Film Review - 10 Cloverfield Lane

Hi friends and readers of this long-neglected blog! The following is a short film review I did for a class on film and theology! (SUCH fun!) 

When I watched 10 Cloverfield Lane a few dates ago with my husband, I was expecting a thriller with possibly some monster overtones– after all, J.J. Abrams, the powerhouse behind the 2013 cult monster hit Cloverfield, is one of the producers. What I wasn’t expecting was a tale of empowerment, and a subtle exploration of what it means to be saved.

 The movie opens with Michelle (played by Mary Elizabeth Winstead) hastily packing belongings while intentionally leaving behind her engagement ring. She frantically drives along increasingly obscure roads, only to black out from an accident and wake up a prisoner, her injured leg chained to a stone wall in a bleak underground room. Michelle is soon introduced to the bunker’s owner, Howard (John Goodman), who informs her that there has been “an attack.” The world outside the bunker has been saturated with poison gas, but he has saved her life. There is no one coming to look for her.

The audience finds themselves identifying with Michelle as she seeks to distinguish real threats in the bunker from those imagined. The film’s sound design and score are written largely from her perspective and the camera follows her as she makes discoveries about her environment. We quickly discover that although Howard makes himself out to be the good guy, he is clearly one of the monsters of this film. Like many abusers, he casts himself as the heroic savior, even as he gaslights, manipulates, and tries to control everything from Michelle’s emotions to her very thoughts. 

Michelle’s empowerment is a clear theme throughout this movie as she comes to grips with the reality of Howard’s predatory nature as well as her own innate ability to resist. This culminates at the end of the film where Michelle is once again in her car, but instead of running from danger, she deliberately turns into its path, willing and able to resist. 

In the wake of Michelle’s empowerment and liberation from her predators, I found myself thinking about what it means to be “saved.” Howard tells Michelle that he is saving her. And for a short while, Michelle thinks that perhaps he is. But in the end, he is only another predator. Like Michelle, we may find ourselves under the control of something that purports to be “saving us” when it actually holds us hostage. This can be as insidious as a coping mechanism which turns into an addiction, or a fear-based dogma that imprisons even as it proffers fake feelings of safety. The good news is that we are not powerless against these perpetrators. Instead, somewhere inside us is the ability to conform to an alternative narrative, one that liberates and gives agency to those trapped in darkness. 

Hello again.

I hate saying goodbye.

This might come from living a highly mobile life from an early age, or perhaps it's because I value stability and continuity -- two things that many of us in today's global society lack. Maybe it's because many of the goodbyes we've said happened too soon and we weren't ready or prepared for them.

-A year ago I lost both grandmothers within a few months of each other.
I was not ready to say goodbye.
-Last month our home was robbed and jewelry, mementos, electronics, and DVDs were taken.
I was not ready to say goodbye.
-Five years ago this fall our toddler son died of cancer.
I was not ready to say goodbye.
-Five years before that my husband lost his dad to a rare disease.
We were not ready to say goodbye.

This is why I avoid goodbyes. They remind me of the big things I've lost that I wasn't ready to part with.

A few years ago I read a book entitled Praying Our Goodbyes. The basic gist of it is that with each new transition in our lives there is something we lose as well as something that can be gained. Each goodbye contains within it the seeds of something new and fresh. Basically, with each "goodbye" there is a "hello." Many of us are really good at seeing the loss in each life transition. (Sometimes that's all I can see!) But how do we reframe our lives to see the coming newness? How do we train ourselves to see the possibility and the gift within each closed door? Each of us experience many "goodbyes" over the course of our lifetime, and most of the time we aren't prepared for what we lose. Perhaps there is no sure way of preparing ourselves. But what we can prepare ourselves for is the "hello."

Here are a few of my "hello's" in no particular order:

Andre, our third child. He's pretty amazing.
Graduate school in a new city.
Friends in the child-loss community all around the world.
Deep friendships with people who aren't afraid to talk about their $#%t.
A strong inner life.
Knowing my own mind.
Unexpected joy.
Growing fearlessness.

What about you? What has been the "hello" within your goodbyes? What might you be called to view with new eyes?

Lament

Simply defined, a lament is a passionate expression of grief or sorrow.

Much like this blog.

There was a lot to work through the year after Vincent died.  I couldn't not write about the messy process of grieving, raging, remembering, forgiving.

In the last four years my grief has become less visible, less obviously messy.  I don't randomly burst into tears.  I can rather successfully navigate new circumstances without being overwhelmed.  I seem put together.  Although it may seem to have abated, the truth is I'm grieving more now on the inside. The weight of grief is still there.  It never leaves.  Each day carries with it a sense of loss - I see it in the gap between my youngest and eldest child, when I tell new friends how many children I have (two is the proper answer), when I see toddlers taking first steps with their mom, when I hear my son's name spoken in passing by a stranger.  If you talked to me now, four years later, you might think everything's OK.

But it isn't.

How could it be, after I watched my son die a slow death, shriveling every day as life-giving fluids left his body, his stomach swollen with tumors, mouth parched for water.  Death came too soon, too violently, too wrong.  It was unjust, unfair, untimely and I am undone.

On that note, here's a prayer.

Ironic God,
You who watch over the sparrows,
number the hair on my head
How can you stand by
while people die every day, praying, hoping, bargaining, beseeching.
Where are your ears?
Don't you care?
Can't you heal?
How will you fix this?
What kind of joy makes up for sorrow?
Tell me, I want to know.
Or better yet, show me.

-I'll come up with a more faith-filled litany later but for now this lament is all I have.

Anniversary

It's that time of year again where this blog suddenly springs to life, documenting yet another day of grief.  November 20.  Apparently it comes every year.  Much like the last two anniversaries of Vincent's passing, this one has brought a resurgence of anxiety, insomnia, online shopping, anger and stress.  Will anything this terrible happen to our family again?  What if we lose another child or they get a life-threatening illness?  Will Andre make it to his second birthday and beyond? Is that a lump I feel in his abdomen?  Is this a sore throat or a vocal nodule?  How will we ever afford to buy a house here on Oahu?  What if we get bed bugs? Is this dry skin or inflammatory breast cancer?

Aaaaaaand repeat from the beginning.

But unlike the last two years, I have gained new ground in this whole grief-work thing. More than ever, I remember him, the sweet Vincent Wing Seun Stringer. And I mourn the loss of him. This has taken a while, but my grief-work is now more about Vincent than about me.  At least most of the time.

Earlier this year we found some occupational therapy papers stuffed in a closet, documenting the progress and regress Vincent made during the course of treatment.  A line jumped out at me- "He has a sense of humor." Yes, he did. He loved to laugh and make others laugh with him. His favorite place to be was home or the beach. He loved his family and stuffed cat (well, pretty much any cat.) His life was brief, but cherished. And the hollow spot I feel in my heart is there, same as always.

But today is not about me.  Today is about you, Vincent.

May you enjoy the great vastness of what Is and may we one day explore it together.  

Arrival (posted 11 months late)

He's here. And he's beautiful.  Andre Wing Yee Stringer, born on 11/23/12 after 6 hours of induced labor.  He's a champion nurser, a phenomenal sleeper, and a smiley charmer.

For the last month I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to scream all night long.  For him to stop eating, or perhaps begin vomiting everywhere.  But nothing super terrible has happened.  He's doing good. We're doing well.  He fits in to our family dynamics perfectly - in fact, I can't imagine life without him.

In the words of Jean Valjean from the musical Les Miserables, "How was I to know that so much hope was held inside me? ... How was I to know at last that happiness can come so fast?"

Suddenly, something wonderful has begun.  Our family feels complete.

Waiting

Almost exactly two years ago I was posting on our caringbridge site, documenting each stage of our terminally ill 18-month old son's death from liver cancer.  On a date I'll never forget, November 11, 2010, we made the decision to leave the hospital and go home with hospice - Vincent's feeding tube was removed and he was given a running cocktail of morphine and other drugs to ease the pain from his tumors.

Then we waited.  Although he had been given approximately 48 hours to live, Vincent tenaciously hung on to life for another 11 days as family flew in from out of town, forming a bedside vigil of sorts, taking turns watching him every minute of the day and night.

Each morning Theo would bound into our bedroom, the site of everything hospice-related, asking "Is Vincent still here?"  Yes, his baby brother Vincent was still here, laborously breathing, mostly unconscious, but still with us.  We would hold him, sing to him, pray with him, and release him to Jesus.  "You can leave for the bright happy place whenever you want" we'd say.  Every night we'd emotionally prepare ourselves for his death.  When it didn't come, we'd brace ourselves for another day of waiting, relieved that he was still here with us, wishing it wasn't the end.

Fast forward two years.  Again we're waiting.  But this time we're waiting for a new life to be born.  And of course, this sort of waiting is infinitely easier than the other kind.  It's infinitely less sad.  But as our November 11 due date has come and gone and as Vincent's anniversary of passing looms closer, I'm again finding myself in limbo, anticipating an irreversible event to take place that I cannot control.  Waiting.  Again.

What am I waiting for?  I'm waiting for this new child to be born, to see his little face, touch the hands and feet that have been squirming inside of me for so long.  I'm waiting to observe the 2nd year anniversary of Vincent's passing, waiting to remember that awful and wonderful day when he was finally happy.  I'm waiting for the day that our family will be whole again, for the day I'll be with all my children, for the day I'll be able to hold a healthy Vincent in my arms.

I'm waiting.  Waiting isn't always bad.  But it is hard.

The Hardest Post (Or "It's a Boy!")

OK, here goes the post that's been the most difficult for me to write.  You may wonder why, after documenting our precious boy's losing fight against cancer, or venting over precious memories stolen, or struggling with issues related to loss, grief and faith, this post in particular would prove tricky to articulate.

Well, here it is.  We're pregnant.  With another boy.  Due date 11/11/12.

If you're good at math you'll quickly realize that I'm already 35 weeks pregnant.  And this is the first time I'm publicly announcing it online.  These days my body is doing all the talking for me (no hiding the belly now!) and it's time for my voice to catch up, to join the celebration, to do the speaking.

Why has this been so hard?  Perhaps it's because I've been giving bad news for so long I'm afraid to voice good news - subconsciously worried that I'll have to change my tune later.  Or perhaps it's simply because I'm in denial.  Denial that I'm giving birth to another son within days of the last one's anniversary of passing.

Perhaps it's because I'm so happy I don't know what to say.  Or feeling confused.  Or all of the above.

Suffice it to say we're glad.  Looking forward to this little guy's birth.  Theo's beside himself with joy to  have another brother.  He's already planning where the little guy is going to sit in the car, what we're going to do when we have our next baby, and what to call both of them.  (What can I say, he's a forward-thinking planner!)

We've had our moments.  Theo has done a fair share of crying over the past few months.  At the very beginning of this pregnancy he voiced his sadness over not getting to keep Vincent, saying he wanted Vincent to come back instead of this new baby.  A few months ago he began praying that this baby would "stay" and "not go to heaven for a long, long time."  Now he kisses my belly each night and laughs when the baby kicks back. "He likes me, mom!"  I'm sure that like his parents, his feelings over having a new family member are confusing.  But confusing or not, I desperately want this to work, to last.  And because of that it's hard to celebrate what already is.  That there is new life here, in this family.  That God has blessed us with another child.  That Theo and Vincent have, indeed, another brother.

Several weeks ago something clicked in my brain and I began preparing ourselves for this little guy's birth - getting clothes from friends, readying a crib, making a few badly needed purchases.  All of Vincent's things were either given away or made into memory blankets. His car seat is long gone, sent to the trash carrying irremovable toxic chemo substances. Initially we were hoping for a girl - me so that I could feel better about having to buy baby things yet again, Dan so that he could have some mental separation between what happened to our last child and what could happen to this one.  But now we're glad.  It's another boy.  We have three boys now.  What could be better than that?

Mercy

Unholy we sang this morning, and prayed
as if we were not broken, crooked
the Christ-figure hung, splayed
on bloodied beams above us;
devious God, dweller in shadows,
mercy on us;
immortal, cross-shattered Christ—
your gentling grace down upon us.

John F. Deane (b. 1943)
-taken from Manhandling the Diety

What Wondrous Love

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this
That caused the Lord of bliss
to bear the dreadful curse for my soul, for my soul,
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul!

This Moving Train

...It's been a while.

In the past couple months of my blogging hiatus we've observed Vincent's one-year passing anniversary as well as the anniversary of his burial and the break-in.  We've celebrated Thanksgiving, Christmas and the new year.  I've been hired as the praise band leader & choir director at the little Lutheran church down the street.  We've made new friends and acquaintances. Once a week I get to watch the sweetest baby for our friends who also live nearby.  And there are other employment possibilities looming around the corner.

My life is going on, continuing to evolve, move forward.

And yet I sort of want it to stop.  For a few months now it seems that all around me renewal, new life, and even optimism have been growing, slowly gaining momentum, and in the process I've been caught up in the surge of a new beginning.  As wonderful as it is to see a new future on the horizon, I find myself increasingly wishing to have the old one back. I wish my other life, the one where I had two sons that were 22 months apart -yes, that one- was possible.  I wish I could have Vincent back with us, healthy and growing, I wish all the people that I meet and befriend would know him, (or at least understand the depths of my pain.) I'd trade everything for my old life, the one where I was relatively unafraid, where I felt safe, cared for, where I was surrounded by all my children.

Noel

From the four of us to you all,

Have a Blessed Christmas!

Denial

Yes, it's been a while.

But you see, I've been avoiding certain things, and when I say certain things, I really mean anything grief-related.  This past month I've been pretending to myself that I'm just the mom of one really nice four year old who's blessed enough to stay home, craft, bake and preach. (And part of that is true!) I've been pretending that my life is really going well, that I feel great inside, that nothing huge or no one essential is missing.

These days I do my crying in the middle of the night while sleeping, accidentally waking myself up from sobbing.  Because I'm not unhappy.  In fact, I'm absolutely fine.

So I tell myself.

Again and again.

No really, I'm doing great.

This past year since Vincent died I have done some serious grief work.  Up till now I have faced my wounds head-on, dealt with hosts of secondary losses in stride and worked from rage to a somewhat reluctant acceptance.  But now that the anniversary of Vincent's passing looms before me, I am pissed.  Angry.  Mad.  Furious.  I suppose I should be happy that Vincent had a place to go when he died, that he passed from being in my arms to being in Jesus' presence.  I should be glad that one day I'll be reunited with him, that nothing again will ever part us.  I should be thankful that at least my marriage is secure, my other child healthy.  But no, I'm angry.  In the words of the longtime news anchor Howard Beale from the 1976 film Network, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Once again, the source of my deepest pain is laid open.  And let me tell you, this wound stinks.

But for now I'll ignore it.  I'll bury myself in tons of sewing.  I may even write a few prayers.  But they'll be happy prayers, because I'm fine.  Really, why wouldn't I be?

Perhaps another time

Today I was a really cheerful person, talking and laughing with the Starbucks baristas even after they confused my drink order and lost my debit card. I was chatty and friendly for meetings, jolly and interesting. I was at my out-going best.  Even my hair looked better than usual, bouncy and voluminous.

By the way, today marked Vincent's 11 month "angel" anniversary. He died exactly 11 months ago. But I didn't want to think about it, didn't want to face the darkness, so instead practiced avoidance techniques like crazy. All day I exuded graciousness, read smart intellectual books, (as opposed to my usual detective novels) pinned like crazy to my pinterest account, e-mailed my mom, hung out on Facebook, organized the refrigerator, moderately worked on a message for Sunday, and played with Theo.  Oh, and I made dinner.

You should have seen me. I was beautiful and bubbly.

Oh, it wasn't all fake. I really felt all of those emotions. But really, I was hiding. Avoiding. Keeping away from a door I didn't want to open. A door I pretend doesn't exist. I kept it closed all day for fear of drowning.

But late tonight, right before bed, I just had to look at one video of Vincent, to see his face clearly in my mind. I selected it carefully, one that wasn't too long, where he didn't look too sick, when we weren't in the hospital. In the end I watched him wave a flag around on the 4th of July.  All 30 seconds of it were perfect, beautiful, exactly what I could handle.

Now as I go to bed I'm going to attempt to shut out the other videos playing in my head, ones involving labored breathing, devastating developments, failed chemo treatments, cracked lips, line infections, somber doctors, feeding tube malfunctions and bleats of pain. I can't deal with them right now.  Maybe another day.

Bed Bugs

Wednesday I purchased a beautiful wooden four poster twin bed from craigslist. I picked it up late in the afternoon, thrilled with the price and quality of workmanship, excited to spend the weekend transforming Theo's toddler bedroom into more of a big-boy hangout zone.

Yesterday morning I was bringing a friend to the store and excitedly telling her of my amazing find when she commented about being wary of buying used furniture.  Because of bed bugs.

Bed bugs?  I didn't think we had a bed bug problem in Hawaii.

*note*:  this picture is not of a "real" bed bug!

When I arrived back home, I double-checked the solid wood bed frame lying in our living room (there's no mattress as of yet) just to be sure.  That's when I saw some funky-looking patina that may (or may not) be bed-bug-doo, as well as some dubious looking shriveled insect shells.

Unfortunately, this triggered my PTSDish-I'm-not-safe-anymore-this-is-a-crisis, and I promptly spent the next 3 straight hours googling pictures of bed bugs, (don't do this, ever!) reading articles on ridding your house of a bed bug infestation, calling Terminix for a free consultation, and hanging out in chat rooms dedicated to bed bug removal.  In other words, I totally freaked out.  (As a measure of how disturbed I was, I absentmindedly placed my treasured cast iron pan in the sink and filled it with rust-inducing water, a big no-no in our house.)  The bed was carted outside in pieces, and the carpet was sprayed with alcohol and a "green" bug killer.  Theo, left to his own devices, emptied out all his puzzles on the floor of the kitchen, scattering hundreds of little pieces around the house.

Then Mike from terminix arrived with his trusty flashlight, thoroughly examined the bed, pronounced it clean from bed bugs (as far as he could tell) and told me that the insect shells were baby cockroaches left there from storage.  What I thought were eggs was really old glue that had seeped outside the seams.  The wood was solid and clean.  So I hope.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day I felt shaky, uncertain, foreign.  The house didn't look safe.  We've purchased all our furniture from craigslist and never worried about bed bugs before - now, that's all I could think about.  After retiring to bed yesterday evening it got so bad that I began to feel light-headed and had to practice calming breathing exercises.  (And this in a bug-free bed!)

This past week I've been working on a sermon from Psalm 16, a beautiful golden jewel of a psalm.  Some commentaries argue that the crux of the psalm is in verse 8, where it says, "I have set the Lord always before me, because he is at my right hand, I shall not be shaken."  I've been pondering what it means to mindfully keep the Lord day by day in the very center of our lives, indeed, of our very souls.  What it might look like for me.  

Well, yesterday I saw what it might look like to keep my eyes on Fear.  All afternoon bed bugs consumed me, for hours I felt them crawling up my back and causing my head, legs, and arms to itch uncontrollably.  I thought I saw their droppings in the carpet, on our walls. They were always before me, in the center of my mind, at the forefront of my thoughts.  I let them run rampant in my head, growing and reproducing, becoming more and more of a threat to my safety and security.  I was badly shaken.

How can I let Jesus run rampant, as it were, in my mind?  How can I let his anchoring reality sink into me so deeply that I feel his palpable presence around me, holding me, guiding me?  How can I open my eyes to see his work in our home, lives, and surroundings?  How can I keep him at the center of my mind, growing in strength and power, his life in me becoming a threat to injustice, inequality and evil?

Today, that's what I will choose to think about.  I will keep my fingers from keying bed bug searches into google, I will sing silly songs while vacuuming behind the bed and take better care of my cast-iron pan.  I will play puzzles with Theo.  And all the while I will choose to think of Jesus, letting his reality and that of his kingdom sink into my head and heart.

Having Enough

For those of you who have been following our family's story, you know that this past year has contained a lot of crappiness.  It has also has included meaningful moments of great joy, beauty, and discovery.  But mostly it's been pretty bad.  (Of course, I guess it could be worse!)

Earlier this year I attended a lecture given by a noted author and spiritual director.  At the end of her presentation she guided us through a prayer based on the 23rd Psalm.  The beginning of the prayer was paraphrased to say, "The Lord is my shepherd, I have everything I need."  I could barely choke out the words and in the ensuing minutes of meditation felt increasingly disturbed.  How could I say I have everything I need when my precious child was painfully snatched from me?  How could I say I have everything I need when our house was broken into after the funeral and I lost most of our videos of him?  How could I say I have everything I need when months have passed since our last paycheck and bills are looming?  Believe me, the last thing I felt I had was everything I need.

Since we lost Vincent, I have felt crushed, abandoned, disappointed, angry.  It has not been easy.  But somehow I have been able to wake up and get out of bed each morning, (even if I get back in later on) take care of my 4 year old, read, write, and worship.  Some days I feel my sanity stretched to the limits, having chimerical conversations with people I believe have wronged me, disappointed me.  I'm often scared, furious, apathetic. Yet somehow in the midst of confusion, disappointment, frustration,  I have come to believe that God's grace is simply enough.  That it's sufficient for what I need to survive, even when it doesn't feel like it.

To keep the Apostle Paul from being needlessly conceited over his supernatural experiences and revelations he was given "a thorn in the flesh" - an unidentified something so troublesome, so unlivable, that three times Paul pleaded with God to remove it.  Three times.  And God simply replied that His grace was "sufficient."  The word for "sufficient" in the Greek literally means "to suffice" or to "be enough" or "be content".  In other words, God's grace is exactly what you need.  Not what you need to be live a blissfully happy life, with ne'er a care in the world.  Instead, God's grace gives us exactly what we need to carry on, to make it through the day.  Paul himself may not have always felt that way, (hence the repeated requests for change) but that's what he got.  Sufficient grace, plus the added reassurance that God's strength is made perfect in our weakness.

Before my life fell apart I used to have many misconceptions of grace.  I used to think that God's grace was overabundantly more than enough for any difficult circumstance.  I used to think that God would somehow empower people who go through unthinkable situations to get through them gloriously, or at least with strength to spare.  Not anymore.  

Instead, I've found the grace God gives us when we go through difficult circumstances to be a grace that's just enough.  It's not effluent, spilling over the top.  It doesn't make difficult, horrible circumstances uncomplicated, smooth, easy-peasy.  God's grace doesn't give you a magical life that can make you feel triumphant and joyful in the worst of times.  Instead, I've found that living in terrible situations with God's grace is living with just enough.  Over this past year of grief and loss I've found that God's grace has made the unbearable somehow bearable. I wouldn't have thought I could survive the death of my child, and yet I have.

...The Lord is my shepherd, I have everything I need.

This past week

I don't have any funny stories to share with you all today.

Or sad stories, either.

The thing is... I don't have a lot to say.  I said it all this morning when I preached on John 14:23 where Jesus talks about making his home in us.  Most of this week has been spent in thinking and exploring the topic of the furious love of God, longing for union with his beloved.  

So tonight I'm going to wrap myself in a big quilt, visualizing God's all-consuming love enveloping me.  And then I'll watch an Agatha Christie Miss Marple detective DVD.  (with popcorn and hot chocolate!)  Incongruity aside, this sounds like just what I need! 

May each of you be blessed with exactly what you need, right now, at this stage in your journey, whether it be healing prayer, a cup of coffee (or hot chocolate) or a good film.  

10 Months

Yes, it's been that long since Vincent died.

Ten months as of yesterday.

Since I have no words to say, here are some of my husband's thoughts.

He paid on our first date & love notes from heaven

Before going grocery shopping on Monday, Theo ran into the bedroom and emerged with his "money bear," a bank I made him from a plastic honey container.  Grabbing two dollars, he gleefully informed me that he would be buying a hot dog at Costco.  (A not-healthy treat we occasionally allow him to consume.)  I told him he didn't need to bring money, that I would buy it for him, and then he said, "But mommy, I'm buying it for you!"

And he did.  I ate it with relish and lots of onions.  (Sorry all our vegan and vegetarian friends!) I bought him one too.  We had a great date.

Yesterday morning I woke up to this.

In case you can't tell, it's a love note.  Theo finds scraps of paper (usually from to-do lists in my purse) and writes notes on them, sticking them up with tape on random walls/furniture of the house, waiting for me to discover their existence.  Yes, my four year old son thinks I'm pretty cool.

You'd think I'd be happy receiving all this affection from my 4 year old (and indeed I am), but it makes me wish I could feel some of Vincent's love.  At 18 months, he was very warmhearted, loved giving hugs and kisses, and after he died I have desperately missed him and his sloppy wet open mouthed smooches, the feel of his head on my chest, and getting my hair pulled as he gurgles "baa baa!"   Since we came home on hospice and he gradually slipped away from us I have felt very far from him indeed.  I know many grieving parents have seen "signs" from their kids, messages of love sent from above, but I'm not one to read into things.  It's just not my style.  So when I see a pristine gray feather on my floor by the bed in the morning, I don't think, "Wow, that must be from Vincent"- instead I think, "Gross, how did that get there?"  (This really did happen a few weeks ago!)  I saw a few more in the kitchen the other morning, too.  I have no idea how these bird feathers are getting into the house during the night.

For all I know, Vincent could be sending me love notes from heaven.  I'll try to keep my eyes peeled and heart open.

On this day

Last year on this day I brought Vincent to the beach and we snuggled, splashed in the water, and played with hats.  I wrote this (as Vincent) on his Facebook page:

"We had a great, great day today!  Mom and Dad kept my tube plugs securely taped, and we went to the beach where I splashed my feet in the sand and waves.  Pictures to come shortly!"  

Vincent playing with Popo (Grandma) on 9-11-2010

I find it hard to believe that just one year ago today, I was taking pictures, cradling Vincent in his ergo baby carrier, and putting on sunscreen.  One year ago I had two car seats in the car, two sweet little boy bodies to hug, and two smiles at me in the rearview mirror.  I had diapers to change, feeding tubes to plug and fill, and medication to dispense.

Last year on this day I had both my children with me.

And exactly ten years ago I crowded with dozens of other frightened students in the lobby of our college library, listening to the blasting newscast (usually on mute) and watching in shock as the second tower was hit.

It's amazing how your whole life can change in a single day, whether it be from a cancer diagnosis, news of a relapse, a car crash, a natural disaster, a terrorist attack.  For those of you today who are grieving, I pray that you find peace and rest for your soul.

Bedtime Rituals

Since our house was broken into and robbed after Vincent died, I've been very paranoid about our security.

Every night before I go to bed I double-check all the doors in the house, close the windows, peek behind shower curtains, (although for some reason I'm OK without checking closets) and set the alarm.  If my husband has set the alarm, I do this all over again.  Thanks anyway, honey!

Upon retreating to bed, I lock our bedroom door as well as Theo's.  (Our bedrooms are connected by another door that I leave open in case he needs anything at night.)  I make sure the bottom half of the window louvers are firmly closed and secured.  So far I've drawn the line at putting chairs underneath our door knobs, although I did this once to Theo's door that opens up to our main living room.  It just didn't feel safe that night.

During the day when I leave the house I hide my laptop, ipad and camera.  These locations rotate between a few selected favorite hideaways, punctuated by the odd one I can never remember.  Thankfully, I can usually recall where they've been placed. (Except the camera that I lost for around 3+ weeks during which time we went on a tourist-fest with friends from out of town.  Oops!)

To some people, this may sound a little paranoid, perhaps a little extreme, but by trying to control some of my environment I manage to feel a bit more safe.  Some people need a nightlight or a blanky— I need to triple-check the doors.  On occasions in the past when I didn't do this (and when we lived with more family) we wound up with unlocked doors or worse.  One night a little over a year ago I awoke at 4:30am to find our front door (and screen) propped wide open.  Apparently they were never closed (or locked) after bringing in large amounts of groceries the night before. (hello mosquitos!) So I never take it for granted.  Every night, a-checking I come.

How do you guys feel about home security?  Any particular things you do to feel safe(r?) Any of you had your home broken into in the past?