meditations in Advent

liturgically 

there are four Sundays in Advent 

this current calendar year 

is the shortest Advent can be

we had ten days between

Thanksgiving

and the first Sunday

like a pre-Advent

waiting to wait

in those days

I thought to put up a tree

switch out my everyday china

for green and gold

but I kept waiting

I don't know why

if you want something done

just do it

the first Sunday of Advent

was my grandmother's birthday

and our first without her

she was born during Advent

and she died during Advent

but I don't think she died

waiting for anything

I think she was tired of waiting for

the reunion with my grandfather

(he died during the previous Epiphany)

she went almost an entire liturgical calendar without him

but did not wish to experience

the shortest season

(Christmas, a mere 12 days)

without him

she didn't need to complete the cycle

she died exactly 48 weeks after him

because she wanted to

we buried her during 

the 12-day season

we sang Oh Come All Ye Faithful while entering the church 

and Hark! The Herald Angels Sing while exiting 

we all struggle(d) 

our hearts so hurt and sad

someone else said

grief is love with nowhere to go

but the seasonless love she showed me

lives on through me

I have tried to redirect my love for her

into my children

into my spouse 

into my village

to try to find the divine 

in the waiting 

in the in betweens

both the journeys and the destinations 

I have tried to 

have patience and grace 

in the in betweens

there are two liturgical seasons 

where we wait 

the four Sundays before Jesus is born

and the forty-seven days before he dies 

the bookends

candles being lit and extinguished 

entering and exiting

carrying forth the torch that her soul was and is

waiting for birthdays and deathdays 

observing them with celebration 

bring out the decorations and light and heirlooms 

celebrate having known this love 

celebrate knowing this love

wait for the warmth of cherished memories 

find places for your love to go

grieve 

and wait again 

Eileen Watts Griffith

I wrote the following on a plane, on the evening of December 16. I read it to my grandmother on the morning of December 17. She died at high noon on December 18.

My mother suggested we publish it in her funeral program. I'm publishing it here, too, so that those of you who could not attend can know her a little better.

*

I asked my mother who would give your eulogy, and she said you felt the same way about them that Granddaddy did. [He loathed them.]

I’m disappointed, because I always expected to give your eulogy. But just because I won’t read it in a church doesn’t mean I can’t write it. And, also, when have you shied away from being the center of attention?!

Should I start with the fact that you never met a stranger? For most people, this is a cliché; for you, it was a way of life. For a woman whose work was unpaid, you were a master networker. I’ve never known anyone as good at making everyone around her feel welcomed, at ease, as if they were talking to an old friend. This trait served you and your family very well at places like Disney World, where you’d connect with a person early in his career and watch him rise while he elevated your status, too.

Wait. I guess if I was giving a real eulogy I’d start with myself. (I also like being the center of attention.)

Good afternoon, all. Thank you for being here. I’m Emmy Murray, neé Emily Watts Remington. I am, among lesser titles, the first-born grandchild of Eileen and Buster. As an infant, I lived with them: my grandmother told my mother, who was living in Tampa with my father when I was born, that if she wasn’t going to sleep, she was going to not-sleep in her own home; consequently, the first six weeks of my life inhabited 3320 Riverview Boulevard, the house my grandparents bought in 1963. I bet nearly all of you have been there.

We moved from Tampa when I was three years old, and my grandparents and I never lived in the same state again, but that didn’t stop us from spending as much time together as we could. We visited at least 10 states together and three other countries—including France, where my grandfather flew me from when he was 83 years old!

From the time that I was seven years old until the time that I was 22 years old, my brother and I joined my grandparents in Disney World during the month of December. Even as an adult, with the exception of the COVID years, I saw my grandparents quarterly.

I could go on about myself, but this isn’t about me.

I’m trying to prove that my sample size of time spent with her was statistically significant… although, I’d argue that any amount of time spent with her was significant, because she made everyone feel so good. She made everyone feel significant. She taught me to laugh unapologetically, to find joy wherever I could, and to treat everyone as a friend… or, if they weren’t nice or acted like they were better than me, to treat them as an equal.

It's hard to love a jerk of a neighbor as yourself, but she was good at it. She was good at finding some good in everyone, even if it was just “she thinks she makes a decent pound cake.”

My grandmother believed in a lot of things. She believed in tucked in shirts, well-fitted undergarments, and closed toe shoes. With no disrespect to the Catholics in attendance, Eileen was the Patron Saint of Pearls. She believed in lipstick at all times, ideally in a bright color. She believed in having your hair out of your face. She believed in single earhole piercings for women but not girls. She did not believe in tattoos. She believed in Santa. She believed in the magic of the world around her—and she often was that magic.

Christmas is your favorite time of year. I think you are dying now because the thought of celebrating Christmas without your groom is too much for your body or soul. Granddaddy wasn’t magical—he was often, frankly, kind of a grump—but he allowed you to flourish. Granddaddy allowed you to give yourself the Christmases you’d earned as a child but never received, and then to give your children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren the Christmases you’d wanted. Granddaddy allowed you to not worry about expenses. Granddaddy allowed you to love as largely as you wanted.

And you love out loud.

You believe in a big God. You believe that Jesus was the only begotten Son. You believe in sunshine and also in rain and probably these things are the Holy Spirit. You believed in gratitude decades before it was a buzz word. You believe in the beauty of simple things, like butterflies and the ways rivers flow and kisses.

You believe in yourself: you’re one of the only women I’ve ever known who did not question her own value. You know you are enough.

Most importantly, at least to me, and I guess we’re back to me now: you believe in me. You have encouraged me for my whole life. When we clean out your home, I bet we find poems and stories I wrote when I was my daughter’s age. I started a blog 10 years ago mostly to be able to write to and for you. If and when I ever get around to writing the book you’ve always believed I was destined to publish, your voice will be prodding me along, discouraging the swear words you’ve never used and elevating love.

I will move forward. I will choose joy, just like you did every day. And I will carry with me all of the days of my life the unconditional love that you enveloped me in, the unconditional love you sustained me with, the unconditional love I now have for my own spouse and children.

For almost 43 years, I have been, among lesser titles, Eileen Griffith's granddaughter. May it be known by my lipstick. May it be known in my laugh. And may it especially be known in the way that I love.

sincerely

Dear Southwest Airlines:

On the evening of March 18, I arrived at the Tampa airport with my 3-year-old son just as I received a text message that our 6:40pm flight to New Orleans was being pushed back to 8pm (a full hour past his bedtime); we had just gotten through security when I got a text that flight 1601 was delayed until 9pm. My son and I killed some time walking laps through Terminal C, then I decided to head to Gate 34/35 to speak with the CSA, Luis, in order to find out what the delay was, whether the crew might time out, etc.

Luis informed us that the plane needed a part that was expected to arrive at 7pm and that work would continue until weather conditions deteriorated, at approximately 7:30pm. He explained that the ground crews could not work with lightning in the area and would work expeditiously. Furthermore, he offered to let me leave all of my luggage behind the podium so that I did not continue to have to drag a hungry, tired boy and 50 lbs of luggage with me. He made dinner recommendations and told us to stay close in case the delay decreased.

Luis did not know that earlier in the day I had said goodbye to my grandfather for the last time, that I had packed for three days and stayed for nine, that this stretch of time was my son's longest away from his father. He did not know that I was very anxious about being in an airport with atrociously poor mask wearing. He saw an exhausted human and offered her refuge. 

After my son and I had dinner, we sat on the floor behind the gate counter and watched the rain move in and the crews work hard and the trucks move; in between narrating the scene for my son, I listened to Luis speak to customers, one after the other, in the same kind and patient tone, no matter how (un)kind or (im)patient the customer was. He communicated regularly over the speaker to keep us all updated. While he certainly did not have control over the situation, the situation remained controlled due to his empathetic demeanor. 

In short, Luis was a shelter in our storm, and I am grateful to have received such grace. Thank you, Luis!

boundaries

His default is yes.

Her default was yes. It changed.

Self-preservation.

1000

My son has been alive for 1000 days.

One. Thousand.

In honor of this milestone, I have decided to write him 1000 words. 

Dear Nugget:

It has been 250 days—one-quarter of your life—since March 13, 2020, when the governor of Louisiana closed schools for a month, and your father and I decided to move to Birmingham to ride out the storm there. You got so much extra time with your grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins… (and also your parents and sister). Your days with your oldest cousin yielded a blossoming verbal vocabulary that everyone was so proud of, as your words had come in reluctantly… just like your arrival into this world (past our due date) and your appreciation of solid food and your teeth and your desire to walk.

You take things in your own time. You go at your own pace. It is maddening, exhausting, and beautiful.

A friend posted that something we didn’t know about our own parents when we were kids is that they were figuring this all out, too. I am learning how to be a parent and partner every day, and you expect that I have the answers and reasons and agenda already figured out. I am trying.

From the moment I found out that I was pregnant, I prayed for you to be viable. When we learned that you were not only viable but healthy, I prayed for you to be curious and kind. For more than 1000 days, I have prayed for you to be curious and kind. I want you to be so many other things, but those two words summarize my deepest dreams for you.

I hope you listen to teachers and scientists. I hope you will recognize rhetoric from politicians and priests and parents. I hope that your first memories are not colored with the dread and uncertainty that every adult around you has felt for the past 250 days; I hope that they are vibrant and bold moments of picnics in parks and by the River, of learning to ride your balance bike, of porch parties.

I hope we have hidden our anxiety from you, because you give us enough anxiety!

I told a group of colleagues yesterday that one of my greatest achievements during the pandemic has been keeping a two year old alive. They clapped for me, and I blushed.

In the nine weeks that I was on paid leave to care for you during the pandemic, I told my friends that I was in an abusive relationship. “He hits me, he kicks me, he withholds affection, he controls how I spend my days, he expects me to do all of his laundry and cleaning and cooking… and I love him too much to leave him.” You can try my patience, and you have made me a more patient and caring person. I will probably be grateful one day.

Everyone says that their first weeks with a newborn are a blur, and they are. You were a pretty good sleeper from the beginning, and you were silent and compliant until well past your first birthday. Much to what I had not planned, you were not the best breastfeeder: yours wasn’t nipple confusion; it was nipple convenience, and a bottle was far more reliable than my breasts.

You were a very sweet, docile baby. No one could understand how I had such a good baby. I couldn’t understand how I had such a good baby. I joked that I feared for what was karmically in my future, like you might knock up half of your middle school.

… Then at around 15 months, you learned how to destroy things, and you basically haven’t stopped.

When people ask me to describe you, I say “joyful.” Even though you have become defiant in the past 250 days, you remain joyful. Which is why you’re still alive, 1000 days later.

You don’t nap at school like you should, and you don’t listen at home like you should. You, like your mama, are your teachers’ favorite. I think it’s because you have already learned how to (dis)please people.

My first memories of you were terrifying. We both almost died in childbirth, a story I’m sure you will eventually hear and want to immediately unhear, the way that I rarely want to tell it. The doctor handed you to me, and I was so scared. But we did it, because we are warriors. You thrived, and I learned how to. I watched you be healthy, and it motivated me to follow suit.

You got to have two birthday parties with lots of people at them. You are unlikely to get to celebrate your third birthday that way because we believe in germ theory. You got to spend two Mardi Gras Days on the parade route. All three of your half birthday parties have been attended by the same people; they are our bubble, although we didn’t know that word until this year. They’re the family we chose for ourselves and for you, and I am reminded daily of how well we chose.

In your first 1000 days, we flew to London, New York City, North and South Carolinas, Florida, Austin. You were an incredibly easy baby to fly with. You’ve been to one wedding, no funerals. You’ve met all of your living great grandparents, of which you are blessed enough to have three.

I imagined that you would know your great grandparents by now, that you would have core memories of them. I grieve this loss, among so many others, big and small.

You are a fabulous person to take an adventure with. You love playgrounds; all forms of things that go, especially emergency vehicles; and books. You understand that we wear masks and don’t get to ride busses or streetcars because we love our neighbors. You are an exceptional eater and sleeper.

I love watching you discover the world. I love answering your questions. I love being your guide; I know I’ve been a good one. I will love when you develop empathy.

I will always love you.

Stay curious and kind.

Mama

renewal

Wow. I haven't written a blog post since the flu epidemic of 2018.

Did we call it an epidemic then? I remember that I did, because I was great with child and therefore given a carte blanche for hysteria. I had to cancel or reschedule a Board meeting because so many members of my Board were or had been or would become ill.

I digress.

I have promised myself to write every day in November. 

I need a 30 day challenge, regardless of germs or politicians or hurricanes or holidays or what my next ____ is. I need an agenda I can control.

It will be my way to express gratitude, even if it's just for soil that produces acorn squash every year at this time. 

(There was an acorn squash in my produce box this week. I welcome your suggestions for what to do with it.) (Also seeking suggestions for eggplant and okra and sweet potatoes, which I am frankly tired of cooking and need inspiration for, because these items have been in season for approximately the past 18 weeks of boxes.)

I am grateful I can buy fresh produce--both that I can afford it and that it is available to me. I am grateful my family eats nearly anything. I am grateful to know how to cook. I am grateful I am not the only person in my home who knows how to or has the desire to cook.

But I do not want to ask or answer "what do you want to eat?" more than 50% of the time. Neither does anyone else in my home.

I should be grateful that I am the primary cook, because I like to control the agenda.

Here's to reviving a small part of myself again.

the things she carried

at 34 weeks pregnant
she realized she was carrying more than a five pound fetus
one that would easily live outside the womb
(in america)

she knew she was carrying a boy:
the blood test had said XY
and the pictures had shown testicles clearly
and she was carrying high
(if wives' tales are to be believed)

and because it was she carrying the boy
she carried a white boy
who would be born into privilege
(not every privilege, but enough)
because he was being born in america
to parents who would love him
to parents who had been to college
to parents who work hard

she carried Board meeting agendas
fundraising events
class passes to three studios
two swollen feet (one markedly moreso)
a parental leave/business continuity plan
what felt like a sobriety coin
water, vegan snack bars, Poise pantyliners
insomnia

at 34 weeks pregnant
her husband got sick with the flu
so she carried her husband's daughter to a bed
she had made on the floor of a friend's house
(a quarantined inn)
she woke the child up to give her medicine
she took her own medicine
she carried herself to the bathtub
and less gracefully out of the bathtub

she carried groceries and more medicine
and clothes and toys and soup

she carried a phone that alerted her a faraway friend--
one she had chosen as her son's godmother--
had bought her
a spa gift certificate

she carried messages of
where are you registered
who is your doctor
when are you due
do you know the sex
you want to do it naturally?

a five pound fetus
a nation
bloodwork
pictures
a Masters degree
a workload
volunteer obligations
stepmotherhood
a yoga mat

(a lot of extra weight)

she was carrying a firstborn son
dreams and expectations
hopes and wishes and fervent prayers
(anywhere you go, a mother has already prayed for that journey)

she carried the future
(an heir, the class clown, someone's groom)
tried to focus on the present
(plenty of rest and fluids, all the nutrients, keep blood pressure low)
tried to let go of the past
(doubts, debts, unkindness)

and focused on the most important thing she'll ever carry, ever give, ever bestow or be bestowed:
love.