woman,
    are of few days and full of trouble.


Erik Goes Back, Part 5

January 14, 2013 in Uncategorized

Isaiah 40:21-24

21-24 Have you not been paying attention?
    Have you not been listening?
Haven’t you heard these stories all your life?
    Don’t you understand the foundation of all things?
God sits high above the round ball of earth.
    The people look like mere ants.
He stretches out the skies like a canvas—
    yes, like a tent canvas to live under.
He ignores what all the princes say and do.
    The rulers of the earth count for nothing.
Princes and rulers don’t amount to much.
    Like seeds barely rooted, just sprouted,
They shrivel when God blows on them.
    Like flecks of chaff, they’re gone with the wind.

Erik at home

Erik at home, in a dream

Erik hadn’t moved in nine days. His soft, pink skin and delicate features were grotesquely puffed. His tiny, five pound body held an extra ten pounds of fluid. Beneath it, I placed stack after stack of new gauze. Yellow lymph rose in beads like sweat, and then rolled down his quiet sides. Motion and sound came from the rhythm of the oscillator.

I lifted his bloated limbs like a sacrament. Every cell of my body cried, “Mother” as I changed his lymph-soaked socks for new ones. I studied each toe. I created pictures meant to last for a lifetime. Every precious detail of his body was carved into my mind. In each slice of the carving, something else was cut away.

On one little hand one was little finger. Near the nail of that finger was a tiny slit. On the last day of our life at home, I had accidentally nipped him with the nail clippers. In the PICU, the wound slowly began to heal. I studied it. My grand error. How many more invisible ones had led to this? In how many ways had I failed?

As the fluid in is body increased, a nurse warned me of the consequences. Pressure on the blood vessels would compromise blood supply to his organs. The fluid from 16 vials dripped day and night. The row of vials might as well have been gallon jugs. It was too much.

A day or so before, one doctor had come to a brilliant conclusion: give him concentrated doses of medication to decrease the amount of fluid he was receiving. As relieved as I was, it made me angry. Why hadn’t this been done from the beginning? Why had he been allowed to swell like this when it could have been minimized? Now was not the time to fight that fight. Everything was for Erik.

Piles of books lay around the bed. My life had become a rhythm of singing, talking, reading, eating, and praying–speckled lightly with sleep. I was a student of the nurses on rotation. I watched them closely as they cared for my son. Studying eyes as I asked my questions, I hoped for evidence to support my faith. Sometimes, I found it. It was enough.

Ministers had been to see me. One especially had reached my heart. He didn’t try to make poetry out of my disgusting situation. Fred was real, without flourish. He gave me the feeling that he was on my side, but never the feeling that he understood my feelings better than I. His medicines were sincerity, compassion and respect. I quieted under their effects.

Erik had been re-warmed; but he did not wake up. An optimistic Dr. Joe hadn’t crumbled. He told me that my child was very sick, but he didn’t throw him away. His kind eyes fell on Erik from his face high above my head. I stood close to him, listening to each word, often with my arms around him. He greeted me with hugs each time, more good medicine. I trusted him, and I believed him. We weren’t ready to close the door.

The other prominent doctor had continued in her way. I snarled bitterly at her back each time she left. “She wants to plan his funeral,” I would say. She casually assessed all efforts as futile. For her, Erik was already dead. Not for me.

Don’t think I was free of doubt. When I held my cheek close to his, I let my heart secretly fall open. What did I feel? Could I feel him? Did I feel a presence like the one I felt from him as he slept near my side? Was he there?

“Erik,” I whispered. “Are you there?” I waited for the movie-miracle-finger-twitch, the slight bend of a toe. I waited for an eye to move under a lid. There was nothing. In his stillness, I felt alone. But he was very sick. Maybe he was sleeping.

Around the edges of my faith, I began to consider life with no living children. My mind cracked, cracked, and cracked, again. At the foot of his bed hung Jeremiah 29:11, written out for us by our friend, Heather Allen,

11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

I wouldn’t let go of that scripture. I said it over and over, like an incantation. I lay hands on my son. I rested them gently on his tired body as I prayed and prayed and prayed. I channeled healing. I channeled love. I channeled my dreams of our future together. I saw him as a man, arm around me, kissing the top of my head.

On that vision, I broke. That vision had once been of two tall boys, not one. Now, around my daredevil faith, I sometimes saw even none. I broke, and broke, and broke.

After he had been warmed, his pupils were examined. It was hard to get his lids to separate because of the fluid. His eyes bulged like a frog’s, his tiny mouth almost turned inside out with swelling. They found his pupils. They were still.

This was not conclusive. The medical staff said more tests could be done. “Do them all,” I said. I imagined my tiny son, locked inside. I imagined him reaching for me but unable to raise his hand. I heard the voice of his heart, “Don’t leave me. Don’t abandon me.” Only when every question– every single question–was answered “no”, would I give up, give in.

On day nine, there was a sharp drop in output from his kidneys. Staff concluded that his organs were shutting down. “No,” I said. I don’t remember the details now, but immersed as I was in his medical condition, I had fair recent for crying “No”.

One nurse supported me, and through her excellent medicine, was found to be right. As a last ditch measure, she changed his catheter. Having been catheterized for so many days had traumatized his body. Pressure from fluid caused immeasurable problems.

I was breathless as I waited for her to remove the catheter. So was she. I watched the emotional energy in her steady hands, her most sincere love evident in her care. My being was one with hers as she acted, two people united in cause and prayer.

An energy shifted in my brain as I watched her. My warm, wiggling baby was on the table. He hadn’t moved for days. I did not recognize his body. This was the last fight for his life.

She inserted a new catheter and blood-tinged urine gushed. She turned to me, face bright with a holy miracle, and cried, “The catheter was blocked!”

Our triumph took the day. I watched this woman advocate for me, and feel with me, for all of the last hours of Erik’s life. I wish I knew her name so I could thank her, personally. She treated me with such compassion and dignity. Remembering her, I’m moved to tears.

With his pupils still, they scheduled an EEG. My teeth ground themselves to powder. Dr. Death was going to eat her words and I was going to live at his side for as long as it took him to recover. We’d done it this long. I would follow it on. In a way, I couldn’t wait.




Erik Goes Back, Part 4

January 10, 2013 in Uncategorized

John 5

One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?”

“Sir,” the invalid replied, “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.”

Then Jesus said to him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” At once the man was cured; he picked up his mat and walked.

Erik and Mama, home at last

Erik’s departure from the NICU had been like a dream. For months I waited for him outside of his plastic shell. Snaking arms through the portals of his den, I touched him. Downy hair on his face turned from white to gold, catching light like strands of spider’s silk. I studied the areas around the tape that held in his oxygen and feeding tubes, watchful for damage to his delicate skin. “Give me,” said my hunger, “Give me what is mine.”

As we pulled away from the hospital, I hovered above his car seat. Finally, we would be alone. Terrified to be without a monitor, I studied each breath. I would do this for as long as he lived.

That one Christmas, Erik was home. I felt royal. I carried my son like he was the Ark of the Covenant. I ferried a miracle, a survivor, a font of direction. He was both tragic and profound. Nothing else could catch my interest. My breath had no starts or stops. It was a circle, a constant flow, a round of life fed by the magic in his face.

He was tiny and he was intense. He had a look  that suggested great amusement. In him I sensed a wisdom, and a beguiling view of the world. He was beyond me already, but he loved me. I lived to serve.

Still, I sensed it. His tie to me was light. Something about him was like a puff of smoke, like a scent on the wind. He was the suggestion of a child, a spirit in human form. As he moved in my arms and at my breast, he reached into me deeply. With his tiny hands he smoothed out my knots, broke off old ties, and remade me. I surrendered to his work.

That Christmas, there was a small family gathering. Constantly Nursing Erik was on my lap. Some moved in the kitchen while a few sat uncomfortably across the room. Nursing Erik made them uncomfortable. My frequently exposed breast dampened the holiday cheer.

When dinner was served, Erik was nursing. I let the family know we would be done soon and hoped that they could give us ten minutes to get to the table. By the time we got there, the meal was done. I sat down to Erik’s only Christmas dinner at home as the dishes were being cleared.

My feelings were hurt, but I stepped back to regroup. I carried the Ark of the Covenant, the creator of dreams. In the end, the prize was mine. Christmas dinner alone could be endured. I licked my wounds in Erik’s soft glow and kept my eyes down.

Down. I looked down at my son that morning of the 5th and saw his face was blue. “You’ll know!” the staffed at Allegheny General had laughed. “If he stops breathing, you’ll know.”  He had. I knew.

When he was in the NICU he’d stopped breathing several times. Monitors alerted nurses instantly and a slight rub was all that was needed to start his breathing. A monitor lets you know right away so you can act. I was asleep. I was alone. There was no one and nothing on watch over this fragile infant. When you think about it, it is almost insane. Why no monitor? What do you lose by giving it?

Now, Christmas dinner sat in me bitterly. Why couldn’t they have waited ten minutes to eat? Why were Erik and I alone that morning? I called on God to show me compassion and generosity, and He did. Along the way, however, I felt the bitter mire of disappointment, betrayal, and heart-ache. It added to the sadness and set me adrift.

I remember the feeling of my footfalls. Well polished halls punched the bottoms of my heels sending echoes into my core. I thoroughly mapped the inside of my shell with the ricochet of my own inquisitions. I had ferocious faith. No one could stop me. I felt like a carnivore with nothing to hunt, hungry and on alert. This was a game to outfox death. It could not have another one of my children.

I made my life a prayer. Each step, each chew, each motion of my body had my attention focused on God. I won’t say that I did it well, only that I did it with a feeling of panicked urgency that makes me sick to recall. We are so helpless and this world so brutal. I acted with power. I acted as if.

Erik had continued to swell. He was now easily twice his normal size. I began to see yellow droplets on his skin. I spoke to one of his nurses, “What is this?” I asked. “Lymph,” she told me. He was so full of fluid that it was leaking out through his skin.

They had begun to change his bedding more frequently because of the slow drip of lymph. Gauze pads caught it where it pooled under his extremities. When I noticed them doing this, I took over that job. It made me feel like I was still parenting him. Instead of nursing, I pumped. Instead of holding him, I replaced the damp gauze with dry ones.

Life took on a rhythm. We pumped, we ate, we watched, we prayed and we slept. I say “we” because I watched my friend, Heather, do it beside me. Her presence in my life was the warmth I needed to live each day. As I stood next to my still son, I could feel Heather at my back. Without touching, she squeezed my hand. We went on.

It was suggested that a revived Erik would face major challenges. I still said, “No way.” It was still not written on paper that he had been responsive, crying and fighting the vent back at Wetzel County Hospital. To me, that was a sticking point. Sure, maybe they were right. But from my experience, there was a chance that they weren’t.

I went to the hospital library and checked out books. I read to him and sang to him for hours. I could feel the energy burning, something pushing from behind. Jostled and frightened, I dug in my heels. My son was innocent. He went against the odds. I would not give up.

erik at five pounds, up 1 since leaving the NICU

Where there were obstacles, I sought to smash them. I would smash them with prayer. I wore faith like a garment. Each moment I took away from Erik I spent on the phone feeding prayer chains and circles across the country. Countless prayers went out from places unknown. We were blanketed with prayer.

In the back of my heart there was another thought. Losing Arthur was “punishment enough”, if I was being punished. Sometimes, it’s hard to know. Was this a thorough ass-kicking for my list of  unrighted wrongs? Surely, losing one child was enough. Losing both of my children was unthinkable. What then? How could I live? I wouldn’t think about it. I would keep my vigil, and I would pray.

Each night, I stayed with Erik well past bedtime. In the cool, low lights of nighttime, I dabbed his skin. I watched for changes. I waited for tests, and for answers and for hope. He had woken up in West Virginia. He was crying, then. He was trying to breathe. He responded to me. What had happened? Where was he now?

“Come back,” I whispered at each night’s good-byes. “I love you, Erik. Mama needs you. Come back.”




Erik Goes Back, Part 3

January 7, 2013 in Uncategorized

Psalm 103

  He forgives all your sins *
and heals all your infirmities;
  He redeems your life from the grave *
and crowns you with mercy and loving-kindness


We were only home for two weeks and two days. The routine of the hospital was familiar. I sat by his bed, I ate food in the cafeteria, and when it got late, I slept.

I had said on the 5th that I was in family housing, but I was confused. I actually didn’t get into family housing for several days. For the first three days I entered a hospital lottery for the few sleeping spaces they had available on site. After signing up for a daily drawing, you waited to see if you would have a bed that night. If you weren’t selected, there was no place to go.

An ache of hope rose from the spaces we shared. The first night, I lay elbow to elbow with a dozen others in a room crammed with cots. Another night, I shared a closet-sized room with a frantic woman woman who paced more than slept. I met them at the edge, the brittle place where we twiddled with sanity. Unblinking eyes waited for morning, hot moons afloat on seas of tears. We burned holes in the ceiling, sparse light catching the glitter of our eyes, and waited.

Erik’s I.V. was connected to 16 different tubes of liquid medication. They warned me that his tiny kidneys couldn’t process all that fluid and that he would begin to swell. Within a few days, I no longer recognized him. His body lay dressed in only a diaper and socks as they were keeping him cold. Elastic dented his fluid filled legs, and the lids of his eyes bulged. The delicate curves of his ears became oddly translucent, puffed to an unnatural roundness under the pressure from within. I pressed my lips to them and whispered, “Mama is here, Erik. Come back to me. Come back.”

They told me that the cold would keep him unconscious. Only after they warmed him would we wait for him to respond. Until then, he lay spread like a frog pinned down for dissection. Limbs splayed, head faced to the sky, the delicate casing of his skin was tested as it stretched and stretched and stretched.

The ventilator was stressful for his tiny lungs. They switched him to another machine called an oscillator. The oscillator delivered air in tiny, rapid puffs and shook his bed and body like he was riding on a train. The chug chug chug of the equipment rattled our corner spot on the PICU floor sounding like a sputtering engine. Now, when I lay my head next to him, I vibrated with the unnatural jiggle of the aggressive machine. Even more of him had been taken. I prayed, and sought a place of peace.

I drifted more and more towards my new friend, Heather. She was Everett’s mother, and kept the same constant vigil as I. We talked quietly, held hands, prayed, and insisted on making our present lives our history. We plucked at faith, chewed its fruits, and helped one another to insist on healing.

I stood with her at Everett’s bed. In his three-month-old neck was a tube thicker than my thumb. Another was placed somewhere under his sheet. A machine called an ECMO served as a complete heart/lung bypass. “He choked on my milk,” Heather told me, kind eyes aching in a velvet rim of red. Later, she would learn that he had a rare genetic condition. It wasn’t her fault. Everett muscles were weak and he could not swallow. When our children hurt we always blame ourselves.

I looked at Everett’s face as he rested. His thick, dark brown hair glittered at the temple with copper and gold. He was beautiful. He was perfect. The tube in his neck drew out his blood, circulating it through an enormous machine. It was impossible to conceive. It was so unnatural.

Everything that took place there was an experiment. As a teaching hospital, many procedures were new or being tested. Keeping Erik cold was an experiment. Maybe it would help him; maybe it wouldn’t. When rounds were made, I stayed close by. I saw the clutch of doctors, students, residents and interns moving towards us like a common body. I waited to add my voice, and to hear theirs.

There were two doctors on rotation. One was a tall man with a loving face who erred on the side of hope (I came to learn later that he is internationally recognized). The other was a woman, practical and cold, who I came to call a funeral director.Each day, as the man came around he would review Erik’s case, and look for options. Each day, as the woman came around, she planned my son’s funeral. I came to hate her. He hadn’t even been warmed. There were more tests to be done. I would not let her steal my hope.

I ached for the NICU. I hated the NICU. At Children’s Hospital, NICU protocol was to keep babies until they weighed at least five pounds. Erik had been sent home at four. At Children’s Hospital, preemies went home with a monitor. When I had begged for one at Allegheny General, they laughed at me.

I ate my fury. I ate the words of Doctor Death and I ate my rage for Allegheny General. I felt it shooting through me with each heel strike as I walked the halls of Children’s Hospital. I force-fed myself on faith, and the assurance that my son, my only living son, would continue to live.


Erik Goes Back, Part 2

January 6, 2013 in Uncategorized

Psalm 72

11   All kings shall bow down before him, *
and all the nations do him service.
12   For he shall deliver the poor who cries out in distress, *
and the oppressed who has no helper.
13   He shall have pity on the lowly and poor; *
he shall preserve the lives of the needy.
14   He shall redeem their lives from oppression and violence, *
and dear shall their blood be in his sight.

They took Erik by helicopter to Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh. I wasn’t allowed to join the transport team. I slipped into another tunnel, tight as a glove. It moved my car towards Pittsburgh.

Judy and her husband, Russ, stuck to me like glue. My brain was vibrating from shock. At once a mouthful of screams and an emergency in motion, I set out to claw together necessities and get on the road.

Judy and Russ stood with me at the mouth of the drive. They wanted to take me. They wanted to carry me. But my need was for silence. I couldn’t risk exposure to a misplaced word, one that might send me into fits of agony. “At least you have another one,” some had said when Arthur died. If I heard something similar, I would snap.

When I got to Pittsburgh I learned Erik was classified as a brain death; yet a few hours before he was crying, fighting and responding to me. I told them what I’d experienced and they were shocked. One doctor said, “We thought it was brain death because of the swollen lung, but we wondered why it was only on one side.” Wetzel County Hospital had not reported his condition prior to sedation.

I refused to accept an answer of death. Suspended by faith since the season of my narrow escape from Arkansas, I slapped plaster on, hammered supports to and threw weather-proof tarps over my collapsing faith. With new ferocity I stood on promises rung white in my grip. My son would live.

Like the rest of the broken mothers in the PICU, my path was laid to the pump room. Erik would not be growling and wriggling at my breast anymore. The Hospitals ferocious machines were ready to efficiently have me, and I would submit.

I hate the pump. I hate it. With my babe at my breast, we are a life joined as one. Torn at by the machine, I feel an unnatural and reluctant union. It triggers anxiety and pain around still-too-recent abuse. My babe at my breast night-and-day had been like a vacation. Now, the mechanical mouth waited for its meal.

In the plain of my lap hands jerked painfully. They struggled to rise, reluctant fledglings fluttering shakily down, again and again. Shoulders trembled above them with the heave of my sobs. The rise of wails filled the pump room. Plastic-on-plastic squeaked and clacked in the assembly of the machine. The sound was coarse, gutteral and impossible to bear.

Lost in sobs, my hand hovered somewhere near the power button. All that I was bore down on the switch and the mechanized animal roar its waking hunger. My head went back; my milk was devoured. The sweet, soft mouth of my babe was gone. My baby was gone. The separation seared me through like hot iron as I contracted against the panic and grief.

The Hospital had a Family House. A bed, a kitchen and transport were available. They gave nursing mothers free meals. I was one among many which, in itself, is an unusual experience. All the ways in which I was different from these other mothers fell away. We were a clan of the fearful hiding in  hope from the ragged jaws of grief. We would not be next.

I prepared for a miracle. I got books to read him, thought of songs to sing him, did all I could to break through the silence. I was at his bed from early morning until late at night. I rested my cheek near his tiny body, cool and still. The doctors were keeping him below body temperature to prevent brain swelling. When they warmed him up in three days, we might have some answers.

Next to my son’s bed was Everett Allan’s. They shared nearly the same birthday, though Everett looked like a plump, healthy little boy. Still, his condition was grave. I watched the back of his mother, long red curls waving above her quiet son. Eyes red with tears shone softly, tender soul bare for any who would see.

In the PICU, all patient areas were open to one another. His mother and I drew together near our common boundaries. Neither wanted to step away from her child. We took turns admiring babies, listening to hopes and fears, and just standing close. A camaraderie formed in our world outside of the world. We leaned in.

I had no idea how long he had. I dug in to see it through, to see my son back home, again. I would not accept this. It would not happen, again. I would raise this son.

In the dark night of the PICU, I kissed my child. I knew he would be there in the morning. With my whole being transformed into a living, walking, breathing prayer, I went back to the family house to rest.

Erik and Mama


Erik Goes Back, Part 1

January 5, 2013 in Uncategorized

Hebrews 11:35-12:2

35 Women received back their dead, raised to life again. There were others who were tortured, refusing to be released so that they might gain an even better resurrection. 36 Some faced jeers and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. 37 They were put to death by stoning;[a] they were sawed in two; they were killed by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated— 38 the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, living in caves and in holes in the ground.

39 These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised, 40 since God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.

12 Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Five years ago today, my sweet son, Erik, went back to the hospital for the last time.

On the 18th of December 2007, they announced that Erik was going home. The following day he would be ejected from the NICU. I had no baby supplies at home, had made no preparations. My sons were born at 28 weeks. I had been at the Ronald McDonald House since. I was not ready.

He weighed only four pounds and had only been off of tube feedings for a few days. He had spent one night outside of his isolette, and none disconnected from the vigilant monitors. I was shocked. “No,” I told them. He wasn’t ready. We needed more time to be observed as a nursing pair, and Erik needed more time to grow.

They laughed at me. “You worry too much!”  Erik had stopped breathing several times in the NICU. The nurses were alerted by the alarm connected to his monitor. “He needs a monitor at home,” I told them. They laughed some more.

“How am I going to know he’s still breathing?”

Belly laughs, and a casual, “You’ll know.”

Panic began to take me. Everything in this NICU happened without warning. Flash: you are nursing. Flash: no more isolette. Flash: you are going home. I waited for the next Flash.

Do you know how small a four pound baby is? Without holding one in your arms it is hard to comprehend. The sight of my tiny son bundled for his “car-seat test” dwarfed him even beyond my own understanding. As I looked at him I wondered how he was going to survive.

Our last night in the hospital we were given a special good-bye room. Erik slept next to my bed. If he survived the night without incident we’d be set adrift in the morning. In the morning, we were both still alive. They sent us home.


I knew what the hospital was doing. They wanted to say he’d be home for Christmas. Part of me liked the idea, but the bigger part did not. His isolette was decorated with my Christmas drawings and cut-outs. I was happy to stay in the NICU if it meant him coming home stronger and more ready to live without constant monitoring. I sent out a scatter-shot of words, “At least give us a monitor.” It echoed back as a laugh.

The evening of December 20th they sent us home. They wheeled us out like a new mother and babe; and with a bit of pomp and worn-out fanfare, we launched. I felt myself break on the rack of grief. Battle-worn from the NICU, I felt like a fraud. My face sought the sky as I choked on tears. When would I get my answers? Where was my child?

I was short one babe. Nothing could change that. In the hall, the sound of two little boys grew distant behind me. The days following Arthur’s death, two ghostly boys has flitted in my shadows. A laugh would nearly sound at the edge of my ear. I grieved what I was missing, the joy of my beautiful pair as I moved toward the identity I rejected, the mother of only one living son.

Erik was in my arms. Finally, no plastic between us, he was in my arms., No one could say when to stop holding him. He was mine, and we were free. My heart surged again and again against the same rock, cracking. My mind built boxes and locks for those boxes as the free reign of my heart learned boundaries. I was bringing home my son! But my joy waited behind a thick, black wall of grief. In many ways, it is waiting there still. Grief was my new life.

It felt wrong. The whole ride home I watched him. No tubes. No wires. The forceful beak of Allegheny General had ejected him as a fledging; yet beneath his pile of blankets lay a naked chick. I was scared. His quietness might represent peace or death. I coveted the monitors at Allegheny General. Resentment rose in my gorge.

Two weeks and two days. That is how long we had. I didn’t know it on that two-hour car long ride home. We stopped twice for Erik to nurse, me so anxious and exhilarated, him unaccustomed to the unending offering of warm flesh and milk. More and more we merged, a nursing pair at last.


Those two weeks and two days were magic. Erik’s hunger for human contact was ferocious. As he nursed, two fists gripped themselves nearly white as tiny growls insistently surged. I laughed when he nursed. He sounded like a Tasmanian devil. If you’ve never heard one, listen to their sounds on YouTube. That was Erik at the breast. Tiny fists worked, legs pumped, and his warm little body squirmed closer to mine with and between each suckle. He nursed like he was starving. He had waited for me for so long.


His stomach was the size of a raisin. he would nurse for and hour-and-a-half, pass out, and then wake up fifteen minutes later to nurse again. I got less sleep than when he was in the NICU. I didn’t care. He was finally mine. This was the life I had imagined, and I loved it.

What bliss. My sleeplessness only merged with my euphoria. A soft envelope of joy suspended me over a sea of snakes. I turned my back to the writhing as much as I could to drink in the miracle in front of me. Erik needed me. Grief would have me forever. More boxes rose up from the blunt force of my hammer.

For the first two weeks and one day, I had help. After two weeks and two days, I was on my own. Sleepless but focused, we were going to be alone together for the very first time. I still wanted help; but just like the forceful ejection from Allegheny General in Pittsburgh, this wasn’t my choice. Erik and I were alone.


It was around 9:30 a.m. We had been awake all night. Finally full, you fell asleep. Completely exhausted, I decided to nap.

Your face was like an angel, Erik. You were an impossible miracle alive on the earth. Everything about you said wisdom. Your bemused look at the world reflected it. I was waiting to hear what your gorgeous thoughts were thinking, Erik. I watched your smiling face as you were sleeping, watched the golden glow of the sun lift behind you. I wanted to know you.

You were gone. I snapped awake with a fear, fixing on the blue of your face. “Erik!” I lifted you and blew. Once before you had done this. I blew in your face and you revived. That had been about a week ago. Again, they laughed and said I worried. Brief examinations showed nothing wrong and the issue was dropped. I blew again, started CPR, and dialed 911.

I had no help. I don’t really know CPR. I reflected back on my high school health class and did the best I could. I continued CPR as I put on my shoes and talked to 911 on the phone. They couldn’t find my house. I had to call back.

My son was limp and blue. I couldn’t feel. A nerve plugged into a brain, I buzzed like a downed electrical line flailing imitations of life against the snow. I screamed at the ambulance as it passed once, then twice and then three times, unable to locate my street.

When they finally pulled in and took my son from me, I fell. On my knees, I pressed my face into the gravel and screamed. Screams and screams turned into prayers that turned into a long slide through another narrow tunnel even more confounding than the first. This is one of the last pictures I have of Erik. This was the shirt they cut off of him in the emergency room as they struggled with how to resuscitate an infant so small.


They weren’t prepared. I heard what they were saying. They didn’t have equipment to treat a baby that small. They struggled to intubate him, did an x-ray and found they’d pushed the tube in too far. His lung was damaged. They backed the tube out, shifted him on the bed, and ripped out the whole apparatus. It began again, was inserted too far, another x-ray was done, and his lung was traumatized further. I sat and watched. I went dead.

Someone was touching me with something that felt like love. It was a nurse. Her eyes were looking at me, her hands were about me and her voice was leaking into my ears. I wanted it. She said she was calling someone, a minister; and a woman appeared. His wife. Her name was Judy. She never left me.

I want to say it was smooth sailing from then on. In truth, Wetzel County Hospital continued to let us down. After Erik was resuscitated, they called me over to talk to him. He was crying. He was fighting the ventilator. He was responding to my voice.

None of that was recorded. Instead, they almost immediately administered paralytic drugs and prepped him for transport. I begged them not to sedate him in his fragile state. The staff, untrained in the care of babies like my son, said it was protocol. Heavy sedation was administered. I never saw him awake, again.

At Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh, Erik lay in an open-sided isolette. They knew he wasn’t going to move. What happened to the crying baby I had seen in New Martinsville? I asked my question into the dark to a PICU nurse who had no answers. The Hospital had taken him back.

… be continued


Hope and a Future

December 31, 2012 in Uncategorized

Jeremiah 29:11

11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

The morning was still dark. I crawled deeper into the sanctuary of the blankets. I wasn’t ready. Little murky lists of undone things and must-be-done things nipped at me from within. Twisting away from one forced me to face another. Ten more minutes of unconsciousness, could it be had, would bolster me.

The familiar silhouette of my dearest one popped into the blue-gray path of my deeply smeared vision. Without glasses, the whole world looks like large, colored clots of wool. In the blue-grey haze, he was bouncing.

“Tiiiiiiiiime to get up!” My rooster had crowed. Beneath the blanket, this hen ruffled her feathers. “Not without coffee.”

This is a daily negotiation. Will he stay for less than five minutes without me while I go get milk and water for coffee? He never wants to stay. Often, it’s raining. In recent weeks, early mornings are cold. We negotiate. We Skype.

Frost glittered at my elbows as I walked the familiar path to the big house. The forecast said rain/snow mix. I didn’t hold out hope of real snow. My little one’s face bobbed in front of the camera. “Mama? Mama? Hi! Where are you!”  I watch him like he’s a miracle. He’s a miracle. I put love in my gas tank, which could still use some coffee. I can make this day o.k.

Back from the frosted tufts of Kris’s backyard, coffee began. We hunkered down inside, filling our atmosphere with warmth. Christmas lights strung over our window twinkled on the milky surface of our cups. I prayed to let a little of that sparkle shine out from within, and I reached for my sewing box.

Energy sparked as craft supplies covered the bed. J has always loved my sewing box. Careful hands examined one needle at a time as I handed him the ones he requested. A tiny finger touched each tip, “Ow!” or “Not too bad!” often came back to me. Finally, we found the round tipped yarn needle, and he got to work.

With an unused Christmas card, a crop-a-dile, and some yarn, we created a hanging for our front door. (In the Episcopal Church, you celebrate Christmas for 12 days, until Epiphany. Making Christmas decorations and cookies, singing Christmas songs, and all other Christmas-y stuff is still on.) The bottom of the card said, “Happy Holidays”. He insisted I cut it off, but not damage it.

“We’ll hang this up, too!” he said. That way everyone will know we are holiday people!”

He thrilled at the feel of punching the holes, of passing the long, slick needle through hole after hole. Together, a new thing came to life. “This is fun!” he cried. I let myself enjoy a small moment of success.

When it was done, he was ready to hang it. “Put it right out front! Let everybody know!”  I opened the door and froze. It was snowing. It seemed it might even be sticking. “Babe, let’s go for a walk.”

He was ready. He wanted to shovel. I couldn’t find his shovel (I am afraid we left it at Saint Ann’s). He wanted to eat snow. I put a bowl outside to catch some for our return. “Around the block…” I told myself. I didn’t want to be cold. I didn’t want to be wet; but it doesn’t snow in this part of Washington; we had to go out.

The snow was over an inch thick by the time we left. I forgot that I wanted to stay home. I was warm in my coat and everything was pretty. The boy practically leapt as he collected the energy of nature. His bounce took on a skipping motion, and his arms swung in a rhythm that paid it compliment. Handfuls of wet, perfect snow compressed and flew, polka-dotting our coats with celebration. We laughed. We played.


I found a semi-sanitary row of parking barriers, one where cars never actually park. I scooped up snow. Lost in the white sky was the expulsion of a nearby paper mill. It snows once a year in Washington. One taste…

I ate it. Crisp and clean, it tasted like good water. “Can I?!?!?” The bounce, with the strength of snowflakes, became a vault.

“Here comes Susie Snowflake,
dressed in a snow-white gown,
tap tap tapping at your window pane
to tell you she’s in town!”

I sang without shame in the streets; but that is how I usually do it. Lacking some kind of natural barriers, I am a natural at making myself the fool. Still, singing is more joyful than composure, so I sang.

“If you want to build a snowman
I’ll help you make one one-tw0-three!
If you want to take a sleigh ride,
the ride’s on me!”

As we came to a corner, we saw a family playing. A mother, father, young girl and tiny boy scooped snow as they talked. “Look!” I cried, “People! Let’s go talk to them!”.

At the same time I said it, I felt regret. Over exuberant public singing is one thing. Rejection sucks; but I’m perpetually self-conscious and perpetually hopeful.

J turned to me, “Can I go, Mama??”

“Of course!” I told him, “Go!”

My ambassador blazed the trail while I measured. The sad little girl in me had a different pace, even as my heart ran ahead. Were we going to be o.k.?

With each snowball, I studied the faces of our accidental friends. Slowly, conversation began. Soon, we were cooperating to build not one, but two snow people out of the Washington snow. So precious and rare, we would elevate it even higher through a community of laborers.

The little girl and I started first. “I am so glad you came here today,” this six-year-old told me. “You need to give us your phone number so we can play, again.”

My heart jumped up. I looked at the mother. She wasn’t frowning! A tiny trill, like the rise of a flute, lit inside me. Friends?

Soon, our activities crisscrossed the yard, lifted on the sweet buoyancy of fellowship. The mother and I touched minds, and hearts soon followed. We shared so many of the same values. Small children, like magical sprites leapt around us. “Children are a gift!” I offered. “If only more people realized that!” echoed my new friend. A bond was budding.

The little girl, Abby, and I rolled like we meant it. “Yours is bigger than mine,” she lamented. “I don’t want the biggest one,” I told her. “I only want to be a part.” Together we constructed not one, but two snow people. “We should make them kissing,” she said.

As time took itself back, bit by bit, Abby continued to extend and invite. We had already been invited for numerous meals and play-dates when she said, “Do you want to come in and eat? My dad will cook for you.”

In her tiny face shone the love of Christ; and most especially, the Christ of Christmas. In the fresh and fragile essence of a babe came the message of something new. It came as a child, delicate as a child, without rigidness, without ferocity, without pomp. A humble hand, a tiny hand, reached for us. In the gesture, a simple invitation: Love.

I leaned over and I rolled. I heard her father cry out, “It was your idea, and now you are not doing the work!” I answered back, “I don’t mind!” I finished the sentence in my mind, “I love to serve.” I served the purpose of joy. I served the purpose of fellowship, I served the purpose of love.


After over an hour, it was clear my babe and I weren’t prepared for the snow. The yard’s bounty of white had been smashed, rolled and thrown almost to it’s own end. “Ow!” cried my boy, and a shocking, sock-less foot slipped out of his boot. It’s as if his toes have built in sock ejectors. I can’t keep them on. I was horrified as I surveyed the pink, sock-less toes.

Within moments, our new mama friend, Emily, had a solution. She had shoes, and dry socks, ready to share. I looked toward her and opened to to God. With a nod, she was holding his feet.

Bent over him, she slipped on warm purple socks and small sneakers as I stood back and watched. In the bend of her head I saw our own Mary. From our conversations, her essence was more radiant than snow. She was a sister, serving in love. I rested in the unexpected love of the day. The Spirit was alive. The Spirit was carrying us.

I woke up so tired. I didn’t want to go one step. As life’s requirements propelled me as our God of Love took my hand. Like a relay runner, I grabbed the baton. Later, with a snowy glove, I passed it.

When we got home we were soaked and tired, but we glowed with promise and peace. New friends! Abby promised us a play date. A new life! God promises peace. In the bliss of God’s own sanctuary, we celebrate it all.



Richie Mylar, Let Your Gentleness Be Known

December 16, 2012 in Uncategorized

Philippians 4:4-7

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Richie Mylar (Richard E. Mylar) sat across from me in the fourth grade. In our odd, round, experimental school house, rooms had open fronts. In those rooms, we were often clumped as grouped desks or tables that divided us into 3′s or 4′s. In my and Richie’s case, we were two.

To me, Richie seemed a wild animal. He pressed towards me across the table on his forearms, fists made into balls. “I’m going to kill your mother,” he told me. “And your cat. With my .22.” His sea-blue eyes cut the air between us. Unattended red hair spiked from his head in dull tufts. No one had combed it. No one had cared for his clothes. How did this boy even make it to school?

From across the table, I saw a boy’s face. It was hungry, dirty and full of rage. Even to my young eyes it was clear: no one was caring for this child. My world was soft. The difference terrified me. Day after day, he leaned into me to describe his plans. The stress wore me down. Finally, I told my mother.

My mother entered that classroom like the blade of a knife. Her eyes burned a path as she headed for Richie. Moving sideways on her crutches through an isle of desks and tables, her target was clear. Richie had made a terrible mistake. He had entered a grizzly’s den.

Of course, I had no idea what happened between them. I only knew the sight of my own mother frightened even me as she maneuvered down that isle. When I turned to see her coming, I was scorched to the gut by the burn of her fixed eye. She spoke directly to Richie, and then escorted him away.

After, there was a sudden peace. Richie didn’t pick on me anymore. He didn’t even behave strangely toward me. It was just over. For the rest of our school years, Richie raised a friendly arm to me and met me with a genuine smile. In fact, I shortly grew to like him, and he me. Nothing had changed in his hard life, but he brought no grief to mine. He was a friend, though distant, and he offered real warmth.

Actually, the incident in fourth grade was an isolated one. The year before he had made the friendly offer to share some crawdads. Secreted under his third grade desk was a pot borrowed from his home kitchen. In it were countless crawdads that he had caught. He whispered to me about the various colors and sizes he’d discovered. His little scientist marveled at their differences, displaying them with pride. I took home three, a gift from Richie.

My senior year was irregular. Forced to change schools for twelfth grade, I was separated from Richie, and the rest of my class. At the end of our senior year, luck crossed our paths for one last moment before we thrust ourselves into the world.  In a gas station in Paden City, suddenly, he was next to me. His sea-blue eyes hung on a backdrop of red, and his smile was ready for me, along with a hug.

“You know, I still have nightmares about your mother!” he said. “I dream about her coming after me with those crutches!” I looked into his face and swam with worry. “Richie, please, take care of yourself. Stay away from drinking. Stay away from drugs.” I don’t remember the content of his response; but it was delivered with a hug, a shrug and a blessing as we drifted apart and into the world.

I worried so much about what would happen to Richie. Alcohol and drugs are common ways that young people self-medicate when their lives are full of fear and pain. It often leads to addiction. To me, he was the neglected boy from fourth grade. A fragile child had been brutalized, and then abandoned at the edge of life’s road. What kind of miracle would life demand from this one? Never taught the skills of life, how does one survive?

Whenever I talked to someone back home, I asked about Richie. When I got news, it was never good. Richie struggled with drugs, sometimes stole to support his habit, sometimes shared a stash for the very same reason. Everything about him was defined by the degree of trouble he was in. Never violent, never cruel, Richie’s path was more painful for him than anyone else; yet, the neglected child that grew into this man was forgotten. Now, he was just a villain.

In 2007, I was running for my life. More than for me, I was running for the lives of my boys. Arthur and Erik were stirring inside me, and I wanted safety more than anything on earth. Back in West Virginia, my rattled nerves reverberated off of the tight gaps in the hills. I kept my hand to my stomach, soothed my babes, and held on. I hoped to see Richie; but I didn’t.

Life plucked those children from me, one by one. From deep in my grief, I reached up with a desperate hope. I created J. From abuse, to NICU life, to grief, to new motherhood, to grief, to expectant motherhood, again: I felt so broken. I was happily pregnant, but I was worn.

My feet rocked against wooden floor of the TruValue Hardware Store in Paden City, where my aunt worked. My pregnant belly was robed in checkers as my worried eyes darted around the room. Abuse had made me cagey, while motherhood had made me calm. In the middle of my half relaxed, half tensed state, Richie walked in.

I froze, and I gaped. “Are you Richie Mylar!?”

His smile awoke like a flower. His voice, husky with time, said my name. I started to cry.

I cried as he hugged me. I saw that young boy. I saw his dull, red hair clumped over his eyes. I heard all the rumors and relived the articles from the paper. Sweet Richie. Look what life had done.

He gave me his phone number, but late pregnancy and new motherhood filled up my world. When I went to look for Richie, he was gone.

An article in the Tylar Star News from December of 2008 describes his sentencing hearing. Richie was going back to prison for attempted breaking and entering. It wasn’t until after he was gone that I heard. His brother happened to become my neighbor. He told me where to send a letter.

When I heard Richie was coming home, I sent word with his brother. “Stop and see us!”  He never did. I wasn’t surprised. I know how hectic life can get. Still, I worried.

Then, last Christmas, I ran into him in the store. “Erika!” his sea-blue eyes fell right on me. I felt a full, round touch on my soul. We touched shoulders and gripped forearms as we spoke, exchanging bits of news and our personal lives. “Have you been working?” he asked me.

When I told him no, there was a break in our chatter. Richie reached for his wallet, without pause.

“Merry Christmas, Erika,” he said, pressing money into my hand.

I protested, but Richie would not take it back. It was fifteen dollars. There was little green left in the brown leather folds of his wallet after he gave it to me. “No,” he said. “Please.”

In life’s shuffle, five of those dollars were spent. The other ten stays folded in my wallet, just as he handed it to me. I won’t spend it. This is a reminder of a gift. It is a reminder of the touch of Christ that came to me through Richie Mylar, and a tie back to our beloved friend.

I heard recently that Richie is back in jail, this time, for selling prescription drugs. I looked up the article in the Wetzel Chronicle. The accompanying photograph made me snort out a bitter laugh. A bit of money was spread around to look like a lot. A few pipes for smoking marijuana were pictured, along with a small bag of weed. There were also five pill bottles. Richie did have legitimate prescriptions for some things. I know friends with far more bottles than he. What I saw in that picture was an addict’s stash, and a few pills slung to maintain it. This man needed compassion, love, treatment and life skills, not more wasted time in jail.

After searching the internet, I found an article about his 2008 arrest. He was worried about returning to jail because the last time he was incarcerated they had denied him his cancer medication. When I read that, I burst into tears.

Tonight, I talked with a friend of Richie’s son. She told me about Richie from her perspective. With the skills that come only from the heart, he had loved his boy. Even if he didn’t always know how to be the perfect father, he was a father. He was present with love. That was more than Richie had ever known, but he had found a way to give it.

This Christmas, Richie will be in jail. How many Christmases has he spent there? What were his Christmases like as a child? How many tiny ones are following in his footsteps, right now?

In Richie’s hometown, they seem to revel in maligning him. Where he came from is a thing of the past. He is, as he has always been, an easy target. Yet, let’s think about Jesus for a minute. What kind of people did Jesus hang around with? What seed of goodness did he see in their hearts?

When I am feeling all out of hope, I take out that ten dollar bill. I see Richie’s face, and see the warmth of his eyes. In his act of love, he was lifted. A life like Richie’s is full of forgotten moments like that. Sometimes it’s a few crawdads, sometimes it’s a few dollars, but every time it comes from a place deep inside that he’s learned to tap on his own. It comes from a place that is pure.

Please, this Christmas season, let’s remember Richie in our prayers.

And if you have a moment, please send him a hand written note to let him know he is not forgotten. GREETING CARDS ARE NOT ALLOWED BY THE JAIL

Richard E. Mylar
Northern Correctional Facility
RD 2 Box 1
Moundsville, WV 26041


Luke 23:32-43

32 Two other men, both criminals, were also led out with him to be executed. 33 When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him there, along with the criminals—one on his right, the other on his left. 34 Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”[a] And they divided up his clothes by casting lots.

35 The people stood watching, and the rulers even sneered at him. They said, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is God’s Messiah, the Chosen One.”

36 The soldiers also came up and mocked him. They offered him wine vinegar 37 and said, “If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself.”

38 There was a written notice above him, which read: this is the king of the jews.

39 One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

40 But the other criminal rebuked him. “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence? 41 We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”

42 Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.[b]

43 Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”


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