Thanks for the Memory, COVID-19

I made a vow five years ago. This weekend, I broke it.

The summer between Charli’s 7th and 8th grade years, she wanted to dye her hair bright pink. I figured why not — it will all wash out by the time school starts in the fall. We used a product called Splat. It was all fun and games until I discovered the warning on the box was not an exaggeration — “This product is a direct dye and will stain.” Try as I might, there was no way to confine the magenta goop to Charli’s long strands of hair. It took forever to work the dye all the way through, and undesirable stainage did occur. I vividly recall making a solemn oath, “I will NEVER use this stuff again.”

Despite the hassle, her hair turned out really cute. NOTE: To those contemplating a temporary fun hair color, this one did not fade before school started. Ultimately, she ended up having to cut her hair REALLY short (think PeeWee Herman) and dye it dark brown (think Elvis) to hide the rest of the “unnatural” dye color which was not allowed at her school.

This weekend, Charli asked me to help her color her hair. School rules have always prevented her from dyeing her hair during the school year, but because of COVID-19, hair color is a non-issue on the same level as wearing pajamas to class. She showed me the box — Blue Envy by Splat. Apparently I succumbed to the same type of amnesia that occurs after hours of agonizing labor — “it wasn’t that bad” — and I said, “Sure!”

First, you have to bleach the hair you plan on dyeing. Thankfully, Charli wanted an ombre look, not the whole head. Then comes the actual dye. The minute I started to apply the electric blue goop, I had flashbacks. The further in I got, the more vivid my memories became. This was the stuff I had vowed never again to use! And yet, here we were — Charli’s azure-stained ears, face, neck and arm before me while I perched on the white ceramic step of my bathtub, smeared blue on both sides from where I would drop the slime-covered comb in order to use my gloved hands to work the dye into Charli’s hair evenly. This process took about an hour. I pulled off the oversized plastic gloves, stuffed them into the Splat box to go in the trash, and heaved a sigh of relief. The worst, I thought, was over.

When it came time to rinse out the dye, we strategically opted for the deep laundry room sink with the spray faucet. Charli suspended herself in a backbend into the sink, and I began rinsing. It was like I was watching Niagara Falls right there in my own laundry room. Unending torrents of blueness poured from Charli’s hair. When the water turned a lighter shade of blue and I was certain that Charli’s further prolonged Cirque du Soleil-esque posturing over the sink would cause her irreparable harm, I had her go finish rinsing her hair in the shower. It took a one-day soaking in Comet and Lysol with bleach along with some serious elbow grease to return the laundry room sink to its previous white state.

Immediately upon completion of project Blue Envy (which by the way yields a gorgeous deep blue hair color but leaves skin a distinct purple), two life lessons presented themselves. 1) Keep the gloves and use them in the rinse phase unless you want your hands to look like Tinky Winky, the purple Teletubby. 2) Never miss an opportunity to make a memory.

Despite looking like my fingertip circulation has been cut off and despite the time spent applying, combing, squishing, cleaning up, and worrying all the while that I was surely making a mess of Charli’s beautiful hair…I would willingly forgo my original vow and do it again. Some memories are just worth making, no matter the mess.

Lowering the Bar

I have successfully lowered the bar to an unprecedented level.

In times past, I would get all dressed up to go out – high heels, full makeup, and an outfit labeled “delicate cycle” rather than my usual wash-and-wear workout attire or sensible work ensemble. I can always count on Chip’s eyes to light up and to hear something akin to, “You look beautiful!”

Today, a month into COVID-19 stay-at-home orders, he walked into the kitchen and saw me. His eyes lit up, and he remarked, “Wow! You look pretty!” I had showered. That’s it.

Maybe it’s the shirt that got him. I opted for a blue-and-white striped top with a v-neck rather than one of my three plush, polar-bear shaped sweatshirts that have become staples in my collection of quarantine uniforms.

Or maybe it’s my hair. A couple of weeks ago, I decided to cut myself some pandemic bangs. Not one of my better ideas. So, of course, I decided to take it a step further.

I searched the internet in vain for a Flowbee, a gadget that attaches to the end of your vacuum cleaner, sucks your hair up, and cuts it in perfectly even layers. Don’t judge just because a vacuum cleaner is involved. They are sold out everywhere!

Plan B: I watched a few haircut tutorials and thought, “How hard could it be?”

I began picking up random sections of hair, attempting to mimic the various techniques demonstrated by the professionals in the videos. Guess what? It really does make a difference if you snip the 90-degree angle where the 45-degree angle should be. And how the heck are you supposed to keep the back even with the front? Ultimately, I just started making random snips here and there, figuring it could only get better. I was wrong.

For whatever reason, this morning Chip’s eyes lit up. That makes me happy. It makes me happy that I was able to sit with Chance this afternoon and have a conversation that made me think and laugh. It makes me happy that Charli and I went for a two-and-a-half-mile walk around a beautiful lake as the sun was about to set.

It makes me happy that I really like these people in my house. Don’t tell them I said so, but I don’t mind being quarantined with them.

Lord, thank you for the joy of simple things. A warm shower, homemade brownies, a long walk, rich conversation. Thank you for the greatest joy -- of loving and being loved. And thank you that hair grows back. Amen.

#UCLABound

Saturday night was big here in the Espinoza household.

All the college acceptance letters had gone out, and Charli had narrowed it down to her top three – UCLA, UC Berkeley, and NYU Shanghai. She has worked hard, and that’s an understatement, to earn these opportunities. I don’t know that I’ve ever, literally EVER,  had to tell her, “Do your homework.” I have, on countless occasions, told her, “Close your tablet and go to bed!”

I am so proud of her for her dedication to her studies and her passion for learning. It is a joy to watch as these next steps unfold before her. My prayer has been that she would be able to go to a college where she will soar. Even if it meant she was far away from home.

 She’s been able to visit UCLA but not Berkeley and certainly not NYU Shanghai. Now in the middle of COVID-19, a Berkeley tour isn’t in the cards any time soon. So once she had tagged these as her trifecta, she asked that we get together as a family to watch virtual tours together and talk about her options. We all cleared our “shelter in place” calendars (clipping our toenails, DIY haircuts, and alphabetizing the spice rack), and put Saturday at 5 on the books.

 Family dinner is always the best. Just...the best. We had BBQ ribs, roasted brussels sprouts and butternut squash, homemade whole wheat bread, roasted lemon herb potatoes, and salad. For dessert – fresh, hot espresso chocolate chip cookies (with coconut flour, so they were basically a health food).

After dinner, we gathered around the TV, set up a Zoom call with Dr. Aunt Cho (working on the front lines in LA), and pulled up a virtual tour of NYU Shanghai. I won’t lie. I was hoping for an obvious rat infestation in the dorms or creepy tour guides with poor grammar. No such luck. The campus was quite impressive and the tour guides engaging and knowledgeable.

Next, we looked at UC Berkeley, then UCLA. Both really nice campuses with lots of study spaces — they had Charli at “study spaces.”

After the virtual tours, we gave Charli our feedback, trying really hard to be unbiased, but each of us knowing how gut-wrenching it would be to put Charli on a plane to fly across the world in the fall. Charli had expressed that one of the benefits of NYU Shanghai is the opportunity to travel and to be immersed in a new culture. Chase, not one to conceal his preferences, enthusiastically interjected, “Charli, if you go to Berkeley or UCLA, I’ll give you a $20,000 travel stipend!”  

Toward the end of our discussion, Karen (a licensed LMFT) said, “Charli, I wasn’t going to say this because I thought it might sound too therapisty, but I think you need to follow your heart.” I knew this was wise advice, but I was silently praying her heart was leading her close to home.  

The discussion concluded when Charli said she’d come to a decision.... “But first, I have to go to the bathroom.” Cliffhanger! I was on the verge of tears, bracing myself to hear, “I’m going to NYU Shanghai,” and telling myself to smile, to be excited, and to NOT cry.

 A few minutes later, Charli came back in the room wearing a different shirt. She said, “I’ve decided this is where I’m going.” I saw the UCLA t-shirt and jumped about three feet off the ground screaming, “YES! YES! YES!” The relief, I cannot even tell you.

 So this fall, Charli will be studying microbiology, immunology and molecular genetics at UCLA – just over an hour away from home!  I have assured her I will not show up unannounced multiple times a week with boba.

I can honestly say if she had chosen NYU Shanghai, I would have been excited for her and 100% supportive AND simultaneously distraught at the thought of her being so far away for so long.  Apparently, my facial expression, comments, and body language betrayed my attempts to appear completely neutral during our family discussion, so I’m glad my acting skills were not put to the test with an NYU Shanghai announcement.

I am amazed and, quite frankly, impressed, at the wisdom and maturity Charli demonstrated in her decision-making process. She carefully weighed her options, and with her end- goal in mind, she made her choice for all the right reasons.

I wish Chandler could have been here. He always bragged about his little sister. He would have been downright obnoxious about this. There is a good chance he would have disappeared with the clippers and shaved his head to say Go Bruins.

A Lesson From Bread

Of course, the one day inspiration strikes me to make homemade bread, it apparently hit everyone else in south Orange County. I went to six stores before finding a pound of whole wheat flour and some yeast. When I say yeast, I don’t mean the little less-than-a-dollar packets with enough yeast for one loaf of bread. The only place that had yeast was Smart N Final, the in-bulk store. So I had to buy a sizeable carton of yeast, enough to donate to every desperate yeast-seeking bread maker in this hemisphere and still have enough left over to make a loaf a week for the next year...for every resident of Rancho Santa Margarita.

I was so excited to pull out our Zojirushi breadmaker that rests comfortably inside a lower kitchen cabinet except for the days when Chip pulls it out to make homemade cinnamon rolls on occasion. I’m not even a bread person, but a fresh, hot slice of homemade whole-wheat bread with butter just sounded so good to me here in the midst of our COVID-19 “shelter in place” season.  

After a short orientation from Chip on how to use this gadget that has historically been in his domain, I carefully measured the ingredients and dumped them one-by-one into the pan. Three and a half hours later, I announced to the family, “Ten minutes to hot, good bread!”

Ten minutes could not pass soon enough. I draped myself over the bread machine, savoring the aroma and letting the elevated temperature of the plastic lid warm my body all the way to the core.

The minute the “Keep Warm” signal came on, I lifted the lid, donned my oven mitts, and dumped the fresh steaming loaf onto my cutting board. I sliced off the end, smeared on some butter and handed the first piece to Chip, followed by Chance and Charli. The first sign something had gone awry was when Chip commented, “Wow, it’s really salty.” This coming from a man who takes the salt shaker to the table with him. The kids echoed his sentiment. Finally, I sliced off a piece for myself. They were not exaggerating! This loaf could accurately be called “salt bread.” I poured orange blossom honey on top to salvage my slice. It helped a bit, but the consensus was – make croutons out of it and start a new loaf.

I was utterly puzzled. I’d read the directions so carefully and was certain I’d used the correct  amount of salt – 1 ½ teaspoons. Obviously, there was something wrong with this recipe. Chip asked, “You used a teaspoon for the salt, right?” How insulting! “Yes, I used a teaspoon...this one right here.” I pulled the spoon out of the sink and showed him. It clearly said ½ tablespoon. Instead of 1 ½ teaspoons of salt, I had dumped in 1 ½ tablespoons of Morton’s goodness. The spoons appeared so close in size, how could using the wrong one make that big a difference?

I washed the bread pan and started a new loaf, this time reading not only the recipe carefully, step by step, but also taking great pains to identify the correct measuring spoon. Flashbacks of the first salty bites of the previous loaf lead me to scrimp just a bit on the 1 ½ teaspoons of salt the recipe called for. I wasn’t going to take any chances.

Three and a half hours later, I pulled out the second hot, fresh loaf of bread produced in my kitchen in one day -- an all-time record for the Espinozas. Once again, I sliced off the end, buttered it, and handed it to Chip. He did not get the squinty face like with the first slice of the day and immediately gave his stamp of approval. I tried a slice myself and was relieved to have accomplished my objective – to produce a warm, tasty, healthy comfort food for my family to enjoy. Now on my kitchen counter are two Ziploc containers – one clearly labeled Salt Bread waiting to be transformed into a boatload of croutons, the other housing a loaf of whole-wheat bread just begging to be sliced, toasted, smeared with butter, sprinkled with cinnamon and a bit of coconut sugar, and enjoyed at the start of a new day, a new week, along with a cup of coffee.

Here’s what I learned from today’s salt bread fiasco. Seemingly small things can make a huge difference. Looking at those measuring spoons, I marveled at how the larger one could yield an almost inedible loaf of bread while the other smaller one, apparently not that much different in size, could produce an appealing indulgence for my family.

As we move through these next days and weeks together, I think we would do well to remember that even the smallest act of kindness or generosity can make a big difference to someone. A call or text to a friend or family member. Flowers dropped on someone’s doorstep (thank you, Mahsan!). Ordering pick-up from a local restaurant to help support them. A smile and sincere “thank you” to the grocery clerk for working so that you can bring home food to your family.

God, show us how even our seemingly small acts of kindness can make a big difference as we all settle into this temporary new normal. Give us hearts of generosity, compassion and grace as we all travel these uncharted waters together. Amen.

Big and Small Gifts of Grace

What a difference a week can make.

When I sat down to write last Sunday, we were just beginning to feel the grip of COVID-19 tighten around us. Schools were closing and students moving to distance learning. We were getting a little concerned how we were going to wipe our bums, and we’d seemingly forgotten that we have running tap water that we can actually...wait for it....drink.  Throughout the week, we saw restaurants, favorite stores, and even public outdoor spaces close. We heard press conferences with experts prognosticating, predicting, and pleading with the public to protect the most vulnerable amongst us by staying home and practicing social distancing when we have to be out of the house.

My “book” club, just nine short months into Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, canceled our monthly meeting this week, but we decided to meet via Zoom instead. Same with my Adventure Sisters instead of hiking together this weekend. You realize when you see on-screen the faces of those people you love how much you miss being able to give hugs all around and just be together without the constraints of the day.

And now, seven days into the “15 days to flatten the curve,” we find ourselves living in a big question mark. We cannot control the situation around us, only do our part to keep ourselves and others well. It is a global exercise in living out Step One – “admitted I was powerless.”

We can struggle against it, like a toddler being strapped into a car seat. That won’t change a thing. Or we can be with life on life’s terms and allow this moment in time to be our teacher.

I am in no way minimizing the loss of life due to coronavirus or the profound impact on countless individuals, businesses, and the economy in general. The fear, the pain, the uncertainty, the loss – it’s all very real. This is an opportunity to be human together, which means we get to rise to the challenge of demonstrating compassion, generosity, and love in ways we’ve never imagined.

One thing I have learned in the past 15 months is that when the worst happens, a primary path to maintaining sanity and even serenity is to be grateful for every small and large gift of grace.

 Today’s gifts of grace:

Chip made me an easy-over-do (as Charli used to say when she was little) egg and bacon to enjoy while we “attended” an online church service with Father John Taylor. Not gonna lie. I like going to church in my pajamas.

Chip and I went for a walk. Afterward, I grabbed my earphones and commenced my walk solo while listening to my free audiobook Where the Crawdads Sing (the Libby app is the best discovery ever for FREE audio and e-books!). My walk quickly morphed into a hike when I made an intentional turn onto a trail taking me through nature rather than through neighborhoods. The glistening lake with its turtle inhabitants sunning on the rocks, the rolling green hills, the leaves of every size and shape, and the bright yellow daisies all spoke to me of God’s boundless generosity and creativity. This is quite a magnificent home he made for us.

 In the middle of my walk, I switched off my audiobook and took a break to sit in silence on a white glistening rock overlooking an arroyo. This is what my soul loves. “In quietness and trust shall be your strength...” (Isaiah 30:15).

I ran into a few people I know during my hike, including a family from Mission Hills Christian School. We were going opposite directions on the looped trail, having started from different locations. I asked them if I would eventually come out where I started (I tend to get lost a lot). They assured me I would and gave me basic directions, “You will veer to the right after you get to Robinson Ranch.” Later, we met again as they were finishing their hike and I was nearing the point where I would need to “veer to the right.” My confusion lay in the fact that there were two routes that, in my directionally challenged mind, could have been construed as “right.” I started up the one I thought would lead me home. My friends yelled from a distance while motioning, “You have to go to the right!” Did I really want them to think I was that directionally challenged? I yelled back, “Yeah, I’m just stretching!” – and with that, I proceeded to put my left foot up on the curb, performing quite a vigorous, over-dramatic calf stretch. Then I headed down the correct “right” path which took me back home. Had I not run into my friends, there is a good chance I would still be lost somewhere in Robinson Ranch.

Tonight was simply the best – family dinner with all of us...almost all of us...together. Posole, beans, enchiladas, guacamole, and chile verde stew followed by a rousing game of Exploding Kittens. And, of course, we had to watch YouTube videos of the fainting goats and the dog that growls at his own foot before ending the evening with benedictory hugs and “I love yous.”

As we look toward the week ahead, I pray you and your loved ones will experience moments of laughter and pure joy and that your hearts will be kept in a spirit of peace that passes understanding. May we all be good humans to one another and keep our eyes open for the big and small graces for which to be grateful.

New Home for the Bike

Long before the COVID-19 toilet-paper-and-bottled-water rush that ensued this week, I had been contemplating what I wanted....needed...to write about today, March 15. So that’s what I’m going to stick with, and I will end with a couple of thoughts about the prevailing topic of the day.

The Saturday after last Thanksgiving when I began unpacking Christmas stuff, I discovered that the bottom portion of our artificial pre-lit tree, which when fully assembled is reminiscent of the multi-colored flashing lights lining the Vegas strip, had not been packed in the tub with the other 2/3 of the tree. Much to my chagrin, I found that misplaced section to the right of the garage door.

When I had picked up Chandler’s bike at the sheriff’s department shortly after January 1, 2019, I had placed it carefully at the front of the garage. I will admit my spatial sense when parking is not exemplary, so out of an abundance of wisdom, Chip found it a new home out of harm’s way at the back of the garage. It was now sharing space with the misplaced bottom section of the Christmas tree.

I had to pick up the bike and maneuver it to the side in order to extricate the tree. Touching the bike, I could not help but think back to December 15, a year earlier, when Chandler had been holding onto those handle bars, sitting on that seat, and sometimes standing to power those pedals on his way to Board & Brew for his evening shift. I have seen my son ride his bike countless times. I can picture him riding to work on December 15 wearing his Santa hat. What came next, I have never seen, so I have no reference for it. Why does my psyche insist on knowing what it can’t know and at the same time resist knowing it at all?

All of this from simply moving a bike to get to a Christmas tree.

A few weeks ago, I pulled into the garage to find Chandler’s pride and joy, his custom army green BMX bike, hanging safely from a hook in the ceiling at the front of the garage. It was difficult for Chip to hang the bike. To handle the bent, scratched frame. To remember December 15. That it was the last ride Chandler would take on this bike.

I got out of my car and stared at it. Chandler had carefully chosen every element of that bike, from frame to pedals to chain. He was as at home on that bike as he was in his own bed. Despite the many scrapes and bruises from trying every trick imaginable, he felt free, unfettered, and alive on that bike.  They had literally flown together, defied gravity.

And now here hangs a symbol of life and death amidst the everyday ordinariness of pulling into the garage. I feel simultaneously a sense of reverence and a sense of resentment. This bike gave Chandler some of his greatest joys, and it gave us our most profound sorrow. I know if Chandler were here, he would say, “Don’t blame my bike. That’s an awesome bike.” Maybe in time, I will look at that bike and remember Chandler flying high in all his glory. Maybe I won’t travel back and relive December 15 as a default. Maybe in time, I will look at the bike and smile. Maybe.

Now for a word about COVID-19, coronavirus. We all agree that if Chandler were here, he would be convinced he had coronavirus, with or without symptoms, and would quarantine himself in his room until he was certain it had passed.

At the end of this week, as I read about schools closing and events being canceled and people hoarding toilet paper and bottled water in response to COVID-19, I came across this by Richard Rohr, “I am now personally convinced that Jesus’ ability to find a higher order inside constant disorder is the very heart of his message—and why true Gospel, as rare as it might be, still heals and renews all that it touches.“

Dear Lord, give us a vision for your higher order in the midst of disorder. Help us to live out true Gospel. Let your peace surpass all fear. Amen.

Bringing Sexy Back

Why does my life seem to be about managing ailments these days?

Ailment number one, yep, you guessed it. In the ongoing three-year-old saga— Plantar Fasciitis, My Forever Friend — I can report that yet another round of physical therapy and my faithful adherence to the home exercise regimen has resulted in zero improvement. However, it wasn’t all for naught. If they ever make picking up marbles with your toes an Olympic sport, I’ll grab the gold.

In a couple of weeks, I will begin a program called the Feldenkrais Method, recommended to me by a friend. It has some evidence behind it for improving chronic pain and does not involve meticulously tracking the phases of the moon or attaching leeches to my foot, so I’m trying it.

 In the meantime, I’ve picked up a sexy little item called the Strassburg Plantar Fasciitis Night Sock. In a nutshell, this snow-white stretchy invention of modern science connects your big toe to the top of your shin via a long piece of Velcro through a metal loop. It looks like a rudimentary torture device.

 The theory behind the Strassburg Sock (which I could have rigged up myself with a tube sock and duct tape) is that pulling the big toe toward the calf throughout an entire night’s sound sleep – repeatedly over many nights -- will result in a stretched fascia ligament. And, theoretically, a properly stretched fascia ligament is a happy fascia ligament. Charli saw it and was jealous. She wants to wear it to school. There would be too many haters. Chip’s comment: “Sexy.”

 I’ve worn it for two nights now. So far, no benefits to speak of, and there is a slight chance gangrene may set in soon due to restriction of the blood supply from my knee downward.

I also ordered Protalus plantar fasciitis inserts. They are probably the only brand I hadn’t tried. My first impression upon opening the box was that they smelled strongly of industrial rubber. No matter...if they work, I’ll happily smell like the Michelin man. I’ve worn them a couple of days. No magic as of yet. Tomorrow at Pickleball I’ll see what they’re really made of.

 On a high note, I want to give a big shout out to my Sollbeam fuzzy orthopedic slippers. Although they haven’t proven to be a cure so far, they have won my heart. After being in regular shoes all day, I fantasize about the minute I can take them off and slip into my arch supported, heel cushioned, Velcro-fastened soft and cozy slippers. Will the sexiness never end?

 Ailment number two, reflux. Still taking Nexium and now added Carafate to the mix to try to cool the burn. It may be akin to eating aluminum, but if aluminum cures reflux, sign me up for more. The suckiest part is trying to manage trigger foods and finding that when you deprive yourself of chocolate or tomato-based sauces, for example, your esophagus still burns. So now I’m bent on eating all the trigger foods. All at once.

 Ailment number three, bilateral rotator cuff injury. I’m not sure if it was the overhead presses in body pump or the endless chaturangas (also known as tricep push-ups) in yoga, but both shoulders are ready to break up with me.

Everything I’ve ever done including yoga, boot camp, running, and weightlifting have resulted in some kind of minor to moderate injury. Hmmmmm….maybe the common denominator is me. Charli tells me it’s all about correct form, and I’m inclined to believe her. She’s been training really hard with Athlete’s Choice for two years with no training-related injuries, and she attributes it to their strict coaching on proper form. Upon advisement from Charli, backed up by my corroborating research (I can’t help myself), no more weighted upright rows, front or lateral raises, tricep dips, or shoulder presses. I will be focusing mostly on mobility exercises. The jury is still out on the chaturangas. Skip, modify, or straighten up my form? That’s a tough one. It’s not in my DNA to skip the chaturangas in yoga….and, yes, I know my suck-it-up-and-do-it attitude defeats the point and purpose of yoga. I’m working on it.

 So that’s the latest. Oh, and no social media since Ash Wednesday. I’ve been reading more and have almost completed a 13-hour audio-book. I miss hearing from friends, old and new, on Instagram and Facebook, but I’m feeling a bit more present with the people who are right in front of me.

Beginning Lent, Creating Space

The season of Lent began with Ash Wednesday this week. For the next six weeks, Christians the world over will engage in various spiritual practices in preparation for Easter. This is a time to reflect on our deep need for Christ’s work in us -- helping us turn away from those things that rob us of life and toward those things that bring us life…abundant, overflowing life. Because we know the end of the story, our spirit of repentance is infused with a spirit of joyful expectation.

Fasting is one common practice observed during Lent. People fast all kinds of things – chocolate, alcohol, meals, TV, meat, shopping. The point is to welcome God into the space that is created by giving up that thing, whatever it may be.

This time last year, I gave up nothing for Lent. I couldn’t bring myself to fast anything that held the potential to deliver any form of comfort or distraction or joy. God must have been OK with that because He never left me and just kept on showing up.

This year I find myself in a different place. Not easier. Just different. I can deal with fasting a meal or two (although I just learned you shouldn’t fast a meal if you have GERD). After praying and thinking through my “what to fast” possibilities, I landed on social media.

For 15 months, I have been engaged almost daily through social media with those who have blessed me so much by coming along with me on this journey of finding a new normal after losing Chandler. The words of encouragement have been medicine for my hurting heart. “I’m praying for you;” “I feel like I know Chandler because of your writing;” “Reading about your loss has helped me in my own grief.” Stepping back from that ongoing dialogue for the next six weeks scares me a little. My hope and prayer is that it will create space for God to work and speak in a new way. I think it will give me fresh perspective and maybe unexpected insight into how my interaction with social media shapes my thinking, moods, and attitudes.

I discovered quickly on Ash Wednesday that my muscle memory would override my intentions, at least early on in the social media withdrawal process, so I decided to move my Facebook and Instagram buttons off my homescreen. My fingers are conditioned to tap on those icons when my eyes first open in the morning, when I have a split second of boredom, in between my tasks throughout the day, and just before I turn out the light and my head hits the pillow.

Although I love catching up on the latest happenings with friends and family on social media, there’s something freeing about not surrendering to the scrolling, not going down a rabbit trail from one post to the next only to find that 20 minutes have passed.

On the pragmatic end of the spectrum, my little fast will ensure that I don’t make any more unfortunate impulse purchases from clicking on a Facebook ad…at least not for six weeks. Let me just tell you, the beach waver does not glide through your hair like on the video. It is more like a medieval torture device that you have to align perfectly for it to even hold your hair and not burn you, and when you try to copy the flip-and-glide motion of the happy model in the video, pieces of hair get caught and yanked out one by one.  

 I will still be writing my weekly blog post these next weeks of Lent. I just won’t be checking Facebook or Instagram. Until Easter Sunday…

 Lord of all times and seasons, I enter this season of Lent with a keen awareness of my profound, constant need for you. Though a miniscule sacrifice, I pray that the giving up of social media during these next weeks will create space for you to work in me in new ways. Give me eyes to see and ears to hear anything and everything you want to teach me. Most of all, bring my attention front and center every day to the reality beneath it all – that you are good, merciful, present, and loving. Amen.

Me and the Sky and a Desk Drawer Makeover

I woke up this morning feeling a kinship with the sky. Although the sun managed to peek through the dark clouds here and there, a veil of grey appeared resolute to keep the sun in hiding. I wanted to stay in bed. Not move. Pretend that closing my eyes under warm, cozy covers would make everything OK.

I gave myself permission to do what I needed to do, be it stay in bed or get up and do something. Anything. Thinking through my options, I decided that I would feel worse if the day ended and I hadn’t accomplished a thing and better if I could at least check a couple of to-dos off the list.

First, brush your teeth. Check.

Next, I looked at my agenda for the day and pared it down to a minimum. Just the things that I know are good for my soul.

The temptation was to rush out and shop or go work out or move away from how I was feeling. Instead, I listened to the voice deep within that knew what I really needed -- the gift of quiet stillness. Space to just be sad. Or anxious. Or whatever else came up.

I listened to Psalm 116 on my Bible app a couple of times and wondered if maybe there’d been a Back to the Future scenario where the writer had traveled forward in time, read my mind, and returned to his place in history to pen this psalm. “…I was overcome by distress and sorrow. Then I called on the name of the Lord: ‘Lord, save me!’”

I pulled out my journal and wrote pages, not paragraphs. There was a lot to process. It was a hard week emotionally.

After unloading some of the heaviness onto my journal pages, I went downstairs to the kitchen. The slow but steady momentum lead me from one thing to the next, and soon the dishes and laundry were done. There is comfort in doing the simple things and knowing God is in it all. Laying the last of the dishes onto the draining cloth, I resonated with Brother Lawrence, a Christian monastic who lived during the 1600s. “Lord of all pots and pans and things…make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.”

By this evening, I had tidied up the house, worked out on my Pilates reformer, gotten groceries, and whipped up a fresh loaf of banana bread and a tangy herbed farro salad for lunches tomorrow. And my prize accomplishment – organizing a desk drawer that would have sent Marie Kondo running for backup. It appears that this drawer is where all manner of technology cords and chargers and every conceivable variety of writing utensil goes to live and reproduce. Tonight, after some heavy-duty sorting and purging, the situation is under control.

Lord, thank you for being present—always, but especially on grey days like today. Thank you for the energy to get out of bed and brush my teeth. Thank you for the joy of simple things -- groceries, clean clothes, warm banana bread….and the satisfaction of a successful desk drawer makeover.  Amen.

Griping and Gratitude

Can I just gripe a little?

Three-and-a-half years ago, my left heel started hurting. It was shortly after I had begun running more than usual and on hills. Maybe the hills were the culprit? Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I get just a taste of that insane phenomenon they call “runner’s high” and start to actually enjoy going for an impromptu run, I’m sidelined with an injury – diagnosed with plantar fasciitis.

I remember the timeframe vividly because it coincided with our first Adventure Sisters trip – to Zion National Park to hike the Narrows. We conquered the Narrows on day one, and my foot was extremely mad at me. Day two – I literally hiked up and down the mountain on my left tiptoes because my heel was yelling at me so loudly.

Since that time, I have done physical therapy, Graston technique (think butter knife scraping the bottom of your foot until you cry), rolling the infamous frozen water bottle on the foot, stretching, strengthening, resting, icing, orthotics, inserts, heel pads, acupuncture, Birkenstocks (and other shoes I thought were butt ugly until I discovered they were comfortable), and a night splint. Two cortisone shots over the years worked wonderfully – for exactly six months each. Finally, on October 14 last year, I pulled out the big guns and underwent a platelet-rich plasma procedure. This was supposed to remind my chronically inflamed fascia ligament that it was indeed injured (apparently it had forgotten) and trigger a healing response that would make everything better.

I’m at four months post-procedure, and my fascia ligament must still be in denial that it is injured because it has not cooperated in healing itself – not one bit.

At this point, I would eat worms and bathe in bat poo if I thought it would make my foot better.

On top of that, I’ve been battling reflux since about December. Oh, and now my right ear keeps doing weird things, like it’s stopped up and needs to pop. So annoying!

Yesterday as I started my hot yoga session, ruminations on heartburn, foot pain, and ear troubles filled my headspace. A few minutes into the sweating and down-dogging, my focus began to shift. I detached a bit from my grumblings. Gratitude became my word. Grateful for health -- the ability to eat, to move, to breathe deeply. I toyed with the idea that maybe I could peacefully co-exist, at least to some degree, with my maladies. “Accept the things I cannot change…”

Losing Chandler put a lot of things in perspective for me. Some matters I would have considered monumental are now miniscule. But just because my world got turned upside down, doesn’t mean the force of gravity has been suspended. I’m still living in a world where heavy stuff happens. Some heavier, of course, than others. I simply haven’t achieved a level of sainthood at which griping about crappiness has dropped out of my repertoire. I will say I’m getting better at, as my preschool teacher friends say, redirecting. The best way I’ve found is through gratitude.

People say you can’t complain and be grateful at the same time. I disagree. I think it’s totally possible to gripe about things that are gripe-worthy and still manage to maintain a sense of gratitude. In fact, sometimes the very thing I’m griping about can become a catalyst for a mindshift toward gratefulness.

Yes, my foot hurts. That’s real. And I’m just so darn sick of it. But I’m also so very grateful that I can walk and dance and balance for tree pose.

Yes, I wish I didn’t feel like a frog was stuck in my esophagus. But I’m also grateful that I can taste and savor good food. Like the unforgettable peanut butter cup pancake Charli and I shared this morning at Snooze Eatery.

And yes, I really do want my ear to pop so it doesn’t feel like I’m in a submarine. But I’m also grateful that I can hear music and podcasts and the voices of my husband and my kids.

God, even when I’m in pain or in a situation I’m just sick of, please help my heart continually return to gratitude. You are not scandalized or offended by my humanity—that when I hurt, I say so. Yet it is also no excuse for neglecting to say “thank you.“ Amen.

Progress?

This week, one of our Board & Brew tribe, Savannah, gave us a photo album she’d made. It is a grand tribute to Chandler-ness. This album is an Espinoza family treasure.

I’m not gonna lie – looking at the album is both heart-warming and heart-wrenching. If I can manage to separate myself for a minute from the fact that the handsome, dimpled guy in these pictures is not here any more, I can smile and think good thoughts about how much this young man loved life and loved his friends. That’s not a frame of mind that comes easily….not yet.

Seeing my son’s face makes me literally ache to hug him and tell him how much I love him. I think of all the birthdays and Christmases and Thanksgivings that will come and go without Chandler. There’s a feeling of profound helplessness that accompanies that thought. There is not a thing I can do to change it. I cannot bring him back. That’s where the serenity prayer comes in – God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

I recognized some progress this week, though honestly, what does that even mean in this context? A few families who toured our school saw my family portrait on my desk and asked, “Oh, you have four kids?” Without missing a beat, I responded, “Yep.” For the most part, I don’t struggle with that question now. It’s still not normal that all of my four kids are not here in a form that I’m able to see and hear and touch. But I do not need to explain or shrink from the reality that I have four kids. One just happens to be waiting for me elsewhere.

It is all still so close. The phone call – “Is this Chandler Espinoza’s mom?” The drive to the hospital. The waiting room. The initial news from the neurosurgeon. The sight of my son for the first time after the accident. Today I was driving by Board & Brew. I noticed the time – 3:30. If this were December 15, 2018, it would only be about 10 minutes before everything….EVERYTHING….would change.

I hate that it’s been so long since I’ve seen Chandler’s brown eyes alive, knowing, searching for the next adventure. I’m finding it is exactly like friends who’ve walked this road have told me – it doesn’t get easier. Just different.

This whole grief thing is a process. I’m not sure when I will emerge from it or what that will look like. I know I will miss Chandler until my dying breath. Among many things I don’t know is when the missing will be less palpable and relentless. Will it ever cease to be top-of-mind?

God, you are my faithful, loving companion on this journey of grief. You never let me go. Help me trust this process. Let me not try to rush through or past what I need to feel and sit with. At the same time, let me not become stuck in spaces that do not serve me or others well. Amen.

Just the Good Stuff

We bought Chandler a blue DRIFT backpack for Christmas a few years ago to use on his treks up Saddleback Mountain. Back then it was just a backpack. Now it’s much more. It’s a piece of Chandler I get to carry with me when I go hiking. It’s a symbol – of zeal for life, of being in the moment, of stamina, of love for nature, of friendship, of adventure.

This little backpack is designed for a day hike, not a multi-day trip. You have to be choosy about what goes in there. Everything simply won’t fit.

In grief, you become keenly aware that not everything fits. You have to make room for the physical and emotional work of missing, remembering, grasping, reconfiguring, reimagining, packing and unpacking, weeping, sighing. Breathing.

Last January, pretty much all that would fit were the basics -- getting up, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, eating. Feeling the weight of losing Chandler.

There are still moments when my growing capacity seems to shrink back up in an instant. Like yesterday. The first of the month. I was driving by Board & Brew at about the same time Chandler’s accident happened and saw two police cars on the corner, apparently cleaning up the aftermath of a car accident. I was right back there – December 15, 2018. I said a prayer for all involved and began mentally reciting my mantra, “Here and now. Here and now.”

Entering year two, most times, I feel like I can take on more – physically and emotionally. But even as my capacity expands, I’m learning that some things make their way into my backpack that do not serve me well.

Bitterness. Unforgiveness. Jealousy. Self-criticism. Judgment.  If I carry these around, they will crowd out valuable space that I need for the good stuff. For the life-giving stuff.

Busy-ness. That’s a big one. It perpetually competes for space normally reserved for the single thing that keeps me most sane and centered – stillness. My times of quiet meditation are like the water reservoir in Chandler’s….in my….little backpack. It goes in first. Everything else gets tucked in around it. I don’t have everything. But I have what I need.

God, I know I cannot carry everything. Give me wisdom, courage and grace to put just the good stuff in my backpack and leave out the rest. Amen.

The Rock

I was the picture of confidence climbing up onto the gargantuan boulder and even jumping across the crevice to access potato chip rock, a sliver of stone that juts out into thin air and actually does resemble the shape of its namesake. But my bravado was highjacked by butterflies as my Adventure Sisters and I moved out onto the suspended rock. I grabbed hold of my friends and held on tight.

That isn’t my usual modus operandi. I’d like to blame it all on my foot surgery – I’m still not back to normal with my balance and strength, and you definitely want to be balanced when one slip could lead to big time badness. But it was more than that.

Even though I knew that sheet of granite was plenty strong enough to hold us up, to hold me up, I imagined it cracking, dropping us helplessly onto the rocks below. There was just this thin plane between me and nothing.

My grief, my missing Chandler with everything in me, feels like that vast expanse underneath. The only thing between me and falling headlong into big time badness that I can’t escape is God himself. With my feet planted firmly on the truth of His presence, His goodness, His joy, His strength, His provision, His love, I know I will be OK.

I can hurt. I can cry. I can be angry. I can feel, deeply feel, all the emotions that are attached to losing a piece of your heart and soul. And I will be OK.

Tonight at hot yoga, as we began the practice in child’s pose, I thought, “What is my word tonight?” Several came to mind. But the one I landed on, the one that just felt right, was “trust.” That was the word I held onto for that hour on my mat.

When I got home, I showered off my post-yoga sweat and sat down to write. This scripture jumped out at me: Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord himself, is the Rock eternal (Isaiah 26:4).

Lord, you are my eternal Rock. You are strong enough to hold me, to hold all of my grief and every emotion that comes with it. Help me trust you. Always. And with everything. Amen.

Chandler Ink

So this just happened.

I have never had the slightest desire to get a tattoo. I’m actually so not tattoo savvy that a few years ago at a conference where I was speaking, a man asked if I had any ink, and I offered him a pen.

After Chandler died, we all knew we would be getting some Chandler ink. For the past year, I’ve been thinking, overthinking, analyzing, surveying, praying, discussing, and researching. I’ve scoured photo albums, cards, letters, my mom journal. I wanted the perfect image to represent Chandler. With every tattoo idea that emerged, the questions arose, “Is that the best image to represent Chandler?” and “ Do you want that on your body forever?”

I’ve contemplated, among many other things, hiking shoes, a unicorn (the art on the front of a birthday card he got me once), a silhouette of his face or of him on his bike, a candle (Chandler means candlemaker), song lyrics, a flower pot he made me in middle school. There was one image, one idea, that surfaced to the top early in my ruminations and on which I landed at last this evening.

I was nervous all day. Really nervous. Friends will attest — I conducted last-minute tattoo polls and processed my anxiety out loud. I realized that part of my anxiety lay in my unconscious desire to capture Chandler so perfectly in this til-death-do-us-part image that it would feel like he’d never left. I told myself, “This is just a tattoo. It won’t bring Chandler back or make you miss him less.” This took some of the pressure off — SOME of the pressure — to come up with just the right tattoo idea.

Tonight, Chase and I met at Vatican Studios where the insanely popular and talented tattoo artist Devin Mena works. The studio is an aesthetic paradise. Gothic style art tastefully adorns every wall. A graphic of the Last Supper hangs over one door in the waiting area, and an exotic fish tank bubbles behind the grey leather couch where clients await their turns. The attention to detail is over the top. The place even smells amazing! Like a blend of incense and a kind of cologne you actually want people around you to wear.

I arrived a bit before Chase, so I was pretty much set with my design by the time Chase arrived. I originally wanted the signature from a card that read, “Love, your Chandler Man.” Devin made a mock up of it. When he came back to show me, I said, “You’re going to hate me, but I have this other signature that might work better.” I showed him another card from Chandler. He liked it. I began to cry, “I’m sorry. It’s just really hard to decide what to….” “No worries. I get it,” he said.

Once Chase arrived, we had some time while Devin was finalizing my template to sit and chat. A thick-bearded shirtless man walked past us, apparently taking a break from the sizable back tattoo he was getting. Glass cases full of piercing paraphernalia stood at the front and the left side of the room. To say Chase and I felt a bit out of our element would be a gross understatement. We were likely the two nerdiest people ever to set foot in Vatican Studios. Neither of us had a tattoo or even any previous inkling to get one — until Chandler. I will say I was a bit cooler than Chase with my edgy double-pierced ears.

I was so nervous. SO nervous. About the pain, yes. But more than that, I wondered — am I making a mistake? This is forever! What if I don’t like it? What if I realize next week or next month that there’s another image, a much better one, that I should have gotten instead, one that captures the very essence of Chandler? Or what if I just hate having a permanent marking on my body?

My internal debate was interrupted by Devin — “Come on back.” It was time to stop thinking and just do it. I followed him to his room, perched myself on his table, and reminded myself, “You’ve given birth to four 8-pound babies. You can do this.”

The moment he put the needle to my arm, I was relieved. It wasn’t nearly as painful as I had anticipated. It just becomes annoying after a while. By my reference points, it’s not as painful as childbirth (without an epidural), eyebrow waxing, or blood draws. In fact, as my friend Dayna suggested would be the case, I’m already thinking of an element I want to add to my Chandler ink.

Devin finished his work, wiped off my arm, and I looked at it for the first time. It was as if I was looking at the card Chandler had signed himself. A perfect replica of his words to me. I loved it!

I imagined son #3 looking on. I said out loud, “I did it, Chandler!”

Then it was Chase’s turn. Chase chose to get his tattoo on his side like Chandler did when he got his epic Rolling Stones tattoo that spanned his armpit to his waistband. Devin recreated a photograph of Chandler’s silhouette with the sun shining onto his face. Stunning. As the needle made its way down Chase’s side, he learned that the ribs are the most painful place for a tattoo. We marveled that Chandler had withstood hours and hours of needle to skin right on top of his ribs.

After our Chandler ink, Chase and I went for a bite to eat at a new noodle place. The Chinese hamburger, the orange chicken, the fried rice, and the spicy beef noodle soup all exceeded our expectations and sated our post-tattoo appetites.

As we walked to our separate cars, our parting words were, as always, “I love you.”

WWHC — What would honor Chandler? Tonight’s tattoos at Vatican Studios, dinner at Bai’s Noodle Bar, and three simple words.

Different and Same

It’s been one week since my last blog post. As the day after that last post came to a close without my sitting down to write, I almost panicked. It felt as if I had neglected to brush my teeth or drink water or change my underwear – stuff you do every single day. It was just plain unnerving.

As the days have passed, a sense of freedom has begun to take hold. Even after just one week of not having “blog” on my daily to-do list, I can’t fathom writing every single day. I’m just now realizing the magnitude of that commitment. There aren’t a lot of things I would ever commit to doing every single day for a year.

As an enneagram 7, I get all angsty at the idea of a routine that dictates what I will do with at least two hours of my day for 365 consecutive days. My compelling mantra throughout, especially on nights when I was drained of everything, including words, was – do this for Chandler.

In some ways, January 9, 2020, is very different from January 9, 2019. And in some ways, it is very much the same. The biggest difference – I am not planning my son’s memorial service today.

I also have a bottom left molar now. That may seem trivial, but that gaping hole has been a constant reminder. On December 31, the day before Chandler died, I had to get my tooth pulled. In preparation for an implant, I’ve had several dental appointments throughout the year, each a reminder of all the feelings and events of the day before the day. On Friday, thanks to Dr. Regan, the gap disappeared. I ran my tongue over my bottom teeth and it didn’t fall into a hole just before the back molar. It was wonderful! After my appointment, Charli and I went to The Habit for cheeseburgers. We used gift cards given to us last January -- even our cheeseburgers were a reminder of Chandler. As I bit into my burger and began to chew, I became absolutely giddy! For the first time in over a year, I didn’t have to adapt everything about the way I was chewing to accommodate for that darn missing tooth. It was sublime to just chew again – like my old normal.

In a way, the feeling of wholeness and normalcy of getting a tooth back is symbolic. Although I will never have my old normal with Chandler back, I can acknowledge and find joy in each place of healing along the way. Each bit of progress.

Like smoothies. And work.

One day this week, I decided to have a smoothie for breakfast. So without much thought, I grabbed my frozen spinach, almond milk, chia seeds, cacao nibs, maca powder, frozen banana, and collagen protein, threw them in my VitaMix, and whirled up a tasty treat that I sipped on while working from home on my computer. Two things I was not doing this time last year – working and making smoothies. I remember marking the day, sometime in late January I think, when I scraped up the energy and motivation to perform that multi-step task of making a smoothie. It was a big deal. Now I’m making smoothies and working. Not just working, but immersing myself in my work and enjoying it.

Although I could mention several differences between now and this day last year, I can also say with certainty that today is exactly like January 9, 2019. I am still the mother of four children. And one of them is no longer here. This will be my reality every January 9 for the rest of my life. It is profoundly painful to contemplate.

I’m finally back at hot yoga after months of restriction following my foot surgery. As I took to my mat on Monday, the word that came to me was “receive.” I prayed, “God, help my heart be open to all you want to give me.”

I’m continuing to hold onto that word – receive. And also to the phrase “a new thing.” They have both come to me through scriptures from friends, from my own readings, and from a still small voice in my soul.

God, I open my hands to receive from you with gratitude. You are good, and I welcome every “new thing” you want to bring into my life this year. I know you will be with me in all of it…old and new. Amen.

Doing Our Best

A week ago today, the Espinoza clan landed in Albuquerque and made a beeline to Mac’s Steak in the Rough for chicken-fried steak fingers, gravy, and french fries, your typical health food fare. It was the beginning of a fabulous week marked by priceless family time, world-class cuisine, and the beauty of Santa Fe at Christmas. It was also the prelude to January 1.

Today I joined a dear friend for tea at Starbucks, a friend who knows firsthand the pain of losing someone you love with all your heart way too soon. We talked about Chandler and about what it feels like to live through the first year. We agreed that life is full of reference points to the one we are missing. “This time last year, he was…” For her, it’s been many years, and yet, the reference points remain. Thankfully, she said they are not as pervasive as in the early years, though the moments of profound, tangible pain can emerge at any time, out of the blue.

So back to this family of mine. They are my heart. My happy place. My pride and joy. My best thing. Their smiles make me smile. I am a very proud wife and mama. I’m sure we are not doing all this perfectly — that would be impossible given our human DNA. But we are doing our best.

We are going through the worst together. And we are not giving up…on life or on one another. By the grace and strength of God, we will continue to honor Chandler by loving one another well and by seeking to be forces of love in our spheres of influence.

Today’s Chandler-ness:
10/5/98 -
Chandler: I saw a guy on TV, and his hemorrhoids made him strong.
Mom: My hemorrhoids don’t make me strong.
Chandler: But they made him strong.
It finally dawned on me.
Mom: You mean steroids?
Chandler: Yeah, steroids.

Impact

Impact. The reason Chandler isn’t here with us today. Impact with a vehicle’s windshield caused irreversible, catastrophic damage to Chandler’s brain.

Impact is also what Chandler made when he was here with us. We didn’t even realize how far-reaching his impact was until we started hearing the stories from people we had never met until after the accident.

When Chandler came back from his three-month trip to India a few years ago, he had talked about starting a lungi business that would ultimately bring much-needed resources to people in India who lived in poverty.

I received a card in the mail last week from World Vision stating that a goat and two chickens were being given to a struggling family in Chandler’s name. He would have loved nothing more!

I’ve also learned that three of Chandler’s friends have become clean and sober as a direct result of Chandler’s death. I still cannot type those two words…Chandler’s death…without feeling something must be amiss. It can’t be real.

People who didn’t even know Chandler have told me that through hearing about his life, they have become more intentional about being present in the moment with the people in their lives.

A wise pastor and friend used to always say, “Life in community is messy, painful, and difficult.” Chandler did not shy away from any of that. He listened and accepted, without judgment. This is a primary reason he made such an impact in his too-short time on earth. I want to learn from his example.

I greatly admire the other parents in this shitty club who have started foundations and organizations that continue to make a positive impact in the names of their children. I’ve been pondering my role, our role as a family, in honoring Chandler by carrying on where he left off. I’m not sure at this point exactly what that looks like.

For now, I know that any act of kindness, generosity, or compassion inspired by Chandler will elicit a dimpled grin that will capture the hearts of all his new neighbors.

Today’s Chandler-ness:
11/14/99 - When people get married, they don’t do a French kiss. They just do an American kiss and make it last for a long time.

Almost

After a smooth day of travel, we arrived home this evening to lots of Christmas cards and a few packages to open. Thanks to a friend on Christmas break from college that popped in to take care of Maddie and D’Marcus, we came home to happy doggies. Also thanks to her, we did not come home to house full of dog pee and a back yard covered in dog poop — yippee! Yes, our dogs are house-trained, but D’Marcus is a wienie dog. We’ve had three of those during our marriage, and all of them retained their prerogative to hike a leg in the house if the mood struck, despite their clear knowledge that outdoors was the appropriate location for such activity.

We brought home New Mexican red chile tamales, some from Aunt Val and some from a tamale shop in Albuquerque we visited just before turning in our rental car. Good tamales are hard to come by. But we found ‘em.

Tonight I sit by the fire, suitcase unpacked, savoring the quiet, marinating in the memories of these past five days in Santa Fe with our family. It is a strange place to be. One foot so securely planted in the ground of gratitude. And the other suspended in an unknown, painful space with no firm or familiar terrain on which to gain a sense of equilibrium or balance.

These past days could not have been any better aside from having Chandler with us. I don’t know when or if the time will come…and it will not come quickly if it does at all….that I will be able to say without reservation or disclaimer, “It was perfect.” Even if the words come, I cannot imagine that my heart will not whisper, “Almost.”

Today’s Chandler-ness:
9/29/97 - The other day you said, while pulling on your johnson and surveying it, “Why’d they put it there?” You also, in the same day, informed me that you’d peed in the trash can. When I said, “You better never do that,” you quickly ran to the restroom and emerged saying, “I poured it in the toilet, Mom.” Today at church I discovered you peeing on the tire of the van as Sharon, the music leader, passed by.

Best of Santa Fe

Today we all went to an incredibly creative museum experience in Santa Fe called Meow Wolf, a sensory playground comprised of every form of art imaginable. You can either enjoy the experience for what it is, or you can delve deeper and solve the mystery at hand. I had big ambitions to find all the clues and solve the mystery. Within minutes of crawling through the fireplace and finding myself on the other side in the realm of another planet, I was overwhelmed and decided it wasn’t in my skillset to identify and synthesize the hundreds of clues at every turn to solve the mystery. I decided to just have fun. I proceeded to climb and crawl and bang and listen and play and read. I observed some clues along the way but could not, as my kinfolk in Texas would say, “put heads ner tails” together. Chance and Charli, on the other hand, found several clues and started putting them together to form a coherent story. Chip and I consoled ourselves with the notion that we have other gifts.

For lunch, we had pizza — four different kinds! Meat, green chile, veggie, and smoked duck, each unique and delicious!

It’s a good thing we walked around Santa Fe Plaza all afternoon. Between the pizza and all the pastries and sweets we garnered at the bakeries and shops surrounding the plaza, I’m certain we each doubled the amount of calories and sugar we would normally consume in a week. Let me say, the Señor Murphy’s green chile chocolate caramel sets the bar for most magnificent melt-in-your-mouth confectionary flavor combination ever.

Tonight we had dinner at Maria’s — more authentic northern New Mexican food. Can you say blue corn enchiladas with red chile sauce and a fried egg on top?

Santa Fe at Christmas is magical. Experiencing it with family….priceless.

About today’s picture: While Chance and Charli actually decorated the tree, Chandler used decorating as a ruse for getting to climb up the outside of the spiral staircase, a makeshift ladder to reach the top of the tree. I can’t say he put one single ornament up there, but he did get pretty high up on the stairs.

Today’s Chandler-ness:
(From Grandma Shari’s journal while taking care of the boys so Chip and I could traipse about London and Paris.)
November 1996 - I’ve sent Chase and Chance to the shower – major noise coming from the bathroom – sounds like three boys instead of two. The door is locked – I pound on it – a little voice says, “Chaith and Chanth did it.” I recognize that lisp. I can’t wait to see what “it” is.

Incompletely Complete

This picture was taken at the Burj Al Arab hotel December 22, 2008. I think Aunt Cho stayed back at the apartment with Chase that day because he wasn’t feeling well. Aunt Cho was flying for Emirates airlines back then, so she flew us all out to celebrate Christmas with her. We had so much fun on that trip — riding camels, going to a desert safari party, sliding down a water slide into an enclosed shark tank at Atlantis, and skiing the indoor slopes at the gargantuan Dubai Mall…just for starters. It was as it should be. Surrounded by my four kids.

We are all together again today. As together as we can be. This time, in Santa Fe. Chandler would have loved our lunch and dinner — Mac’s Steak in the Rough after we landed and tonight Tomasita’s. It was well worth the hour-long wait. My internal dialogue vacillated between, “I’m so grateful to be here with my family,” to “I hate that Chandler is missing this and that we are missing him.”

I pictured him among us. Pictured him completing what feels incomplete.

Today’s Chandler-ness:
(From our Christmas letter 1996)
Chandler, at three, is a bustling bundle of perpetual motion. Remember the afore-mentioned gecko? Tonight I walked into the room to find Chandler holding it upside down in his hand saying, “He likth me, Mom.” Three seconds later, Little Timmy the gecko had no tail. Hopefully it will grow back. That’s Chandler. Once when Chase brought the class rats (Itchy and Scratchy) home for the weekend, Chandler came crying into the room, “I fall wif Itchy!” He had taken the rat out of the cage and dropped him. The search was on. That’s Chandler. He learned to swim this summer and actually went off the high dive. He “wuvs” his “bullers” (translated brothers) and has an iron will. He keeps us running to say the least, but what a sweet cuddly bundle.