The hard truth is, we are alone in life. We come into the world alone, and we leave it alone. We have to stand before the Lord someday, and we have to do that alone. It’s easy to forget in the hustle of life.

My friend who was going to help me in Houston is very ill and most likely cannot help. I’m scrambling like mad to find a solution- but with less than 24 hours, I’m hitting a lot of walls. Trying to stay positive and believe in myself and my ability to do this, but it’s hard.

My house is empty.

A friend gave me a big gift-certificate to Nordstrom to treat myself to a new outfit and some make-up for Houston. My plan was to get down there this morning. I cannot find it ANYWHERE. And my house is spotless right now- it’s empty, remember, so when I put in my purse, it really should still be there. Its’ not. It’s not anywhere. It’s utterly vanished. I can only suppose I’m just not supposed to have it.

I’m trying hard not to feel sorry for myself. I’m trying hard not to cry. I’m trying so damn hard to keep it together.

Some friends have called and offered help with Houston- but it’s so last minute, everyone is having logistical/financial trouble working it out. All totally understandable. It just hurts so damn bad.

I’m trying so hard. Can I run a show booth by myself for three consecutive days? Alone?

The platitude is that it’s always darkest before the dawn. My eyes are stinging with hot unshed tears and I am so afraid and feel so alone. I’m ready for that light… please…

My house is so quiet. The wind rustles through the trees in the backyard, a sound I’ve always loved, and today… it only exacerbates my aching heart. The birds chirp happily in their cage in the sunroom, and the golden fall light pools on the floor under the window- and it makes the unnatural silence echo through my raw heart.

My kids are in California, with my family. My house is big and empty. There are whispers of memory everywhere I turn, but they are shades, transparencies, veiled and yellow like an old fading photograph curling in the sun.

No matter how much you love your home and think it’s where your heart is, it’s not. Your home is an empty shell, a vacant lot, without those you love lighting it’s walls. The old adage got it wrong.

Your home is in your heart- not the other way around.

David, in the kitchen, talking to Jeffrey:

“Jeff, women, and your mama in particular, don’t need to be fixed. They just need to be listened to- it took me a long time to learn that son, and you could go far by learning it now. Just listen.”

This is my last post about cameras for a while. I promise. Honest. When it rains, it pours.

So when I was in Nauvoo a few weeks back, I picked up a little cheapo throw-away at the market across from Carthage jail. (because that’s pertinent? nope) I left it in a friend’s bag, and it was just mailed to me today. It didn’t take long for the kids to spy something new! and interesting! on my desk- and they asked what it was.

“A camera.” I said over my shoulder, while picking up shards of a mug Abby dropped on the tile floor.

“Oh. A camera? really? Then where is the picture?”

“It’s inside, you can’t see it.” still picking up pottery slivers…

“How does it work mom? What do you do? Where’s the screen? How can you take pictures without seeing them?”

Washing my hands off, I feel really old. “You have to look through the little hole, and the picture goes onto a roll of film inside the box.”

“But WHERE are the pictures? How do you get them out to see them?!”

Taking the camera, I show him how to advance the film, push the flash button and look through the viewfinder. It’s novel and fun, and he and Bean take the whole rest of the roll.

Bringing the spent camera to me, Jeffrey says, “OK mom, I want to see the pictures we took on the old-fashioned camera!”

Old fashioned. Huh. Have I actually reached that stage? Am I… a… relic? Damn. I look at my earnest freckle-nosed son, “I can’t get the pictures out. We have to take it to the store, and they print them for us. It’s called developing.”

He looks at me cock-eyed, “You mean we have to drive to the store, and we can’t see them first?”

“Yup”

“That’s dumb. I’m glad I don’t live in the olden days.”

Yes, my dear son, be glad. Why, way back when I was a small child, we had to get up to change the TV channel, we had to go to the theatre to see a movie, you cooked popcorn on the stove in a pot, bicycles had banana seats,  and you had to beg mom to go to Golf-land to play video games. Our first computer was an Atari, and it had a modem that you set the cradle of the phone on, and a dot-matrix printer- and we were the bomb. We even had a phone that you had to DIAL. It was in the garage, but we had one. Our yard was watered with a rain-bird sprinkler that sucked to run through, we played with all the kids on the street and no one had ever heard of a “play date”. The ice cream man came around every summer night around 7, and everything was a quarter. And you took your camera to the store and had to wait a week to see that you took pictures of your thumb and your eye.

Yeah, it might be dumb. But darling son, my prayer is that someday your memories are quaint and sepia as well. It’s not a bad place to be.

Dear Sweet Abby,

It’s 2:15 in the morning, and you are asleep above, in your flower “bunny soop” as you say. In the morning a flurry of activity awaits as your brothers, dad and I all wish you a Happy Birthday and have fun letting you be Queen for the day. I’ve got streamers and balloons up, and your presents are wrapped. When you come down the stairs in the morning, I hope you are excited and happy to see all the pinkness, your current favorite everything color.

But more than that, I hope for your happiness and joy in this life to continue. You are like a little songbird for this family- always chirping and chatting, cheerful,  happy and vivacious. You bring the sun with you wherever you go. You have a sharp, quick mind and you astound me with your problem solving and puzzling skills. Playing outside in the dirt, digging in the garden and swinging seem to bring you great joy. Sometimes, if the house is quiet, I will find you outside, sitting on your swing, singing to yourself and looking as though you are contemplating the cosmos.

Three is sure to be a big year for you. The transition to big-girl undies begins, and you are motivated because you have your eye on a pink carseat you saw in a magazine.  You love to cook, and when I’m  busy and my kitchen is too hectic, you play cook right along with me in your wooden kitchen in the dining area. You even tell the boys to get out of the kitchen. I’m not sure I should be proud of that, but there it is.

Abigail, you are a delight to all who love you. We are so blessed and grateful that you are our daughter, our sister and part of our family. The sun shines brighter because of you. Happy birthday, sweet girl.

Mama loves you.

Sending your kids off to school each day is really an exercise of faith. I’ve thought on this before, as I contemplated the unlocked gates at the edges of the school yard, the other people driving my kids somewhere, and the open nature of the way we live. Anything can happen- and yet, mostly we coast along blissfully enjoying Normal.

Jeffrey signed up for choir a few months ago; they have a performance next Monday, so an extra practice was scheduled today. The mama I share carpool with is leading the choir, and she said she would bring Jeffrey home. Score! I usually drive the afternoon shift, so ran errands instead shuttling kids.

Heading home from errands, David was walking back from the bus-stop with Abby and Beanie. Rolling down the window we chatted “No Jeffrey yet, huh? He shook his head and hefted Bean into passenger-side window for the four-house drive home.

Hmmm- I wonder why they are taking so long? As I’m reaching for the phone to call my carpool companion, it rings, “Hello?” I don’t recognize the caller ID. ” Hello??”

“Um, may I ask who is calling, please?” Jeffrey says from the other end of the phone. “Jeffrey! Where are you?”  Here is where I learn how getting accurate information from a seven-year-old boy is nigh unto impossible. He begins to ramble on about the gym, the library, the teacher is gone, there are some balls, school is empty, I wasn’t there… I am trying to piece together what he is saying, and ask him, in my best  I’m Calm and not Panicking at ALL voice to please hand the phone to a grown up…

A mom takes the phone.  She tells me Jeffrey is the last kid at school, everyone is gone, and should she stay with him or would I like to meet her at the YMCA?

WHAT? Holy…what…where…what happened…crap…who… how on EARTH…what? WHAT? WHAT???!

How did my kid, who was supposed to be at CHOIR practice, end up alone at his elementary school? I have a million questions, but by now I am roaring down the road, and half way to the school. I dare a cop to stop me. I cannot believe… how… WHAT?

Pulling into the school (rather, I bounce, because I hit a curb in my, er, eagerness) I see my little boy, oh so little looking, with his backpack and coat, sitting with this mom, the doors are locked, the lights are out, everyone has gone home.

Jumping from the car, I gather him in my arms, hug/squeeze him as tight as I can, which quickly turns into dontyoueverdothisagainyoungman, doyouhearme!

The mom tells me she was there with her kids playing in the gym, and as the other kids went home, Jeffrey was the last kid. When it was time for her to go, she didn’t want to leave him there. She offered her phone so he could call home. I thank her profusely, embarassed and chagrinned and releived and confused and sick all at the same time.

Jeffrey safely buckled into MY car, we head home. “So what the heck happened, Jeffrey? Why were you in the gym and not at choir practice? Do you know how much that frightened me and dad?” I heard a convoluted and confusing story of the library, wandering around, playing with some kids, checking where I normally pick him up, and then deciding playing in the gym was a good idea.

I call my carpool mama. She is freaking out. She had no idea. When Jeffrey didn’t show up for Choir, she just assumed I had picked him up, since it wasn’t a regular practice day.

“Why didn’t you go to choir, Jeffrey? AND WHY ON EARTH.. oh hell. I give up until we get home.

David and I sit down in the kitchen with him and try to figure out what happened.  Near as we can tell, and it’s still spotty:

• He says he forgot it was choir day, but on pressing from Dad, he says he doesn’t want to be in choir anymore.
• After wandering around looking for me, he just opted to hang out and play, and after a while, all the other kids went home, and he was the only one left.

All while I was assuming my kid was safely at choir practice and would be home safely, like he is every day.  I’m still reeling. I can’t figure out if this is all my fault, if this is crossed wires, if this is Jeffrey being an innocent little kid, if I need to go to the school and ring some necks, if this was Jeffrey being a naughty twerp and skipping choir…

I mean WHAT IF THAT MOM HAD JUST LEFT!?!?  Oh, the WHAT-IFS are just going to kill me on this one…

Do I go to the school? Clearly, at home we are revising and laying down some Law- but this is just… it’s too… AUuuuugh! I just can’t believe it… I need a tranquilizer.