2-Uh-2-0h

"Gabriel, something's going on with this thing... 

I think The Matrix glitched or something... come take a look!"

 --God, sometime mid-March.

Dearest and most beloved of readers,

I am so grateful that you are not only alive still but that you are taking time from your busy day to read this junk still! If I have learned anything this year, it is that I am not nearly as good as I thought I was at any of the things I thought I was good at... writing included. So I know that you must be here out of the sheer devotion and affection (and possible sexual attraction--fingers crossed) you feel toward me.

As you can tell already, this will be one of those rare combo truth-bomb/reflection/complete nonsense posts! Because--let's be real: you do not need another 2020 reflection or a lecture on gratitude or a list of things that went great with me this year while everyone else was literally perishing. SO... I will do my best to keep the sermon to myself and to try to keep this light-hearted and brief (the latter being harder than the former). 

What a mess of a year we find ourselves finishing up, huh? I have watched so many people I care deeply about struggle with illness, death, and grief... unlike ever before. It has been sobering and humbling and heartbreaking... and I've found myself realizing that there is literally so little I can do to make a difference for people, especially when they are hurting so bad. Man, that sucks. I hate to even bring to light something that is difficult for me because it's not nearly as difficult as whatever everyone else seems to be going through, but I suppose it's important to discuss it, just in case anyone else is feeling this way. So if you feel like 2020 has finally proven to the world and to yourself that you are, in fact, a failure and a horrible spouse/worker/sibling/child/friend/human, you are not alone in that boat. Feeling so powerless when you are used to getting reassurance about who you are by how much you help others is kind of mind-boggling. Just keep reminding yourself that it's okay to feel this, that you are not alone in this feeling, and that there will come a time again in life when you'll feel useful again.

And we will eventually feel whole again. And peaceful. And joyful. And productive. And sexy as hell.

Now, I said I wasn't gonna be preachy, but I literally can't even keep my promise. This is how bad at being helpful I've become, ya'll. Anyway, I won't tell you to be grateful, though. You know what you need to do, to pull yourself out of the funk. To see color again. Hopefully, it isn't drugs (I mean, illegal drugs... prescription drugs are cool... as long as you follow the recipe, ya know? You get it). What I WILL say is, rediscover the things that make you joyful (and again, hopefully, these do not involve something horribly devious or weird like collecting people's nail clippings). 

These are some of the things I am planning on including in my life more during 2021: 

More Korean Dramas

More walking like a T-rex
More tacos, crepes, and sushi

More time outdoors

More dancing in public spaces

More dancing in kitchens and bathrooms

More writing on this blog space

More ukulele songs

More piano songs poorly played and sung

More hugs

More making my girlfriends uncomfortable with my undying adoration

More singing in the car

More studying (that one is out of necessity, not out of love, ugh... but it's for my own good)

More traveling, especially to go see my Elena graduate from novitiate school (not actually a graduation and not actually called novitiate school) and to party with my Dr. Pip, who is also graduating (and might murder me for calling her Pip).

More Holy Hours in front of the Blessed Sacrament

At the risk of rubbing it in and despite what I said earlier, this year gave me some really strangely and beautifully simple things that I will treasure forever: the joy of feeding people in my apartment, the contentment of quarantining from March until July with just God's presence in my home and feeling absolutely at ease in His company, the peace of mind of having a new car (ya, that happened!), the exhilaration of embarking in this nursing journey, and the utterly delightful surprise of learning just how much FRIENDS care about you and want you to succeed. What a beauty.

Before I sign off, I do want to take the time to give the proper shoutouts to people (I told you I wasn't gonna preach to you about gratitude... but that doesn't mean I don't want to be grateful myself).

First and foremost: to Lauren Nicole, who loves me to the best of her ability and strives to help me despite whatever crippling obstacles she has to face on a day to day basis.

Secondly, and in that same vein, to my dearest adoptive-mom, Joanne, who constantly thinks of me and wants to see me succeed. 

Third, to my beloved Wees, who have shown me what it means to trust the Lord in times of adversity. Particularly grateful for my Henry. Elisabeth--you inspire me more than I can ever express. You are a wonder and a force of nature and such a beautiful Saint in the making. 

Next, I'd like to thank all the RELIGIOUS SISTERS I met this year and who have had a profound impact in my life, particularly Sr. Melinda, Sr. Maria Kim, Sr. Aloysius, and Sr. Catherine. Along with that, also super grateful for the women I've met who are discerning the religious life, particularly my Elena (Sr. Lucy), Lindsey, Rachel Clare, Sr. Cooey and Sr. Dominic. 

 Then, I want to give a shoutout to my dear friends who are always checking up on me: Moni, Claire, Ada, and Lou. Ya'll are so good and gracious to me.

Lastly but not leastly (that's a nursing school inside joke, sorry):

Jessica, thank you for loving me from the get-go.

Kimberly, thank you for your sweet and calming presence in my life.

Marisela, thank you for being my big sister.

Cara, thank you for being my love. 

Of course, no thanks are greater than the ones given to my Beloved, the Lord of Time, Space, and the Universe, my Savior and my All, for being so real and present and tangible all these months. And while I'm at it... also thanking my role models, the Saints, for pointing me to Him, particularly my Mama Mary and my Papa Joe. May my heart always belong to the Sacred Heart of my Beloved,  the Immaculate Heart of my Mama, and the Chaste Heart of my Papa. And may everything I do be for THE GREATER GLORY OF GOD.

Jezu ufam tobie.

Totus Tuus, Maria.

St. Joseph, Terror of Demons, pray for me!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, LADS!

Five-Three-Two

 

Oh, my dear 532... 

It is surreal to accept that this is the last night we spend together. I type this as I sit on your bare carpet, with its resurgent dark spots and worn-out, high-traffic areas. There isn't much left to move out, yet it feels like a colossally difficult task I'll have to face in the morning.  I type this as I sit here and question every decision that has led to me losing you.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on you: December 24th, 2016. I walked in knowing you were the bare bones of what would become a robust, delightful, lively home. My home. The place that would become haven and refuge to my often troubled spirit. The place where I would be able to laugh hysterically, sob audibly, sing loudly, curse unreservedly, cook adventurously, dance wildly, dream vividly, and hope defiantly. You, 532, were everything I had ever wanted in my first home: style and functionality, character and efficiency, cuteness galore. And with every year, as I added more pictures, more decor, and more plants, I knew you were slowly transforming into a direct reflection of my heart, a heart that cherishes beauty, joy, independence, and the warm afterglow of being loved. 

532, you are a fountain of comfort, a fortress of joy, a shrine to my self-reliance, and a sanctuary of my faith. So it is with profound sadness that I write this, knowing we don't have much time left together.

It hurts. I am thoroughly heartbroken, and I realize that it must seem so vain, so utterly shallow to be thus attached to a physical place, to ache for it as if it were a person. I realize how difficult--truly difficult--this year has been for some people, and how my problems are nothing in comparison with the obvious monumental crises the world faces today. Yet I can't help to feel this grief taking over me, washing up the shores of my very soul. I do know I am rather dramatic, but it is what I feel... as if I've just lost one of the most important pieces of the puzzle that makes me who I am. It is in this place that I learned to look at the mirror honestly and face the brutal truths about myself that I had been avoiding. It is here that I slowly began to recognize the core of what makes me who I am. It is within these walls that I finally dared to embrace the mess that I am and waltz around with myself. Here, life forced me to befriend myself and fall in love with myself despite all the reasons I found to not. All of that happened in here, 532. 

And when the world was wrong, broken, cruel, or indifferent, there was always the allure of 532. This apartment always felt like a warm hug waiting for me at the end of a long day, like a favorite grandmother who waits for you to come home with a tray of your favorite cookies and a cup of tea. Who wouldn't want to come home to such a place?! The magic was not hidden from visitors, either. There was always something inviting and cozy about you, 532. It was like living in a pillow fort all the time. 

I don't want to leave. I begged for a miracle for so long. Alas, it was not meant to be. God has determined that I must leave and that this beautiful space is for someone else. So I just want to say: thank you. For being a physical space that allowed me to breathe in so deeply that I feel I took root. Thank you for giving me room to be my own person, however loud or quiet, happy or sad, rageful or peaceful. Thank you for being shelter for my body and a balm for my soul. Thank you for being so beautiful that it made my heart swell with pride to call you home. Thank you for being Cafe Cristina. Thank you for being the best nightclub-for-one. Thank you for being with me through the countless tears that no one else saw. Thank you for being the best audience for my constant stand-up comedy special. Thank you for being the most Catholic apartment in the world. Thank you for becoming the home I had been needing my entire life. 

I love you, 532. I will never forget what you meant and how you made my life so much better. I hope your next tenant will show you some loving. And I hope that I'll be able to feel the same way about a place again.

Dear Abuelita

 

Dear Abuelita,

Today marks seven years since you were born into eternal life. Like most well-meaning, cringe-worthy cliches, "time heals all wounds" seems to be true for me, especially when I consider those first few (or several) months when I would just burst into tears at the thought of you. Yes, most of the time, I carry on with the memory of you in my heart as if it were a nice ornament on the Christmas tree--it's pretty, it's worth looking at closely, but I tend to not focus on it too much but rather look at the tree as a whole. 

Because the truth is that, if I look too closely at the ornament, all the memories start rushing in like a storm surge. The tide comes in and batters my heart with grief, and in those moments, time doesn't seem to have healed any wound. I am swallowed up  and spat out seven years back, in my dark Durham room, where I read a message telling me you have finally passed after 8 hellish weeks of agony, where I lie on the thin industrial carpet and weep quietly so no one can hear me through the wall. When I really think about you, like actually really think about your absence, the scar tissue tears open and my heart bleeds anew. 

Today's anniversary of your death is hard, and I find myself shaken to the core when I remember the last time I saw you, the last time I spoke to you as you faded away in that hospital bed. But there are random days throughout the year when this pain sneaks up on me, and I must confess that it has been happening a lot more than usual lately.

I enrolled in nursing school with a certain smug confidence that I wanted to be a pediatric nurse (even though I have very little experience or knowledge of what that entails). So image my absolute and utter surprise when I started seeing your face on every patient I encountered at the hospital during my clinical rounds (and no, none of my patients were children). My first patient ever died in her hospital bed, by herself, only about an hour after I had "met her" (she was unconscious the whole time I interacted with her). I had the honor of praying for her soul as I assisted in giving her body post-mortem care and getting it ready for the funeral home to take her. As I gently wiped her body clean, I knew it was the body of my grandmother, who I did not get to see taking her last breath and whom I did not get to prepare for burial. 

 The next time I was in the hospital,  I took care of a 60-pound patient whose body was shutting down due to malnutrition. She didn't speak English, so when I came into the room and greeted her in Spanish, her eyes opened wide. I asked her what was her name. She replied, "Concepcion." "Que hermoso nombre," I said, and to this day my eyes fill with tears when I remember the light that illuminated her emaciated face as she smiled back at me. That was your smile, Abuelita, when you saw me visiting you at the hospital. You weren't expecting me to travel half the world to come, but there I was. To this day, that smile rips my heart to shreds. Concepcion's smile did the same. The next time, it was an old man's pat in the hand. An elderly lady's chuckle. A 45-minute conversation with a lonely soul. 

Every time, traces of you appeared in all these sick people. Every time, mementos of your love for me emerged in every patient I served. I saw myself bleeding and didn't turn away from the mess that was my heart. I didn't try to patch it up or bury it under indifference or busyness or other worries. Instead, I watched the hurt grow larger, throb, and gush. And in the process, I saw how much easier it was to love with Christ's love when I allowed my heart to be broken for you, for them, for what breaks His heart.  And every time I watched myself with them, I had the certainty for once in my life that I was where I was meant to be. Every time I put myself at their service, I knew I was making an act of atonement for the way I left town without going back to the hospital to say good-bye to you because I was too scared (your most cowardly grandchild, after all). My heart bleeds and heals simultaneously. Certainly, this is a paradox worthy of a God who humbles himself even unto death. 

I am certain you walk the gardens of paradise with the Lord. I'm sure you enjoy your mom and sister's company. You spend timelessness in praise of God, and you obviously are a fluent English speaker now, since I'm writing to you in English. I wish I could tell you that I've done much in these past 7 years, but they truly do feel like wasted time, for the most part. Even so, I think I would have liked you to be a part of them here on earth, and mostly for the sake of your children, who have sore hearts over missing you, over longing for your embrace. 

I found a photo of you as a little girl, with your parents and your siblings. It was striking to find bits and pieces of my face on yours, tia Emma's and Nana Cristina's. I wish I could tell you that I'm doing you all proud, but I'm not sure. Most days I am just grateful to get by. Missing you savors strongly of incurable homesickness. I know this feeling will only go away when we meet again, and while I long for that moment with anticipating joy, I must confess I would rather prefer for that moment to be many, many years away. Your most cowardly grandchild also happens to be the slowest doer, so she's going to need a long time to make you proud. I pray that she may make amends for her cowardliness by laying down her life for those ordinary, little Christs who remind her of you. 

With everlasting love, 

Your Cristi. 

I am not normal.

 

I wish I could tell you I was one of those people who just always knew something was different--or rather, that something was off about them--but I wasn't. I always thought of myself as being a very competent, normal human being. 

Sure, I've had my moments when I've thought, "Oh, I might be the next Mia Hamm" (yeah, that didn't happen) or "I think I might be much smarter than the average person" (only to remember that it was my siblings, and not me, who could not study for a test and still pass). I even had the delusion once in a while that "if Stephanie Meyer did it, so can I" (now that, to be fair, is considerably easier a task than being the next Mia Hamm). But, ultimately, all of these delusions of grandeur have come to nothing, and I've always ended up concluding that I was a totally average unremarkable (to use Abed's terminology). After all, doesn't everyone talk to themselves, both in their head and out loud, like... all the time? Doesn't everyone use their adult wages to indulge in their childhood pleasures like buying a whole bunch of Yakult or any other brand of Korean probiotic yogurt and drink it all at the same time? Doesn't everyone construct music videos in their head for their favorite songs? Duh!

So, it has been a bit of a shocker to come to the realization that I am, in actual fact, not normal at all. 

Not in the slightest. 

Because, really, reader, it isn't normal to be 33 years old and have no desire to form a family or have children. It isn't normal to be 33 years old and not picture what your life will be in five, ten, or twenty years. It isn't normal to have such an incredibly low level of ambition about things to accomplish in life. It isn't normal to walk away from a perfectly stable and well-paid job in a beautiful profession where you are more or less liked by the majority of your pupils and start over from scratch as a student in a field that has the potential to be satisfying and fulfilling but also utterly terrifying and exhausting. It isn't normal to find relief in the fact that, for the next two years, I won't have to think about how not-normal I am because I am doing a beautifully difficult and complex thing that MIGHT turn out to be the answer to my lack of clarity and purpose. 

It ain't normal, ya'll. I hear about it constantly. 

"But you're such a great teacher! Give it another chance!"

"Well, but are you sure you want to be a nurse? It's such a difficult field. My ____ used to be a nurse and she hated it! So stressful!"

"Wait... 33? And you don't have a husband? A boyfriend? NO KIDS? 33? But... you need to get started, or it will be too late before you know it."

"Don't worry. You'll find the one once you stop looking."

"If you were a little more feminine, you'd have better luck finding someone."

"You just... are too intimidating. Men are afraid of you."

"Are you sure you're not just a lesbian?"

"Just admit you're a lesbian."

"Why don't you adopt?"

"Oh, so you say you have a 59-year-old, 300-pound coworker with no teeth... is he single?" *wink* (this one is less factual than the previous ones, but it captures the essence of the non-stop heckling I get from my beloved Mexican family).  

"No, no, you are not cut out to be a nun. That's not for you."

I understand that most of the above are well-meaning attempts from both strangers and non-strangers to give unsolicited advice. I also see how their unsolicited advice is a reflection of their own fears and insecurities in many cases. And if I were more practical, I would simply reply to all those inquiries/statements mechanically, without getting my panties in a bunch (LOL, I had never used that idiom before--go me! This whole "being an American citizen" is changing me!):

" I'd make a great lesbian, but Henry Cavill makes my heart stop and takes my breath away. I would also make a great nun, and Jesus Christ makes my heart stop and takes my breath away. I can't adopt a child, I have no money nor the mental capacity to give him/her my all. Men aren't afraid of me, I just don't flaunt my goodies around or pretend I am interested in what they are saying. I'm feminine, I sleep with my earrings on. My mother had a kid at 43, so if I really wanted one, ten years seems like plenty of time. The 300-pound, toothless coworker is a fan of Club America, therefore completely undatable. I hated teaching more than I liked it (a lot more). I don't know if I'll like nursing or if it's my life's vocation, but I'm willing to try it out."

There's the other man of my dreams ^^^^

But the problem is, I am a sensitive weirdo (and clearly have a resentful memory), so those comments stay with me and pile up and get filed under "proof that you aren't normal" in my brain. And my brain translated these phrases into "proof that you aren't worthy," "proof that you aren't important," "proof that you suck."

And then a beautiful thing happened in 2017. A man broke my heart so deeply, so horribly, that I finally realized that I couldn't do this life this way anymore. I finally accepted that I needed a hand (or several). 

It's been three years almost exactly to the day that I started going to therapy. My friends can tell you that I love my therapist as fiercely as I love them and that I feel guilty about the fact that she has helped me so much yet I know so little about her. Sometimes I really just want to sit there and be like "enough about me, let's talk about you" (as you can see, reader, I am still working on "healthy boundaries"). Therapy the way I experience it might not look like more than "oh, someone to vent to," but somehow it has done a world of good. 

Of course, I am not suddenly cured of all my insecurities, anxieties, fears, trauma, etc. Sometimes, those comments cut me to the core, especially when they are coming from people who are meant to have my back. I have to remind myself that, ultimately, "hurt people hurt people." But, most times, when I'm far enough removed from those awkward situations when those comments were said, I can laugh about it and conclude, light-hearted, that I am not normal. It can even be a source of pride, to be so out of the norm. 

So, yeah, dudes, I know I'm not normal. I know how that probably ends up playing out: I don't get married, I don't have kids, I go to college for another decade and miss out on the convent, I get too old to adopt, I work as a nurse for a while and then end up being a school nurse because the hours are better (OH THE IRONY), and I probably die younger than average (I am left-handed... the stats are against me). That's that. A seemingly unremarkable life.

But, when put under the lens of an existential microscope, one might be able to observe a rich microcosm teeming with life. The life of a world traveler, of an amateur writer,  of everyone's favorite auntie, of an avid karaoker and ukuleler, of a former teacher turned nurse, of the owner of a piano who has very poor piano skills, of a lifetime jokester, of a terrible dancer who loves to dance, of a clumsy dummy, of a road-rager, of a Mexican lady with a thing for white dudes, of an intense foodie,  of a woman deeply, passionately loved by the King of the universe (and by his mother).  What an extra-ordinary life, indeed. I'm so glad to be right in the thick of it already. 

--Cris

Your New Favorite Charitable Organization (Featuring lots of Community GIFs)

HELLO, FRIENDS!

Well, what an absolute waste of creative energy this quarantine has proven to be! I wish I could tell you that I have been working on the next great American novel since I stopped going to work in March. Alas, I'm afraid that the bulk of my life has remained quite unremarkable and actually a bit silent for the last few months--well, at least it was until the beginning of this month.

July has turned out to be a whirlwind of events and emotions--and not necessarily all in a good way. A lot of very difficult, life-altering decisions have been made this month, and I must be honest in the fact that, despite having a bit more clarity about what I am going to be doing in the near future and about the direction my life is taking, I have not had a chance to sit down with it long enough to figure out if I feel peace about my choices. This might seem alarming, especially if you're into the discernment stuff (and I know I am).

But, quite frankly, I am not too worried about it yet because the reality is that I just have not had time to process things right now.  There are quite literally hundreds of things that need to get sorted before I can officially embark on this new life adventure. So, I am required much doing at the moment--and reflecting has taken a back seat for now. In a way, this is not all bad, particularly when I consider how much my overthinking and anxiety tend to get in the way of my making decisions.

Before I continue shrouding everything with vagueness, let me explain what's going on: after much thinking and exploring, I have decided, dear reader, to leave my profession in teaching, renounce the lifestyle I have grown used to (ya know, the kind that allows you to constantly treat yourself, travel every year, and just be super financially stable, while also allowing you to be off on weekends, holidays, and the summer), and put myself through the stress and exhaustion of another degree.

I am going to be a nurse, ya'll. God willing.

This is a very exciting and scary time for me. I have quit my teaching job and taken a job as a retail employee of a large supermarket, where they definitely get their money's worth off me by having me bust my fragile and bougie butt restocking shelves for eight hours a day. I will be making only 30% of what I was making as a teacher, which is terrifying considering I will still have to pay for rent, food, bills, and gas. I'm basically resigning myself to the fact that there won't be any more eating-out, trips, new clothes, or ways to treat myself other than a walk in the park once in a while.

And then, of course, there will be the stress and the tiredness of going to school full time--and in the medical sciences, of all things. I have heard the stories. I know what awaits me, and I am scared. Very scared. I haven't really been a full-time student since 2014, and back then I was living off my student loan and not having to work to make ends meet, so that ended up being a very pleasant experience. Plus, I was still twenty-something. Now I am older, less healthy, more tired, and more financially burdened. I am aware this is a huge, dangerous gamble.

You might be wondering, reader, what has gotten into me? You might be thinking that it is so reckless of me to be doing all of this. You're probably right, friend. In the middle of a global economic crisis, in the midst of a global pandemic, why would I leave all comfort and security behind to pursue a career that is difficult, demanding, physically tiring and emotionally exhausting? You would be right in accusing me of being a looney.

But think of what it feels like when people ask you "so, where do you see yourself in ten years?" and your response is "nowhere." Consider what it's like to think about your future and only see fog ahead. That's what my life has been for a long time now, especially since I became a teacher. I knew I couldn't see myself doing it for the rest of my life, but I honestly didn't know what else I could do. That lack of direction didn't bother me too much, particularly when I used to think that I would eventually get married and have kids. I didn't really mind what my job would be because I knew I would primarily be a wife and a mother (and I was very much looking forward to that). But in the last two or three years, as my desires and dreams have changed, I gradually realized that, with marriage and motherhood out of the picture, I couldn't just allow myself to settle with a career that was okay-ish but didn't really make me happy.

And I know it's crazy that teaching didn't make me happy. It's a beautiful profession. It's physically and mentally demanding. It requires a great deal of grit, passion, dedication, and empathy. Moreover, people tell me constantly that I'm a good teacher (though I am inclined to believe they are just being nice). What's not to like, right? I wish I could tell you, reader. The only thing I can say is that it just isn't for me. I've spent a lot of time thinking that there must be something wrong with me in order to not enjoy this line of work. Maybe. But even then, I don't think it's fair to punish myself by continuing to work as a teacher when I get very little joy out of it.

And I also can't tell you that I won't change my mind later. I can't even tell you that this vocational change will set me up for life. I might go through this whole thing only to discover I ought to be a trapeze artist for the circus.

But if I don't do anything about it because I'm not 100% sure of something and there aren't any guarantees that it will work, then I will end up exactly in the same place and just do nothing. I'll watch life pass me by knowing that it could have been worse... but it also could have been better. I know I enjoy biology and human anatomy, and I am fascinated by medicine and curing people. I know that I like to help others, and that I like working with my hands. Thus, I am going into this new opportunity bright-eyed and excited. Even though it is scary.

I know this whole thing will also require humility from me. I'm working at a grocery store after having gone to school for a Master's degree. A lot of my coworkers are teenagers. My education has no bearing in my job, and in fact, I am constantly in need of help from the teens I work with. I will also not be economically stable anymore, which will put a damper on my social life. My friends will just have to understand that no, I actually cannot afford to go to lunch or dinner or go out to the movies or for a drink anymore. If anything, they will have to patiently bear with me as I visit them at their homes for a much needed free meal.  I will have to rely on people's generosity, which is something I am not at all used to and something that makes me uncomfortable as an independent woman. I'm going back to being a dependent clause for many things, you guys. I ask for your patience and your kindness.

So, I guess this is my way of telling you that I'm back to being a broke college student, and I hope you understand. Please pray for me as I embark on this utterly nonsensical adventure. And if you wanna feed me, let me know. Buying my books and supplies works too, I guess.

Love,


Cris Abed

P.S. But for reals, if you are feeling at all generous: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2SAIXPCU5EL07?ref_=wl_share

Snowy Dawn

I thought she was going to make it.

I thought she was going to be our own little miracle.

I thought she would grow up to be the strongest, fiercest, most ebullient of girls. I was looking forward to meeting her, holding her, making her laugh, watching her do life.

I was looking forward to teaching her how to call me tia, even if her parents don't speak Spanish.

But she won't get to do that. She didn't get to feel the sunshine. She didn't get to see her own papa's face. She didn't get to meet her big brother. She went to sleep in the depths of her mama's womb, forever.

She was born into this world in stillness, in silence. There was no earth-shattering cry coming from the deepest parts of her little lungs--in fact, it was her lungs that were part of the problem. They didn't work well. Her heart was trying to make up for her lungs, so it overgrew, causing her early departure from our world.

Above all, a numbness overwhelms me every so often, when I think about how much I prayed for her to make it and how sure I was that God was going to grant us that miracle. But the numbness is quickly washed away by a wave of pain, of grief.

Grief about nicknames that will never be used. Grief about photos that will never be taken. Grief about anecdotes that will never be shared.

"Let me tell you the story of how your parents fell in love--it was all thanks to me!" I won't be able to tell her that.

While everyone else panics about a virus that makes our elders vulnerable, while everyone else painfully protects their older loved ones, while everyone else hunkers down at home with plenty or little supplies, I sit here and type--with tears streaming down my face--as I try to wrap my head around the fact that I've lost a person who I loved deeply, even if I never got to meet her. More than likely, the coronavirus wouldn't have hurt her at all (it doesn't seem to have much power over kids under 10 years old). Yet, we still lost her.

So, even though COVID-19 has not taken the life of someone I love, I partake of the supper of grief. Even though Coronavirus didn't hurt me personally, the pain in my heart today is as real as the pain of those who never got to see their mom, their elderly uncle, their asthmatic son, their immunocompromised daughter, their grandparent... again. And perhaps the thing to do here would be to allow that pain to burst forth from our hearts in a melancholic melody, so that it can be strung together, from one heart to the next to the next, into one beautifully aching symphony of empathy. Perhaps, if we allow the pain out, it can find the pain in others, and the threads can be weaved together into a gracefully tender tapestry of kindness.

I'd like to think that our little angel will find in heaven plenty of loving tios and tias, of grandparents. I'd be willing to bet someone reading this would love to lend her their daddy, their grandma, their cousin who was gone too soon. If that's the case, I thank you in advance.

A snowy dawn brings the promise of a new start. A snowy dawn carries with it an unexplainably playful joy, even if it's in the middle of the harshest winter. A snowy dawn can foster unimaginable hope. A snowy dawn assures us that the darkness is gone.

So, my little Snowy Dawn, even though I didn't get to meet you, I'm grateful for the legacy you've left behind. You were strong and courageous and you fought for your life with all your tiny might. May I learn from you to be strong, to be brave, to let my heart swell up with love for my neighbor. Thank you for being a sign of beauty, joy, and hope... even if you were only with us for 28 weeks.

Your Hands

Your hands.

I’m trying to write you a poem,

And the first thing that comes to mind is

Your hands.

They have

The strength to root out weeds,

The gentleness to sow beauty,

From my soul, in my soul.

Your hands,

Always helping everyone out,

Always giving without doubt,

Always creating something magical.

Serving

Hearty chili to other broke college kids,
Cake so delicious it lifts up the spirit,

Freshly brewed tea to everyone you meet.

Praying

Fiercely, when all hope seems lost,

Softly, if the waves are frightfully rough,

Yet pleading unceasingly and unwaveringly so.

Loving

Many times, with a bleeding heart,

Lighting up the darkness around,

Binding up wounds and smoothing out scars.

The crazy part is that if I’m asked

To describe what your actual hands look like

I come up empty—

I’ve never been a careful observer.

So my heart sinks—

How many times

Were your hands so ready

To pull me out of the void?

Yet I can’t remember

Any more than their slenderness,

Their whiteness, their warmth,
And how I took them for granted.

Your hands.

They are not around.

My days languish by

Without the comfort of their embrace.

They can’t

Patch me up anymore,

Smooth out the worry on my soul,

Water the roots of my dry bones.

Grief

Overpowers me often,

And homesickness

nestles in my chest.

But if I, in my wandering,

Close my eyes and say a prayer,

I suddenly stumble upon

The sweetest of truths:

Your hands

Don’t really matter,

Since your heart

Is intertwined with mine.