Statements

I’m not very good at administration. If it depended on me we would have one bank account and live largely on a cash basis. I’d throw away all correspondence – unopened – because having no debtors nothing could be all that important, could it? Hey, I manage to get away with living like that before I met Dirk.

Now of course we have bonds and various credit cards and the tons of paperwork they create. Usually we agree that it is better for Dirk to handle our administration. But moving jumbled things that were already in order and made us aware of shortcomings in our filing system. So yesterday I offered to help Dirk who was sorting through piles of stuff in the garage to organize things enough for us to be able to do our tax returns in a couple of weeks. He asked me to sort bank statements, credit card and cash withdrawal slips in date order.

It’s amazing what credit card slips can tell you:

We eat way too much chocolate.
We used to buy too much food.
We ate a lot of take-aways in the latter part of last year.

If you scrutinize certain dates you see that we bought a whole lot of anti-acid related medicines in the week before Loren died. That we had to switch to a smaller size nappy because he’d lost so much weight.

A whole lot of things happened financially on the day of his death. Withdrawals, transfers, payments…

Don’t you sometimes wish you could whisper to yourself in a previous life?

Tonight you’d better watch him closely or he’ll slip away.

And then in the days and months following his death we were apparently out most weekends trying to evade the silent house. The nappy sizes went from one large size to one large and one newborn and then only one newborn getting progressively bigger.

Bigger until the day you realize that your youngest son is now exactly the same age as he was when he died.

Are you afraid?

Not more than usual.

Are you sad?

Yes. Infinitely.

Fortunately we are more than the incomes we generate, the debt we fall into or manage to evade and our income tax statements. We’re more than what is done for us or to us. We’re somebody’s son or daughter. We are loved and we love in return. And always we influence the lives of the people ours touch.

Here is to 2009.

Summer holidays

Wind

If I could put the smell of rain after a hot day, the cool of the wind against my skin, laughing until my insides hurt into words I’d be able to tell you what it is like being alive. Those are just some of the things that make life worth living. The sum total of life is much more complex than that. Why is it that living without fear and loving without condition are things that only children seem able to do? I don’t really remember a time when I felt joy without pain or fear. Do you?

“Let’s race each other” Marco shouts. The wind is whipping at the bags we’ve tied together and I can see him contemplating the moment when it will be strong enough to lift him up into the air over the treetops. Only grownups care about gravity.

Magnus grabs a treasured book and Marco quickly hands him a jelly bean in exchange. One that he refused to share just a moment ago. Magnus devours it and before you can say one-two-three-Pavlov, Magnus has learned a sure way to get sweets out of his older brother.

A thousand times a day I’m invited to savour the moment. To linger and enjoy life instead of just passing the time until the next meal needs to be cooked. And still I sigh and wonder: What will it be? Meat or fish?

The dog chases the cat and Magnus – an innocent bystander – is a casualty. The dog runs him over without a second thought and my heart stops for a moment when I hear his head collide with the paving around the pool. But, he’s okay. Just furious. The dog takes shelter under a shrub, balefully peering at us. Magnus sobs and clings to me like a little monkey. As I hold him tightly he melts into my body – fluid and with total surrender. I vaguely remember a time when my mother was everything in this world. And I feel blessed. For having known that feeling as a child and about Magnus not knowing my fears yet.

We’re talking about hot-rods. I remind Marco about a book of his with pop-up pictures where hot-rods are explained. We look at it together. He asks me for a pen and paper and then he starts drawing. His face is scrunched up in concentration. It takes one or two tries before he’s satisfied and then he brings me the picture.

“Here Mama”, he says, “This is yours. Please write your name on it. I made it for you.”

Each day starts with endless possibility and ends without a tally of goals accomplished.

Oh, to be a child again.

The garden

I’m not sure why the garden of our new house reminds me of the farm garden where I grew up. Big as it may be, it is not even half the size of the farm garden. There I could disappear for hours on end – daydreaming and thinking. Maybe it is because both gardens were created in a time that labour was readily available and time stretched to accommodate the lady of the house so that she could pick roses for a vase and take leasurely strolls on secret stone paths meadering through the garden. The garden design is informal. Typically English with stretches of lawn and big flower beds.

I prefer informal gardens where nature is closely imitated. Though I can appreciate them formal designs with clipped hedges and lollipop trees are not for me.

My mother inherited the farm garden from the previous owners and already time had become a precious commodity. Labour was used solely to keep the farm running and she was expected to do her bit – such as bookkeeping and running errands – too. The maintenance of the garden was the last thing she needed on her plate. But she vowed that she would try. One of my clearest memories is of my mother pushing a lawnmower – sweat mingling with tears. The lawn took three days of backbreaking work to mow.

But gardens are grateful things. With just a bit of love and some hard work, they bloom for whoever cares to look. There were dahlias and peonies, roses, daylilies and fiery orange gladioli against a stone wall. I ate berries and picked fruit from the orchard without any restraint and in wintertime the trees shared their nuts – pecans and walnuts. The garden of my childhood was pure joy and I fully expect this one to be too.

Yesterday I walked on the upper terrace of our garden and discovered an amazing treasure – a rose of such a deep red, that it resembles velvet. Its fragrance strong and sweet. I carefully picked it and carried it to where Marco was playing. I held it behind my back and waited until I could see the interest dawning in his eyes. There was a chance that he would be disappointed, but no! He smelled the rose and exclaimed in joy at its beauty. My boy.
***

There’s nothing of Loren here. But I’m missing him acutely and achingly these past few days. The other night the sun set in a display of pink and orange clouds. I was alone in the kitchen, preparing mussel soup, while Dirk bathed the boys. The sunset was mine to savour. But suddenly I wanted Loren to enjoy it with me. Hot tears filled my eyes. And then I saw his face staring up at me from the kitchen counter. I haven’t unpacked the pictures that I took down from the fridge at the other end yet. One of the boys must have upended the container looking for something and Loren’s photo had tumbled out.

For such a long time I drifted, wanting to help and yet uncertain how. Then Carina entered my life and their idea of spreading random acts of kindness took root and became A.R.K.

Please look at the website for A.R.K. to see what it is all about.

A.R.K. is a way to share what we have learned the hard way so that no-one else has to go re-invent the wheel and lose valuable time in the process. Combating what is, in essence, a failure of the system. It is a way of relieving the financial burden a disability places on the shoulders of parents. The burdens are always things from outside. Our children are light. They are joy. And they are what makes everything worth it. With some work and lots of love, they will blossom into everything they could be. But we need to keep them alive first.

I’m not one to go around asking for money lightly. But I’m going to. Because there are children like Leon and Anja who really need money.

***

I dislike Christian fiction. Have never been able to read authors like Francine Rivers or Lori Wick. When The Shack was offered to me at our book club, I accepted it, curious about the hype surrounding it. I didn’t expect for one moment that it would be anythiing but amazing. Not even halfway through, I threw the book aside, disgustedly. It wasn’t particularly well written and I found myself grinding my teeth – intensely irritated with it. I decided not to finish it. But I was disappointed and e-mailed some friends who had read it and liked it. I received a couple of very thoughtful answers and suddenly a discussion started that was so valuable that it made me sit up and take notice. What was blindingly clear was how different Christians approach their faith. It made me decide to finish the book. I started and the first few pages where utter hell. But then the book sucked me in like it had all the others. I still object to it on an intellectual level. The relationship described there is one that most Christians think they should have with God. It is a human way of trying to explain the inexplicable. I can live with the message it carries though and the book has decidedly meant a lot to a lot of people.

The image of our souls as gardens was particularly striking. No matter what a mess it may be, it has the potential to be wonderful.

All we need is Someone who cares enough to invest some work and a lot of love….