Day 1–NYU

I drove from Newark airport to New York University this afternoon. This meant tackling the Holland Tunnel and NYC traffic at 5 pm and then, against all odds, finding a parking spot reasonably close to NYU. Check, check, and check. I’m feeling somewhat like a badass.

Charli loved NYU. She loves NYC in general. Walking back to the car, we grabbed boba — the best boba ever.

Traffic was still horrible driving out of the city, but creeping along FDR Parkway gave us more time to take in the magical lights of NYC.

After checking into our hotel in Yonkers, Charli and I decided to get take-out pizza. Gianna’s boasted a wood-fire stove, so it just seemed like the right thing to do. The Milanese pizza was “insane,” as Charli put it. And the spinach egg drop soup…such a good choice.

We are lying in bed, bellies perfectly full and satisfied, Charli watching Netflix, me writing.

God, thank you for safe travels, for delicious food, for time with my girl…and especially for that parking spot. Amen.

Up Ahead

For the next three days, I will be writing on my phone again. And, like last time, I’ll be doing it from New York.

Charli and I are headed to check out NYU, Mercy, and Vassar.

Then Monday evening, I’ll be writing from my couch and cannot guarantee anything that I write will make a lick of sense on the heels of my foot surgery (no pun intended) and any subsequent pain meds. But I will write anyway.

Today at work, I ran around campus gathering some of the items I always use for our annual Preview Breakfast in January. Trying to get a head start on it since I know I’m supposed to take it easy on the foot the next few weeks.

A foreboding feeling came over me. I remembered this time last year beginning the planning for the Preview Breakfast. And I remembered how close we are to December.

It’s like knowing a storm is coming but you don’t really know the severity of it. From all indicators, it’s going to be fierce. You do the best you can do to prepare. But you can’t control the storm or the aftermath. You can just hold on and ride it out.

I felt this way in the weeks leading up to Mother’s Day. And to Chandler’s birthday.

As scary as those days were, this feels scarier right now.

Again, I turn to my new friend, Dr. Edith Eva Eger for wisdom. Her metaphor isn’t the storm but rather the valley: “To heal, we embrace the dark. We walk through the shadow of the valley on our way to the light.”

God, I know there is darkness ahead. There is also light. Give me the grace, courage, and strength to embrace both. Amen.

Shallow...Deep...Grateful

Grateful….that’s how I feel right now.

As night fell this evening and I reflected on the past 13 hours or so, it occurred to me that today was much lighter than yesterday. That’s what I had planned to write about tonight. Until about 20 minutes ago.

At the top of my to-do list today was to get to Ross after work. I wanted to grab the reverse curling wand I saw there this weekend and one of the cute backpacks that I could not decide between without some outside consultation.

When it comes to shopping at Ross Dress for Less, if you snooze, you lose. The curling wand was gone this afternoon. Doggone it.

On to the backpacks. Based on feedback from Lindy and Charli, I learned which ones were meh and which ones were cute. Did not purchase one because I decided instead to borrow Charli’s and see how I like using a stylish backpack instead of a purse.

This is so completely superficial. It’s curling wand and backpack fluff.

I need fluff days. Days when the most pressing thing on my mind is picking a backpack style or a nail polish color. I need silly, trivial…shallow.

But I can’t live there.

Deep is the place of substance. Of growth. Of serenity.

Deep is where souls connect and bring encouragement and comfort to one another.

Tonight as I opened up my laptop and clicked on my blog, I saw a comment on yesterday’s post. This comment may as well have had “God is with you” watermarked beneath it. A fellow Santa Margarita Catholic High School mom had been driving by Chandler’s bike memorial every day on the way to school, saying a prayer for someone she didn’t know and that person’s family. She searched and found my blog. Today she wrote, “I’m glad that I can say his name as I pass by.”

I am grateful to Kimberly for strongly urging me (making me) write. I am grateful to Julia for setting up my SquareSpace site. I am grateful to Heidi and Dave for doing all of the legwork to get that beautiful bike memorial set up through Ghost Riders. I am grateful to every person who has written to tell me my words are helping them in some way or that they are praying for us or that they knew Chandler and thought the world of him. I am grateful that because of this blog, people who didn’t know Chandler before know him now. I am grateful to this mom for noticing the bike and allowing her heart to connect with the reality it represents. Grateful that she would take the time to search out the “who” behind the white bike at Via Honesto and Antonio. And grateful that she would reach out and let me know that she acknowledges Chandler’s life and prays for our family.

Thank you, God. I am overwhelmed by your goodness. This whole thing sucks big time. And in the middle of it, you just keep showing up….quite often through the kind words of people like my fellow SMCHS mom tonight. Thank you. Just, thank you.

Amen.

Courage to Change

I try not to use the same picture twice for any of my blog posts, but this is what it is today. It’s all about the Serenity Prayer.

This morning I was feeling kinda sad. Truth be told, I started out feeling pissed, but I decided to dig deeper to uncover what was beneath the anger. It was sadness. That is often the case for most of us. Much of the time, “mad” is the scapegoat for “sad.” It’s just easier to feel angry.

My first inclination when I’m feeling down is to assume I’m just missing Chandler. Sometimes it’s more than that. Losing Chandler was not my first or sole opportunity to feel sad during this lifetime, though it does garner its own special category. I can’t imagine any sadness I could feel that would come close. Be that as it may, I don’t get to put all other points of sadness on the back burner until the overwhelm of this season dissipates. And I’m being optimistic to assume that it will in fact, at some point, begin to dissipate.

So once I identified exactly what it was I was feeling, I decided my best course of action was to sit quietly in nature and just feel my sadness.

After church, I grabbed my backpack and threw in my journal and purple gel pen, along with my new paperback treasure — The Choice. I am certain that Dr. Edith Eva Eger and the wisdom in this book will be my lifelong companions.

I walked up to a special bench at the top of Dove Canyon. The bench that sits in front of the Serenity Prayer plaque. This was a perfect preface to my journaling and reading. It was also a favorite spot for Chandler.

I read the words in front of me — God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I remembered Dr. Eger’s words — It’s easier to hold someone or something else responsible for your pain than to take responsibility for ending your own victimhood.

I decided to own my feelings of sadness instead of blaming someone else or trying to fix them. The way to freedom is to accept what is — whatever situation has prompted my sadness — not to ruminate over what isn’t or what I wish would be. Then I can see my next steps more clearly. Is there something I can do now to change the situation?

Most of the time, it’s my attitude. If I change my attitude (my perspective or outlook), I can probably settle in and find contentment whether the situation or circumstances change or not. I realize this is not always the case. Sometimes a situation calls for clear action, a change of behavior. A moving out of an unhealthy circumstance.

I journaled and prayed. As I reflected on the particular situation that had triggered my feelings of sadness, I admitted to myself that I was blaming someone else for actions that were in my own domain to take or not take. I could continue to blame someone else and outsource my happiness, or I could take responsibility for my own sense of fulfillment. This was a small breakthrough for me. An experiment in trying something new.

As I packed up my things and flung my backpack on my shoulder, I prayed…

God, I know you are doing something in me….paving the way to freedom. I know I won’t walk this out perfectly. It will be one day at a time. Practicing one situation at a time. Thank you, thank you for your patience. You have tried in so many ways for so long to teach me these things, and yet you just keep filing my “inbox” with loving, gentle messages. I’m finally starting to get it. You are so good to me. Amen.

Expectation

Wait for and confidently expect the Lord. Be strong and let your heart take courage. Yes, wait for and confidently expect the Lord (Psalm 27:14).

Sometimes I rush through my Jesus Calling devotional just before I run out the door to work. This morning was one of those days. I almost didn’t take the time to look up the scripture reference that went along with the devotional. I’m glad I did. I took a picture of it so I could remember it throughout the day.

To expect something means you won’t be surprised if it happens. I’m often pleasantly surprised by God.

What am I supposed to expect exactly?

I can’t honestly say. I could make up answers that sound like the right ones, the ones you used to give in Sunday School when the teacher would ask a question. Even if you didn’t understand or have any point of reference, you knew what she or he wanted you to say, and it usually boiled down to “Jesus.”

I know what I can’t expect. I can’t expect Him to do what I want all the time. I can’t expect Him to instantly wipe away my pain like a dry erase drawing on a whiteboard. Not in this life. I can’t expect Him to spell out next steps for me like an instruction sheet from IKEA. Well, maybe not IKEA. It’s easier to follow a drunken sailor on a tightrope blindfolded.

What I can expect is that He will never leave me. I can expect that in my weakness, He is my strength. I can expect that He will work all things, even the crappy things, together for good somehow. He will redeem everything. I can expect that when I take my last breath on this earth, I will be with Him. And with Chandler. And Mama and Daddy.

There’s also that part in the middle. Be strong and let your heart take courage.

When I’m DIS-couraged, I have to allow my heart to open to the possibility of EN-couragement. It comes in so many ways. Through friends, through being in nature, through exercising, through being with my family, through a good day at work.

Through a morning reading that I almost skipped, but didn’t.

Friends

A nod to last week’s trip to NYC, home of Friends…it’s Chandler and his buddy Joey. By the way, we didn’t name Chandler after Chandler Bing, but we were Friends devotees.

Since December 15, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to be a friend. I have been deeply grateful to discover that during the worst time ever, not one of my friends has shrunk or disappeared as I’ve heard sometimes happens when there’s a tragedy or crisis. They just keep showing up for me, and I just keep responding, “Yes! thank you so much!”

It is humbling to be on the receiving end….again and again and again.

Even so, I am certain of this — friends want to help. If we don't let them, we rob ourselves and them too. At some point, the tables will turn and you will be the one on the giving end. You will see your friend in a really tough spot and all you will want to do is be there for them. And when they let you, you will be blessed.

Being a friend to someone during a world-turned-upside-down situation doesn’t mean you have the answers. In fact, it’s best when you admit you don’t. Spouting empty cliches and theological treatises is exactly the opposite of what is helpful and healing. Sometimes the most appropriate, sincere sentiments are built on the phrase “this sucks.”

Being there, of course, includes some of the big stuff like helping with meals and rides and household chores and, God forbid, planning and executing a memorial service.

But it also encompasses the “small” stuff that really isn’t small at all:
A cup of coffee
A text or note
Sitting with and waiting
A white ceramic wienie dog full of Hersheys kisses on your desk when you get to work (thank you Tracey and MHCS drama class)

I’ve learned these past months how to be a better friend by watching my friends. They have lived the definition of being there.

The Friends theme song pretty much nails it.

I’ll be there for you
When the rain starts to pour
I’ll be there for you
Like I’ve been there before
I’ll be there for you
Cuz’ you’re there for me too

The Train

This post is written with a foggy, sleep-deprived brain. Please excuse typos, incoherence, and any embarrassing grammar or syntax errors.

Last night was our last night in NYC. Carole and I came back to the room right after dinner, and I packed up, vacillating back and forth about whether to take the train to JFK or schedule an Uber for this morning. The debate in my head went something like this:

“Uber is simpler – click a couple times and you’re ride is out front.”

“But the train is cheaper -- $15 compared to $70.”

“I don’t have to plan directions with Uber.”

“There is such a high probability I will take the wrong train and end up in Coney Island instead of the airport.”

“Uber could get stuck in traffic.”

“The train runs right on time.”

“Uber is safer. It will still be dark out, and I will be alone dragging my suitcase and backpack.”

“The subway is perfectly fine (I said to myself after Googling is it safe to take the subway alone when it’s dark?).”

I went to bed having convinced myself to suck it up and take the train.

NO sleep descended to relieve my sandpaper eyelids. Instead, I spent the night rehearsing, revising, and re-rehearsing my every move – when the alarm goes off, get up and turn it off quickly so as not to wake the girls, throw on my clothes, brush my teeth….no wait, brush my teeth, then throw on my clothes. Zip up my suitcase and make my way to Penn Station. In the dark. Alone. No, I should just Uber. Yeah, that’s simpler and less scary. I’ll Uber.

With the argument settled, I would try to fall asleep once again. No luck. The rebuttal came –

Don’t Uber! It’s ridiculously expensive. Just take the train. Don’t be a wuss.

It was settled once and for all. I was going to take the train.

At 5:45 (I HATE everything about 5:45 am!), I gave up on sleep and finally just got up and brushed my teeth. I decided my PJ bottoms were too comfortable to take off, so I left them on and threw on a sweater and running shoes. If I was going to undertake this subway mission, at least I was going to be ultra-comfy. Even as I tied my shoes, I thought of checking for an Uber.

NO! Put on your big girl panties and get on the stinking train!

I arrived at the station and asked for directions to the right train. Despite very clear directions, of course, I boarded the wrong train.

They say the subway is designed so even a blind person can successfully navigate it. Hmmmm.

I asked a man walking beside the train I was about to board, “Is this the train to Jamaica Station?” He responded politely, “Yes.”

I hopped on, sat down, and just for caution sake, asked the lady beside me, “Is this the train to Jamaica Station?” She looked at me as if I really should know better somehow, “No, this train does not go to Jamaica Station.”

I jumped off before the doors closed thankfully.

I ran upstairs and waited for the “Babylon” track to pop up on the neon display. When it popped up, I followed a few other people who looked like they knew exactly where they were going. When I saw another lady with luggage, I asked if she was going to Jamaica station and then Air Train to JFK. She said yes, so I tailed her like Sherlock Holmes on a jewel thief.

So I made my flight, but through a series of unfortunate events, my rides home all fell through. My friend Cathy came through for me! Not only did she pick me up from John Wayne airport with a smiling face and a hug, she brought me a kombucha!!!

I am now running on fumes and kombucha, and it’s 1 am to my NYC-adapted body.

Until tomorrow….night night.

NYC Day 4

So many highlights today.

Started off with a five-mile run to Central Park. Then we got blow-outs at DryBar. Never done that before, and it wasn’t horrible having someone else wash my stinky, sweaty hair and blow dry it.

Walked the Highline and shopped Chelsea Market.

Best food and drinks hands down — The Wild Son. Blue corn waffles, salad with smoked trout, margarita with kale and ginger juice. Our waiter, Pablo, gave us special treatment since it was Jessica’s birthday.

Next stop, The Rose’ Museum, rose’ tastings from around the world in a pink mansion. Self explanatory. Just a lot of fun. We saw one lone male who had been dragged in by his significant other. I wanted to tell her — he’s a keeper.

More walking and shopping and dinner at Obicà Mozzarella Bar.

The one lowlight of today — knowing I have to be up at 5:50 am. That is my least favorite thing ever on the planet.

Nevertheless…feeling grateful in NYC.

NYC Day 3

Today was perfection. Among other things, there was shopping at Dumbo Market in Brooklyn (where I found an exquisite vintage shawl to wear with dressy outfits), snack and a perfect gimlet at SugarCane, and to-die-for Neopolitan pizza at Ribalta near NYU. Add to that a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. Oh, and add to that the discovery of a pop-up shop called Koku that featured dairy-free ice cream. My mint chocolate chip (cacao nib) was unreal. And no gut issues afterward — yay!

I have to do a u-turn to last night. We had decided to go to a club called Slate. It has a slide that goes from ground level to the floor below. What!?

When we joined the long line to get in, we knew we were at a hot destination. People began walking back from the entrance, passing by us on the sidewalk, not admitted for whatever reason. We knew we would be admitted, no problem.

Just a few steps from the door, one of the bouncers told my friend Carole that she couldn’t come in with her open shoes (aka Birkenstocks). Why would you tell us that after we’ve waited in line for an hour and a half? Could you have said something earlier? We told Carole’s daughter and her best friend to go on in and we would try to meet them later.

Carole and I began walking the streets of NYC trying to find closed shoes at 10:30 pm. Carole thought of CVS. They are open 24/7. Long story short, I told our sob story to the young clerk, and he went downstairs to the stockroom to see what he could find. Lo and behold, he emerged with the ugliest shoes ever mass manufactured and presented them to us. They were the right size and only $12.99. We were elated! Carole deserves the Best Mom Ever award. She slipped off her Birks and put on this indescribable footwear for the sake of being with her daughter at a dance club. I almost peed my pants laughing. Oh, but there’s more. We got back to the entrance, and they told us Carole couldn’t go in because she had her open shoes in her backpack. We appealed to the manager standing nearby who, thankfully, said, “Just let them in.” We probably looked like we may snap and cause a riot, so they humored us.

Once we found ourselves inside, I felt like I had been accepted to Harvard or something. It’s like you have to donate a vital organ to get into this place! I slid down that slide and hit the floor ready to party.

I can dance all night long. Any time. Any where. Dancing makes me feel alive.

Everyone was pretty much in a big mob dancing together. A really young guy began dancing with me. I asked him how old he was. He said, “Twenty-four.” I responded, “My 25-year-old son died on January 1, and if he were alive, he would be dancing right now just like this.” I meant it in the best way possible. And I think this young man realized that somehow he was part of something bigger than a night at Slate.

One of the videos I treasure is of Chandler at one of his friend’s mom’s birthday party cutting a rug with the “mature” ladies not too long before the accident. There was no spirit of condescension or patronization. Chandler honored them and wanted to enjoy the moment with them.

That is the movie that played in my mind last night at Slate. Thanks to my awesome friend Carole who wore ugly shoes in public so we could slide in and enjoy the moment.

NYC Day 2

Slept in this morning…sleep is not over-rated. Caught myself before I completed the act of squeezing body lotion onto my toothbrush. That correction happened only because of 10 hours of sleep last night.

Rooftop brunch did not disappoint. Avocado toast, breakfast pizza, and Nutella French toast. Just no. Don’t judge — we shared it all.

Moulin Rouge was absolutely stunning, electric, moving…mesmerizing. The last song almost wrecked me — I Will Love You Til My Dying Day.

I’m posting early because we are about to eat sushi and then go DANCING!!! I just put octopus in my mouth. It’s raw. I love food adventure!!!

My night is just beginning. If you know anything at all about the Enneagram, you know that I am in 7 heaven. Also, this is SO Chandler.

NYC Day 1

First day writing my blog on my iPhone.

First day in NYC.

Took a red-eye flight last night and landed this morning at 6 am New York time.

I researched (of course) and ended up buying an inflatable travel pillow for this trip so I could get some sleep and hit NYC with a bang from day one. I looked ridiculous blowing it up and then turning it every which way to figure out the most comfortable positioning on my neck. It pushed the earplugs out of my ears and threatened to suffocate me.

There’s a reason they call it a red-eye.

I knew I was tired when I leisurely sauntered into the Men’s restroom at JFK upon arrival.

From the time we landed, we have been on the move…except for the three AMAZING meals we stopped long enough to enjoy.

So many memories of being in NYC multiple times with Chandler and the rest of the family. In Time Square, Central Park, and even the drive into the city. On the way to the hotel, a song came on from the movie The Greatest Showman. I forced myself not to listen and repeated in my head, “Just be over, just be over.” That song had been a soundtrack for our daily drive to the hospital. I hate it now.

One of the best surprises of today — coconut milk soft-serve ice cream at Taco Dumbo. Creamy, rich, flavorful. Awesome! I will dream about it when my head hits the pillow in five minutes.

My Garmin fitness tracker is so confused. It knows I did not sleep last night. I don’t think it has a clue what day or night it is. Neither do I.

Until day two…

Good night.

Little Nervous

Every single day since Chandler died, I have sat down at my laptop — at home, in Palm Springs, in Washington — wherever I am, to write my daily blog post. It is routine. It is healing. It is sometimes laborious, sometimes tear-provoking. I do it for me. I do it for Chandler. And I do it for the people who tell me it helps them.

Today as I finish my last-minute packing for a girl’s trip to NYC, I’m a little nervous. I’m not taking my laptop. One, I don’t want the complication of traveling with it. Two, there won’t be chunks of downtime when I can open up my laptop and spend time writing. It will be a jam-packed four days.

I contemplated writing ahead — you know, writing some extra blog posts that I could pre-set to publish each of the days I’m in NYC. Then I wouldn’t even need to think about posting during my trip. But after talking with friends and thinking through it, I came to realize that I need to post…every single day. Even if it’s just a picture and a few sentences.

I want this collection of blog posts to paint a picture of the continual day-to-day unfolding of this new normal, or whatever the heck it is. It’s not about writing the perfect essay or having a minimum word count. It’s not about checking an OCD box each day. At the end of this year, I want my daily sharing to reflect what was happening in me each day of 2019, the year my entire life flipped upside down.

Because it hasn’t just happened to me. It happens to all of us. Maybe it has recently happened to you, and you are missing your loved one like crazy. My hope is that I can be a trusted companion in your grief, and the best way I know how, is to just keep writing. To tell the truth. Every single day.

The next post I write will be from NYC.

A Chandler Trick

Today….a Chandler-ism of sorts.

One night back when Chandler was in his early teens, he and Charli rushed purposefully into our room. Sewing needle in hand, and with much enthusiasm, he told Charli and me, “Look, I want to show you this cool trick.”

We watched as he put the needle up to his earlobe. This would normally be a tip-off that the person with the needle in his hand was about to pierce his ear. But knowing Chandler, I figured he had seen some magic trick and wanted to try it out on us, so I was in for the ride.

As he stood there right in front of us, the illusion appeared ever so real. It looked like he was forcing the needle through his earlobe, slowly piercing it all the way through.

Finally, he took his hand away from his earlobe. Here’s where he would reveal the genius of the illusion.

Nope. There was a hole in his earlobe.

I said, “Chandler, that’s not a trick. You pierced your ear! A trick would be if you didn’t pierce your ear but you fooled us into thinking that you did.”

He grinned and chuckled, those boyish dimples making it impossible to get angry with him in that moment.

I know what you’re thinking. That was his clever strategy for getting to pierce his ear without asking for permission.

Nope.

He never put an earring in it, and it eventually grew back up.

That’s what you call a Chandler trick.

Normal

What do you know…all this time, I’ve been using Chandler’s calculator at work. I never noticed his name on the back until last week.

This is another one of those things. You’re going about your day almost as if it were your old normal. Then it slaps you in the face like on that old TV commercial for Skin Bracer aftershave. Snap out of it — this isn’t normal! Not even close.

This is not a normal day. It’s a day just like the past 258 days. A day that could punch me in the gut. That could send a tidal wave of emotion that lasts a few minutes or a thunderstorm that pummels me for hours. Or longer. A day that could bring pure laughter and joy, a sense that all is well. Only to be followed by the weight of that single thought — but he’s not here. I never know what a day will bring. Just adding up some tuition numbers and there it is. This was Chandler’s calculator.

I realize a new normal will come with time. Or maybe not. I really don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m totally speculating.

My life became normal again years after my mom passed away. And after I lost my dad three years ago, I slowly settled into the reality that I didn’t need to worry about him falling or call to check in. He was 94. There was a sense of normalcy about losing my dad at 94. It’s never easy, and you don’t want to lose your parent…ever. But using the word “normal” to describe life after losing Daddy didn’t seem like a foreign language.

Nothing seems normal about losing your child. I don’t care how young or old they are. So maybe the word for describing life without Chandler will never be “normal.” Maybe it will. Who knows.

I just know that right now, nothing feels normal.

Not yet.

I'm With You

We almost decided not to go to Knott’s Berry Farm today, though we’ve had it on the calendar for a long time — we knew it was going to be hot as Hades. It takes an act of Congress to coordinate all our schedules for an entire day, so we just decided to brave it. Well, not me really. You know how I love me some hot weather (unless I’m running in it at noon).

Charli and I grabbed Nekter smoothies (the Turmeric Sunrise is my new fave) and headed up to Buena Park at about 10 o’clock to meet Chase and Karen. Yes, it was hot and sweaty. But these are the hours and minutes I wouldn’t trade for anything. I love these people. They are my people. My heart and soul. Being with them is the best kind of medicine.

We rode the rollercoaster with the steepest drop in California, Hang Time, and I do believe I left some internal organs hanging at the top of the vertical drop. And I rode the Accelerator, although I swore last time I rode it I would never again subject my brain to that much velocity — it takes off at 0-82 mph in 2.3 seconds.

As we strolled through the park, hopping on ride after ride, I remembered Chandler’s 8th grade graduation trip to Knott’s Berry Farm. We rode everything together. I hold every experience, every memory, so close to my heart. I also remembered letting Chase miss school on his birthday to come to Knott’s Berry Farm when he was young. It wasn’t crowded, so we were able to do some rides over and over without even getting in line again.

Words are not adequate to express how grateful I am for the privilege of being present with Chase, Chance, Chandler, and Charli as they were growing up. Thank you, Chip, for the gift of being home with our young children. I don’t take it for granted.

After a long, hot, absolutely wonderful day at Knott’s, Charli and I decided to visit Porto’s, a famous Cuban bakery, a few blocks from the theme park. The parking lot was packed, but we got a spot as soon as we pulled in. We had to stand in line outside, as the attendant only let a few people in at a time to avoid overcrowding. This was obviously a hot spot. When they ushered us in, the attendant said, “If you need a cake, it’s to the left.” Charli and I simultaneously asked, “Does anyone really need a cake?”

Charli got a guava smoothie, and I waited in line for the food. I went with what everyone on Yelp said were the must-haves from Porto’s — cheese rolls, potato cheese balls, and chicken empanadas. Charli also wanted to try the caramel flan. The lady asked if we wanted a sample. We said, “Sure.” She handed us two full-sized pastries! Long story short — there’s a reason the parking lot is packed and the line is out the door. I really wanted to save the third spicy pepper and potato cheeseball for tomorrow. Maybe just one more bite.

When I got home, Chance was here. We talked for a long time about pretty much everything — enneagram, faith, relationships, work, podcasts.

A day that I get to spend time talking and laughing with my kids. That is the best day.

I’m going to skip back to our final minutes at Knott’s to end today’s blog.

For the last ride of the day, we stood in line behind a dad and his little pony-tailed girl, probably about seven or eight years old. We waited patiently for 45 minutes before finally arriving at the turnstiles to get on the Sidewinder. As we inched closer, the little girl looked up at her father, grabbed his hand and said, “It’s going to be scary, but I’m with you, Daddy.”

My good, good, Father, this is scary. But I’m with you. Thank you for this day — the best dose of medicine for my soul. Amen.

Glorious and Excruciating

Today was glorious. And excruciating.

I slept in, washed dishes, put away laundry, paid a bill, and updated my Running playlist on Apple music. I appreciate the simple things that comprise everyday life now more than ever.

Then I went for a 5k run—just before noon when it was about 95 degrees. That was stupid. I finished the run due to sheer hard-headedness and then wondered if I was going to collapse of heat stroke right then and there. I walked it off, guzzled a lot of water, and felt really good about my accomplishment. Even though it was pretty stupid and I probably shouldn’t do that again.

I loaded my backpack with my everyday devotional readers, my journal, and my new purple gel pen (love!) and headed to Salt Creek Beach. I decided to bring the Tommy Bahama umbrella that Chip and I purchased years ago to use at Charli’s soccer games. We’ve used it twice.

I paid for my parking with change collected on top of the dryer and assumed the role of pack mule, carrying my bulging backpack, my umbrella, and my beach chair. Downhill was easy, though I looked rather tipsy, intermittently stopping to pull one or the other strap back up on my shoulder after it slipped down, leaving some item dragging along the pavement.

Perched on the sand, from under my umbrella, I experienced almost two hours of perfection. Maybe a more apt description would be….serenity. The breeze gently rippled the umbrella’s draping canopy. The waves sparkled under the sun’s rays. My purple gel pen glided along the pages of my journal, giving visible shape to my thoughts and feelings.

My soul was at peace. Content. Even joyful. I glanced down at my “Choose Joy” bracelet (thank you, Ana) and remembered that it’s OK to feel joy, even when depths of sadness and loss underly every other condition, emotion, and cognition.

The end of my paid parking drew to a close. As I was trudging up the hill back to the parking lot, I remembered the days when I would bring the boys to that beach. It was a major career move to get them and all our gear packed up at home, loaded into the van, and transported safely to the sand. We would spend hours playing by the ocean. I will confess, this wasn’t completely due to maternal altruism. Moms know….when they play hard all day at the beach, they fall asleep early that night. At the end of the day, I would summon the last one out of the water (usually Chandler), pack up, order them to rinse off and wash their hair in the outdoor shower (thereby hastening bedtime upon arrival at home), and assign each of them to carry something. With Chandler, it was usually a boogie board twice his size. Today I remembered my boys heading up that hill after long sunny days at the beach. I would not trade those memories for anything on earth.

As if that weren’t enough good stuff for one day, I drove straight to my Brit friend Penny’s house and hung out with her and Christine (another member of this shitty club) for a couple of hours. It is a gift when you have friends with whom you can be real. Even one friend. More than that, you have hit the jackpot.

And tonight at home. We talked about Chandler. Chip, Charli and me. The pain is real. We are each moving forward the best we know how. We have to hold each other in a space of grace as our new reality makes its way into every corner and crevice of our consciousness. We are learning how to do this. To allow one another to grieve in our own ways and to honor our differences in doing so.

I hate the pain that my kids now live with. Will live with forever. It will look different with time, but it will always be present in some form. Maybe in time, with maturity and growth and wisdom and all those grown-up things, I will be able to delete the word “hate” and insert something more spiritually attuned like “embrace.” After all, losing their brother will undoubtedly shape them as human beings, and knowing my kids, it will be in ways that make them show up even better in the world. For now, the most appropriate word to describe my feelings about it is “hate.”

So this is what it’s like. Glorious. And excruciating.

Chan Man

Love the new Chan Man sign someone added to the bike memorial! And fresh, bright yellow flowers! Thank you!!!

I’m not sure where the nickname Chan Man came from originally. Even from birth, Chandler’s persona embodied the modern sentiment, “You da man.” His bravado far surpassed his physical size, and nothing deterred him from going after what he wanted — like jumping off a high dive at three, flipping backward on his bike, flying off a skateboard ramp, body surfing at the Wedge, or backflipping off a bridge.

A lot of his friends call him Chan Man. I proudly accept their moniker for me “Mama Chan.”

I began to call him Chandler Man from an early age. He used to sign cards to me — “Love, Your Chandler Man.” It just seemed the most natural thing in the world to deem him Chandler Man. Just plain “Chandler” didn’t capture enough.

A bit of Chandler-ness from Chan Man:
4-1-98 You came to me at bedtime and said, “Mom, I’m going to brush my teeth ‘cuz I love you and I don’t want to get holes in my teeth before I marry you.”

Holding It All Together

Today in church, the scripture reading that spoke most directly to me was:

And He Himself existed and is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. Colossians 1:17

How many times have I felt like I’m coming apart?! Especially in these past months. When I heard that scripture, I thought, “Lord, you are holding me together.”

I left early because my nose was stopped up and I was struggling not to cough. Lots of sneezing and nose blowing today — what is up with allergies right now?!!!

Despite the allergy distress, I made chicken salad, egg salad, and farro salad for this week’s lunches for Charli and me. And I managed to throw together some crazy good roasted baby potatoes with fresh thyme and rosemary, lemon juice, olive oil, and garlic. Unexpected treat — spiralized butternut squash noodles were on sale. Saved time, saved money, and whipped up a savory side dish of roasted squash noodles with a bit of fresh parmesan and butter.

After dinner, I went for a two-mile run in the cool evening air. I’m not really a runner, but I think I’m discovering the importance of pace. As I was running up one of the hills here in Dove Canyon, I discovered it was easier when I was listening to a song that helped me keep my pace. Too slow and I felt like I was dragging. Too fast and I couldn’t maintain. When I found the perfect song (I’m the One by Justin Bieber and DJ Khaled), my pace felt natural, like I could have kept running further. That might be a good lesson to generalize into my everyday life. I need to choose my pace carefully. If my pace is too fast, I may give in to frenetic activity and wear myself out. If my pace is too slow, I may give in to inertia or settle into a sense of complacency. Some of this breaks down during this season of grief. Right now, I sort of feel like all bets are off. I need to do what I need to do to take care of myself. If it means inertia for a bit, then so be it. I can’t predict what I will need tomorrow, next week, or next month. But in general, I think my little lesson on pace while running up Dove Canyon Drive can teach me something useful in my non-running life.

As I look forward in the next few minutes to sitting on the couch, watching an episode or two of my favorite obsession, and enjoying a bowl of homemade mocha sorbet, my heart is thankful that I don’t have to hold everything together. Hands much bigger, much stronger than mine can do that. All I have to do is my best. Sometimes that doesn’t seem enough, but it’s all I can do. And I can try to keep a good pace. Not too fast. Not too slow.

I can be at peace because…

He holds all things together.

Running, Cleaning, Fixing, Finding

It was a BIG day! Four things I’m really excited about!!!

1) The Bubble Run
You know how I feel about getting up really early….especially on a weekend. But I did it today in order to run through pastel-colored bubbles at Angels Stadium in Anaheim. Two nights ago, some friends told me they had extra bibs because their kids couldn’t do the race. Charli said she would love to do it and asked her friend Katelyn if she wanted to join us. This morning I chose my “C” necklace, a gift from my friend Robin, to accompany me on my run.

Our Mission Hills Christian School clan gathered before our 8 o’clock heat as near the starting line as we could get. Charli and Katelyn bullied, I mean squeezed their way through to the front. As a point of reference, if you read my post back in January about the “In everything give thanks” plaque on our wall, Katelyn is the sweet, talented young lady who made it for Charli’s birthday last year.

I ended up running with my friend Alice and her kids who, because of their youth, had no problem sprinting frequently in between walking and jogging. We sprinted to the finish together and met Charli and Katelyn who had crossed the finish line much earlier. Did I mention they are both competitive athletes, and Katelyn is so flippin’ fast?!

Afterward, we took our bluish-tinted bodies over to Corner Bakery for a delicious protein-rich breakfast, then to Tapioca Express for milk tea and boba. We are looking for more 5ks to do!

2) The recycled bottles and cans
We took Charli’s car to the race today because yesterday we loaded the entire back of my car with bottles and cans to be recycled only to discover both the recycling centers near us are closed for good. What do you do with 12-plus bags of bottles and cans? My friend Lynda came to the rescue. Charli and I drove over and unloaded our stinky bags into her recycling enthusiast neighbor’s yard and into Lynda’s truck for families at our school who recycle to raise funds for their 8th grade Washington DC trips. Thank you, Lynda! My car smells like a car again….not like spring break in Newport Beach.

3) The repaired kitchen pipes
So last night’s broken kitchen pipes left me with a boatload of unwashed dishes and a huge mess. When we got home from our recycling trip, I tackled the dishes, several armloads that I had thrown into the laundry room utility sink to soak. I felt pretty good about having clean dishes despite having no workable kitchen sink. Then I decided to try and fix the pipes. Thank God for YouTube. I crawled under the sink and took apart the P-trap (yeah, that’s a thing), repositioned the plastic rings on the pipes, re-fitted the pipes into one another and tightened the washers. When I turned on the water, no more leaking!!! I’ve run the dishwasher and cleaned the sink. No leaks as of yet. I’m pretty stoked about that. And not one bit of butt crack showing through the entire process.

4) The found vehicle registration
Chip told me yesterday that my vehicle registration and proof of insurance were not in my glove box and that I needed to find them. They are ALWAYS in my glovebox. It worried me yesterday, but I put it off until after the Bubble Run, the recycling, the washing of the dishes, and the fixing of the pipes to deal with. Not in my glovebox. Not in my car. Not in the desk by the front door. When Chip got home, I said, “The good news is, the bottles and cans that had taken over the garage are now gone, and I fixed the kitchen sink pipes. The bad news is, I have no idea where my registration and proof of insurance are.” I casually mentioned that maybe they were with the stuff we took with us back in November to the DMV when Charli took her driving test in my car. That’s the only possibility I could think of. I went and looked in our file drawer. There was the plastic baggie of all the documents we’d taken to the DMV. And there they were…the registration and proof of insurance. You know that feeling when something important has been lost and you find it? Such a huge sense of relief!

It’s been an eventful day. Now I’m going to watch the next episode of Breaking Bad because it sort of makes my sink issues look like small potatoes.

Patriot Hill

Nothing is better than enjoying an ice cold kombucha after a cool shower to wash off the gritty sweat and flying insect saliva after a long, sweltering hike.

Trisha, one of my Board & Brew tribe, and I decided that enduring the 90+ degree heat at home today wasn’t enough of a challenge, so we embarked on a dusty trek up Bell View Trail while the sun was still beating down hard. It’s about a four-mile hike round trip with some of the hills at a 27% grade. Trisha decided even that wasn’t enough, so she carried a 12-pound backpack.

Ascending some of the steapest climbs, I just kept looking at that flag in the distance whenever it was visible. When it wasn’t, I put my head down and concentrated on taking the next step up until I reached some level ground.

The prize at the end of this hike is an American flag perched atop Bell Peak, also known as Patriot Hill. I’m not sure if Chandler ever hiked this, but it’s hard to believe he didn’t. I could imagine him sprinting up the last hill to the flag. I didn’t sprint. I reached the top and turned around to video Trisha with her 12- pound backpack kicking that steep hill’s butt.

From the summit, we surveyed the 360-degree beautiful view. We sat down on the ground and talked about a lot of things. Chandler for one. It is good for my soul to be with someone who knew Chandler in a completely different context than I did. Even if we hadn’t talked about him, she knew him. And that’s comforting to me.

The way down was much easier, of course. Except for the frequent slips and slides due to the loose rocky path. If you get too cocky, too much in a hurry, you go down. On your butt. Fast. We found the likelihood of slipping was decreased if we stepped sideways.

We arrived back at our cars with a kinder sun fading from the sky. Our Patriot Hill adventure ended with a hug.

Now back at home sipping my fizzy kombucha, the word that comes to me is “journey.” A journey is long. It is unpredictable. It can be difficult. And it will be. It can be breathtakingly beautiful. And it will be.

Thank you, God, that I’m not alone on my journey. Help me keep my eyes always on you. And when I can’t see for the tears, help me keep putting one foot in front of the other until I reach level ground and gain clarity once again. Remind me to stop and enjoy the view. And that sometimes it’s better to go slow than fast. Amen.