The Guardians of Sorrow

  

The Guardians of Sorrow

By Julie Payne

 

Brady the beagle was only eight years old when we unexpectedly had to have him put to sleep. He woke up late one night shaking his head incessantly. I could see that his face was slightly swollen but decided to wait out the few hours until morning to take him to the vet. It seemed to be some sort of allergic reaction, maybe a bug bite. He was given Benadryl and sent home. 

 

That night, a Saturday, because almost all animal emergencies happen when only exorbitant after-hours care is available, he developed serious gastrointestinal problems. The next few days resulted in one futile attempt after another to make him well again. After almost a week of veterinarian head scratching, it was determined that he had weak kidneys, and the inflictions and medications were more than his little organs could handle. The most humane thing was to put him down. 

 

The vet spoke kindly and softly as he worked.  The process was gentle, quiet, and methodical—as my heart split open with grief. The guttural sobbing that followed came from as deep a place of hurt as seems humanly possible. I not only grieved Brady, but my dad who passed the summer before, my old dog, Emerson, who Brady had been the welcome heart mender for, and layers and layers of scratched open sadness.

 

I began to ponder why the death of a pet is so uniquely lacerating. I have often heard people say, “I cried harder when my dog died than when I lost my mom.” Or “My cat died ten years ago, and I’m still not over it.”

 

Perhaps it’s because our fur-wrapped friends willingly offer unconditional love and unencumbered relationship. Pasts are forgotten, the future is not analyzed—now is all there is. No wonder grieving a pet is so searing. After all, that soft head is the one that soaked up countless number of tears—the nose that sniffed, the eyes that worried, the head that tilted, and the ears that heard the stories, the railing, the fears.

 

They are the guardians of our sorrows and champions of consolation. When they reluctantly leave their posts, the unwatched gates fly open and decades of despair spill through. 

 

 

 

 

Pieces

Pieces was written in the fall of 2018 when I was in a very different place than I am now.  I decided to post it here for adoptive moms who may feel the same or for those who would like a window into the less talked about aspects of adoption and loss. 

She finds a Work of Art. It is in pieces, shattered. Some see it as damaged and worthless but she sees the beauty, the potential. She carefully gathers the pieces with all good intentions of finding the perfect way to make the Work of Art whole again. 

She makes a plan. This is what I’ll do. I will find just the right glue. I will hold each piece carefully in place while the glue sets. Then I will fill the cracks. And when the cracks are filled and cured, I will repaint it. I will repaint all the faded colors; the colors I can see were once there. And when I do this, the pieces will come together and it will be sturdy and whole and beautiful, just as it was always meant to be.

The journey home is long. She is impatient because she wants to get busy crafting. She finally arrives and begins. The broken pieces are unexpectedly awkward to hold. She picks them up and they fall between her fingers. She picks them up again and down they go. This happens over and over and over. Finally, she learns how to hold them just the right way, and she begins to use the special glue. 

The process is tedious, clumsy. She tries again. This time it will work. This time, this glue, this configuration, this will work. But it doesn’t. The pieces keep falling to the ground. She is tired and frustrated but she picks them up one more time. It works. The glue is holding. Let it set. Let it set. Don’t disturb it. It is fragile. Time passes, more time than she expected, and at last it sets. It is sturdy. 

She goes through the meticulous business of filling the cracks. Let it set. It takes a very long time for the cracks to cure. Let it set. Finally the cracks cure and the Work of Art is whole. 

She cocks her head and sighs. It’s whole but looks tired and faded. The paint will fix that. She uses the colors, the ones she noticed it had been painted before, and she adds a few new colors she thinks will look nice as well. Let it Set. The paint must dry. The paint takes a very long time to dry but when it does it is beautiful. 

All of this has taken much, much longer than she ever imagined it would, but it was worth it. Yes, she can see some of the cracks and even a few pinholes where tiny pieces were lost in the process. But it is sturdy and whole and beautiful.  She steps away for a time, happy, peaceful, and confident that it is repaired and will only become more beautiful over the years.

Darkness comes and with the darkness comes a crash!  She hurries in to see that it has fallen, and, if possible, there are more pieces than before, thousands of them. 

She quickly drops to the ground. There is no time to put on protective gloves, she must pick up the pieces before they get stepped on or lost. The pieces are sharp and cut her skin straight to the bone. Her fingers sting and bleed, but still she picks up the pieces. She has to pick up the pieces! She cannot afford to lose any more pieces! For if they are lost then so is she. The Work of Art has become a part of her and she cannot live without it. She cannot go on if it is not there and whole.

She has gathered all the fragments.  The cracks are broader and the paint is chipped. The pieces begin to move around in her hands, piercing her skin as if angry, as if blaming her for the fall and crying out, “You are the source of all my ugliness! You are the reason I cannot stay together! You have tried to make me the way you want me to look! I was happy in pieces. I was better off before you came along!”

Shocked and hurt, she stands and questions, “Me? Not the one who turned away and left you in fragments, but me? My only intention was to care for you, to tend to you, to love you. I have only ever wanted what’s best for you. Why are you so angry with me?”

The pieces stare back, quiet and steady. “Because you are here.”

Then the pieces, the thousands of jagged, sharp pieces fall through her raw fingers and hit the unyielding ground once again.  She is exhausted, defeated. She doesn’t think she can go all the way down to the ground yet another time to pick up all those pieces. It is futile. It is useless. It is never going to end. It is never going to work. It is never, ever going to end. 

Her eyes follow a tear falling to the ground and she notices another small pile of fragments right next to the Work of Art. She pauses. She recognizes it. She knows it. She remembers that she has brushed this pile aside dozens of times. It is her heart. 

She kneels next to the small pile of debris and picks up one shard. This piece is the first time she ever saw the abandoned Work of Art. She holds it tight and quietly cries. She picks up the next fragment. It is the one who left the Work of Art behind. The next shard is detachment.  The next is anger. The next is resentment. The next is distrust, then loss, the next more loss, and the next and the next and the next, all the scraps belong to the Work of Art; all the pieces of her heart are fractured from its pain. 

She knows now that she must mend her heart first. She already knows she cannot do it alone. She turns to the One who made her. He gently takes the pieces from her. He uses the special glue that will make her whole. He fills the cracks, and repaints the surface. And when all is set and cured and dry, He carefully places her heart back where it belongs.  It will never be the same. Never. But it is sturdy and whole and beautiful.  

With her heart back in its place, she rediscovers strength, courage, and patience. She turns back to the fractured Work of Art and begins again. 

The Guardians of Sorrow

Brady the beagle was only eight years old when we unexpectedly had to have him put down. He woke up late one night shaking his head incessantly. I could see that his face was slightly swollen, but decided to wait out the few hours until morning to take him to the vet. It seemed to be some sort of allergic reaction, maybe a bug bite. He was given Benadryl and sent home.

That night, a Saturday—because all animal emergencies seem to happen when only exorbitant after-hours care is available—he developed serious gastrointestinal problems. The next few days resulted in one futile attempt after another to get him well. After almost a week of veterinarian head scratching, it was determined that he had weak kidneys, and all the inflictions and medications were more than his little organs could handle. The most humane thing was to let him go.

The vet spoke kindly and softly as he worked.  The process was gentle, quiet, and methodical—as my heart split open with grief. The guttural sobbing that followed came from as deep a place of hurt as seems humanly possible. I not only grieved Brady, but my dad who passed the summer before, my dog, Emerson, whose loss Brady had been the welcome heart mender for, and layers and layers of scratched open sadness.

I began to ponder why the death of a pet is so uniquely lacerating. More than once I have heard people say, “I cried harder when my dog died than when I lost my mom.” Or, “My cat died ten years ago, and I’m still not over it.”

Our fur-wrapped friends willingly offer unconditional love and unencumbered relationship. Pasts are forgotten, the future is not analyzed—now is all there is. No wonder grieving a pet is so searing. After all, that soft head is the one that soaked up countless number of tears—the nose that sniffed, the eyes that wondered, the head that tilted, and the ears that heard the stories, the railing, the fears.

They are the guardians of our sorrows and champions of consolation. And when they leave their posts, the unwatched gates fly open and the despair of decades spills through.

The Party

Recently, I had a party.  It was a big one. If you’re wondering why you weren’t invited I’ll tell you that, although the party was huge, the guest list was small. My husband came for a short time before going to work. My oldest daughter was invited but it really wasn’t her kind of thing. My mom had other plans.

I served mostly sour foods. There were balloons everywhere, all popped; and a large pool for diving, swimming, or wallowing. The pool was full of self—self-pity, self-doubt, and self-loathing. There was also a very shallow wading pool for self-esteem but I didn’t spend much time there. Most enticing, was the petty-fountain, dripping with free flowing whys, hows, and whats. I sat with my popped balloons, sour snacks, and pity pool making the most of every minute.

I dove into the pool thinking about how a year ago my husband lost his job of twenty-five years when the theatre program he had built from the ground up was reduced to nothing. Angry that one year later, the company I had given my time and heart to had closed. Ruminating over money owed to me that would easily see us through until I find work but will not be paid. Frustrated over the mistake I made in filing for unemployment insurance that will delay a check coming for another two weeks.

I swam through pain and sorrow about my youngest daughter and our perpetually fragile relationship. I trudged to the deep end, and wallowed in the possibility of losing our house, how to buy groceries, or put gas in the cars. And what about the world falling apart all around us—corrupt cops and cop killers, Facebook rants, and terrorists?

I dragged myself out of the pool, and picked up some “petty-fors” to dip in the fountain. Why could no one stay at my party? Why am I always short on money? How is it that I have energy to clean every room in the house but mine? What’s the city ordinance on the possession of dust bunnies? Why do I have jowls, and none of my friends do? Why have select facial hair follicles gone rogue? Why me? Why? How? What?

On Sunday, I got to spend time with my long time friend, Jean. I invited her to my party and she accepted. She even brought a few of her own sour snacks and popped balloons. She swam by my side in the pool, sampled the nasty food, and took a turn dipping “whys” in the petty fountain. We talked, we laughed, we cried; and then took a short walk.

As we walked, Jean commented, “You know, Satan loves to attack us through our children.” I stopped in my tracks. “But God has access to their hearts.”

There was the crux of it. All the other struggles are just logistics, life challenges that can and will be overcome. But our children are at the tender nucleus of our souls—our Achilles’ heels that cannot be controlled or forgotten—only loved and covered in prayer. Of all my recent trials, the one with my precious daughter had caused me to plan and execute a party like none before. Satan wants us to live in self-doubt and pity—and I complied.

Once I succumbed to that darkness, the bog of depression began to suck me in like quicksand. But God sent my cherished friend to say just the right things at just the right time. There was such comfort in those words. Remembering that I am really not in control. That Satan targets our vulnerabilities, that God is even more interested in my daughter’s wellbeing than I am; AND has complete access to her heart.

It was then that I piled up the rancid food and listless balloons. I shook my head at the energy wasted on the petty fountain. Next, I drained the toxic water from the pool, aware of the real, but no longer consuming presence of the heap of debris. I allowed the pool to fill with crystal clear Living Water. I opened my arms wide, fell back into the pool and let myself float, simply float.

Cheryl Was Shot

The announcement came to me, and my 1969 junior high classmates, that Cheryl had been shot. She was walking down her street, towards her own home, when a young man—a neighbor, randomly, ruthlessly, and without provocation shot her. She had survived. Cards, flowers, gifts, and well wishes of every sort could be sent to her home address.

Our community’s sensibilities were shaken by the news. We were shocked, curious, stunned—but not numbed. I had never before heard of someone being shot for no reason. I had never thought much about anyone being shot. I don't know what kind of gun the shooter had or what happened to him. I know it was just a handgun, not a semi-automatic, or anything close to what’s used in today’s now prolific shootings.

My mom helped me select and send a card and small gift. I don’t remember what the gift was or what we decided was appropriate to say on the card. I do remember receiving a thank you note a few weeks later from Cheryl. It said, “Thank you for your kindness during my illness.” I was struck by her reference to her “illness” but, at the time, couldn’t think of a better way for her to say it.

I had a lot of trouble reconciling why this would happen to her in particular. She was a sweet natured, diligently unobtrusive girl who tried her best to blend in with the utilitarian beige desks, and modular walls. But she couldn’t blend; because she was also, what today would be termed, morbidly obese. She was easily the most overweight girl in the school, but would likely be one of several if she were attending middle school in our current millennium.

She sat behind me in Social Studies, and although I was shy, her demeanor in comparison made me look like a convivial queen of popularity. She dressed nicely, had pretty blonde hair, and a pleasant smile. We always said hi to each other and exchanged small talk, very small talk; and that was about it. When Cheryl returned, post-convalescence, our interaction resumed as if rehearsed.

In the decades since, our communities have been bombarded by images of violence—graphic depictions that appear in movies, television shows, video games, and the news. We hear and see reports of multiple shootings per week, leaving us numbed but no longer stunned.

I think about Cheryl and what she must make of all that’s currently happening in our schools, businesses, and neighborhoods. How does her unique perspective color her reactions and opinions? What must it be like to have been one of the first? It didn’t make the news; there were no copycats; just an informative announcement to update the school families—a desk left empty for several weeks in Social Studies—a polite thank you note—and an unrecognized beginning.

Five Minute Friday-Rest

A rest in musical terms means to take a breath or a break of a certain duration. That rest may last for the length of a breath or for many measures.

The break doesn't mean the song is over, it only means it is time to not participate. While resting, the musician or singer will no doubt be very aware of what the other active participants are doing.

Perhaps she will enjoy what she hears, or critique, or cringe at what she hears. But she will not be part of it. Unless she can't relinquish a feeling of responsibility or need for control. Then she will use that rest as a time to expend stressed energy.

A musical rest–a chance to breathe, a chance to listen, a chance to choose. Relinquish or micromanage?

Goodbye to Selga

Justin Bieber

It occurred to us that there might be a going away party at Selga for the girls after our court appearance. That day, we found out there would be, and that we were the hosts. After court, and our late lunch, we went to a nearby store and purchased two cakes, several bags of chips and four large bottles of Pepsi—all selected by Baiba and Agnese as desirable treats for the orphans and staff. We also brought gifts for all the children ranging from teens to the newest arrival, Anastasi. At eleven months old, she and three-year old brother, Justin had become the newest young residents of Selga.

Agnese has been very active in caring for Anastasi in the couple of weeks that she’s been there. Anastasi sleeps in a small, plain room furnished with a crib and another bed. Staff and older children all seem to take part in her care. At one point Baiba was holding her and handed her to me. Her face crumbled into anxious sobs as she longed to be back in Baiba’s familiar arms. I thought about adoptive mothers who are given their babies to hold for the first time and receive a reaction of tears and fear.

Justin bounced around with a big chubby-cheeked grin, laughing and mimicking back when people called him Justin Bieber. “Justin Bieber! Justin Bieber!” he repeated merrily. Every time I smiled at him, he grinned ear-to-ear and said, “Mama?”

Resilience as a survival mechanism is readily apparent in his cheerful demeanor. If you saw him on the street or in a grocery store you would think he was the happiest kid in the world. All the children behave this way when we’re at Selga. There is lots of smiling, showing off, and asking to be picked up. It makes me wonder if they develop a habit of looking happy and agreeable in the hopes that someone will want to take them home.

On this visit, and the last, one little girl named, Megia wanted me to pick her up repeatedly. The first time I did so at the party, she put her arms around me and squeezed with all her might.

Another little girl, probably five or six years old, with a dark complexion, large brown eyes, and long black lashes just got back from a hospital stay. Baiba asked Marite what she was in the hospital for and she replied, “For mental. She have a lot of psychological problems.”

The Party

The common area echoed with the voices of the children and staff as they all gathered around the treat-filled table. There was much excitement about yo-yos, colorful pens, flavored lip balm, and super balls from America. Hair bands for the girls, and a sleeper and new bottle for Anastasi were placed in the guardianship of the staff for use as needed later.

Marite said a few words mentioning that Baiba was not much older than Anastasi when she came to the children’s home.  Then she gave Baiba and Agnese a framed picture of the workers at Selga. She asked if we would like to say something. David responded that we would, smoothly indicating to me that I should speak. I thanked them for taking care of the girls and acknowledged that a happy day for us was a sad day for them.

Yankee Go Home

Peers and little ones gathered around the girls to say their goodbyes. Marite told us that one young man, who has grown up with Baiba and Agnese wouldn’t come out of his room because he was too sad to come to the party. We took lots of photos and video while young and old alike gobbled down the sugary feast.

Shortly after all had been consumed, the children ran outside to play. The workers went about the business of cleaning up the party, stopping occasionally to hug the girls and express their well wishes. Marite insisted that none of us get too emotional since we’ll be back in five weeks for our final visit. She said, “Don’t cry. You go.” Then she joked, “Yankee go home! Yankee go home!”

We walked outside Selga where the incongruity of a stark institution surrounded by lush vegetation is immediately apparent. Megia tried to crawl onto my lap in the car to go along, but settled for one more hug. Justin was running around laughing and playing with the other children. We pulled away, Selga receding in the rearview mirror, certain that Baiba and Agnese had spent their last night in an orphanage.