Circus Monkey By: Jennifer

1960 Pablo Picasso "Jacqueline"

I live a Picasso Life: a distorted mess of body parts splintering off into different directions; horns growing in places where horns shouldn't be growing; jagged, mismatched cubes stacked in precarious mayhem and really big, ugly feet. Let's not talk about the feet, I'm a little sensitive about the feet. I firmly believe that if Picasso had known me, I would have been his inspiration. I could have been the one to make him famous, but alas, the continuum of time separated us.

          Doing laundry is a never ending, eternal chore, and yet I still wear clothes. I yell at my kids to quit yelling. I mop my kitchen floor before an art project. Sunday, the day of rest, does not include a nap. Library books are found after they are paid for. I come home from exercising and eat a brownie for breakfast. I have gone through hours of painful labor and I still had to put those wretched maternity clothes back on. I have started a vacation with 6 kids in a car for 12+ hours expecting it to be 'fun'. Negotiating with a 3 year old. Negotiating with a 16 year old. Looking shocked when my son shows up to the dentist at 8 am with Oreo Cookies stuck in his teeth. Forgetting where I hid my secret stash of cookies so the kids wouldn't find them. Realizing my son found my cookie stash....right before going to the dentist. My 8 year old amputating the handles from my rakes and shovels, with an axe, in his quest to find the proper sword. All of my pots and pans swinging by purple yarn from our tree and my husband asking, “Soooo....what's for dinner?”

          Can you see the lopsided eyes? Can you envision the twisted nose? Can you feel the jab of the triangular elbows and knees? These are just a few reasons why I am crazy--errr, I mean cultured. Sometimes I feel like a circus monkey. A cultured circus monkey. Paint that Picasso.

1908 Claude Monet San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk

          In my frequent daydreams, I live a tranquil Monet Life. The colors are soft. They blend and slide together. My life glides and flows. It has that subtle splash of posh and elegance: yellows, pinks or purples. I skate and waft. I am the timeless classic: Audrey Hepburn. But, alas, I am not Audrey Hepburn and I certainly would not use words like glide,flow, or elegance to describe my life. I would use words like chaotic, fumble, bedlam, scurrying, maybe even a “little” messy.

I love little finger prints on my windows. I love singing in the car. I love peanut butter kisses. I love late night giggles. I love wiping sticky mouths. I love bedtime stories. I love helping with homework. I love rushed trips to the grocery store. I love holding hands with my husband. I love little heads resting on my shoulder. I love resting my head on my almost-grown-up son's shoulder. I love making lunches. I love date nights. I love finding stick-it notes on my pillow. I love dancing in the kitchen. I love family prayer. I love my my circus monkey life and I wouldn't trade it for the best of my daydreams.

I have laid my life in the hands of The Artist whose workmanship can create beauty out of lopsided eyes and twisted noses. He softens the jabs that come my way. He makes peanut butter kisses, sticky mouths and late night giggles that subtle splash of joy. This Artist loves me, even when my big, ugly feet stumble and trip. He makes me whole when the world is pulling me apart. And by some miracle He turns my Picasso Life into something so stunning, there isn't a paintbrush that could capture its beauty.

Lost Balloon By Sarah

For Audrey’s birthday, her cousin, Jillian, thought that Kate might feel badly about not getting any gifts so she bought her a light pink Mylar balloon decorated with cupcakes and the words, “Happy Birthday”.  Since we were throwing Audrey a surprise birthday party all birthday supplies were hidden in the garage along with the balloon for Kate.  In all of the hustle and bustle of birthday fun the balloon was forgotten and left in the garage until the next day.  

Kate cracks me up.  She is so cautious socially.  She is shy and calculates her risks carefully before opening up.  But put her on her scooter and she flies, no fear, no holding back.  She goes so fast and crazy that the scooter wanders all over the sidewalk, swaying dangerously left and right.  This particular scooter has three wheels, one in front and two in the back for stability.  Her weaving and wobbling always leave only the front wheel and one back wheel on the ground, leaving me waiting for a big spill.  The funniest part is how she ducks her head down, tucking her chin into her chest, closing her eyes and pushing as fast and as hard as her six year old legs will let her go.  I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten hurt driving blind like that, but somehow her guardian angels seem to keep up with her.  (Knock on wood). 

            On this particular day my van was in a shop about ½ mile from my house being repaired.  As we set off walking to pick up our van, the balloon was carefully tied to the handlebars of her scooter.  She rode a few paces ahead of me, stopping at each corner waiting so we could cross the intersections together.  Each time I caught up with her I’d hear bits and pieces of the story running through her head.  Inner monologue flowing out her lips.  I never really got the whole story, just little wisps of her creativity.  Once she whizzed by and hollered to her balloon, trailing along behind her , “Come on Isabel!  Keep up!”  I laughed to myself.  All things inanimate are alive through Kate.  Isabel, the balloon, accompanied us throughout the rest of our day’s busy activities until we pulled up to the house at the end of the day, ready to go inside for bathes and pajamas.  Kate, arm extended straight up, held onto just the tip of the balloon string exclaiming, ”Mommy!  Look at how high Isabel goes!”

            And then it was gone.  Up, up, up into the sky.  Kate yelled out, ”Oh, Daddy, get it!”  But it was too late.  It traveled with the breeze into the tippy top of our tree about 30 feet in the air.  And there it stuck within view, but out of reach. 

            Kate lost it.  This was nothing like a tantrum.  She didn’t just cry.  She grieved.  At one point she couldn’t even hold herself up anymore and fell to her knees begging me, “Please Mommy, please Mommy, please Mommy!  I just want it back.  Please get it back.”

            I looked up at the impossibility of her broken hearted request.  There was absolutely nothing I could do.  She continued in her misery.  Wailing.  Weeping. Deep wracking sobs of someone whose world had just fallen apart.  My husband (who hadn’t seen the earlier interaction between the girl and her balloon) raised his eyebrows and said, “This is a little ridiculous, don’t you think.” 

I smiled and responded, “Not to her.”  I scooped her up and held her as she pitifully kept softly repeating between brokenhearted sobs, “Please Momma. Please.  I just want it back.”

            Now, I know I have basically spent the last year living as a human sprinkler system with a malfunctioning timer, going off at irregular intervals for irrational reasons (with some rational ones mixed in), but her anguish was so real, so heartfelt, so truly sincere, I couldn’t help it.  I cried with her.  I kissed her sweaty forehead and every time she whispered, “I just want it back.”  I whispered, “I know, I know, hunny."

 And I thought of Miles.  I thought of Mark, Andrae, and Vivian.  I thought of my Uncle and Aunt and cousins and their lost daughter and sister, Emily.  I thought of my sister and brother-in-law and their deep disappointment over recent lost job opportunities.  I thought of all the people I have known in the past year who have suffered devastating losses that have turned their worlds upside down and left them unable to stand, fallen to their knees in despair.  And I thought how excruciating other people’s pain is to bare.  To watch someone else suffer and have no means to alleviate that pain is a personal hell. 

            In my darkest moments, I would describe the ache in my heart as a glass jar full of water, sealed tight and placed in a freezer, cracking as the water freezes and expands and exceeds the jars capacity.  My heart was broken and flooded by my own grief and the grief I saw in others.  In these darkest moments, I’d weep for all of them.  I still weep for them.

             The day Kate lost her balloon, I sat in her room with her on my lap, considering this thing, loss.  I considered my own helplessness, rocking her back and forth.  I desperately pondered over my role in the lives and losses of my friends and family, and I ruminated over if I was doing enough.  If only... If only I could reach up to the sky and return your lost balloon.  If only, if only, if only...  in the mean time you will have to live with the loss, and I will have to watch you.  I have no solution.  No fix.  All I have is comfort.  Arms to hold you, words to soothe.  And maybe sometimes just being there is enough, because Kate’s sobs subsided and she eventually relaxed against me.  

Kate

Audrey entered the room with a little grin.  She said she had a secret to tell me.  It was something about the “B-A-L-L-O-O-N” she spelled out in a whisper through partially parted lips.  She came real close to my ear and whispered, “Tomorrow, will you take me to the dollar store so I can buy Kate a new balloon with my birthday money?”  We never did replace the balloon, but knowing that Audrey wanted to was enough.  Kate, knowing I was there, ended up being enough.  Being there and wanting to take the pain away was enough.

Thank God for my children.  How they unknowingly and innocently teach me.  

Turning Point

Written October 12, 2013 By Sarah

One year ago, today was the last day I spent in my old life. 

After a family reunion for my side of the family my husband mentioned, “My family should be doing this type of thing.   There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be getting together like this.” 

Reunion Shirts

So he mentioned it to them, and by doing so, nominated himself organizer.  After months of researching and throwing out ideas and having the ideas considered and then reconsidered, after trying to coordinate schedules between many busy families, and after finally coming together on a destination and time, a Kelly Family Reunion was organized and excitedly anticipated.  John even designed T-shirts and had them silk screened.




I spent the days before busily preparing meat for pulled pork sandwiches and organizing games to keep toddler to grandpas entertained.  I grumbled about minor irritations that come when trying to keep 25+ people satisfied with arrangements, and then we were finally on the way. 

To be honest, looking back now, that first day is a blur.  Food, chatting, picking rooms in the hotel suite, being impressed with the posh high end bathrooms and bedding, cousins running, laughing, playing.  It was exactly what John wanted it to be.

Then October 13^th came.  The first day of the rest of my life. 

In the afternoon some went down to the pool and some stayed to watch the football game or nap.  Many of the details of that time down to the pool are sacred and private.  I will only say that Kate came to me concerned about a “boy she didn’t know sleeping at the bottom of the pool” and I went to investigate. 

It is amazing how many thoughts and realizations can pass through a person’s brain in a split second.

The realization that one of your worst nightmares has become reality is amazingly, horribly, surreal and I do not allow myself much time lost in the thought of that split second. 

In that moment I had an involuntary reaction.  Probably more involuntary than my heart beating.  I jumped into the water and retrieved the “sleeping boy”.  I only include this information because it is part of my experience that made that day a turning point in my life. 

Four-year-old Miles, my nephew, was life flighted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah.  The next 2 days felt like weeks stretched into months. 

Baby Isaac

Once, when Isaac was a brand new baby he contracted an eye infection.  Every time he woke up his poor little eye was sealed shut with gunk (and for a new born baby, that is many times during a day and night).  It would begin to heal and then come back with a vengeance.  I was suffering from the beginnings of a breast infection, recovering from a rather traumatic c-section where I lost a lot of blood, I was sleep deprived and trying to transition from a mom of two to a mom of three.  I was completely overwhelmed.  The eye infection was the proverbial straw on the camels back.    Finally, feeling completely powerless, one night I couldn’t take it anymore and I knelt down and begged my Father in Heaven to heal my baby’s eyes.  The need I felt was intense and real and it was something I could not do for myself.  The next morning his eye was completely clear and the infection never came back. 

It was like my heart had returned to that desperation a thousand fold, on my knees for the next two days, running between home and hospital.  I begged my Heavenly Father for another miracle.  I pleaded with Him. Completely out of control, I knew only He had the power.  I explained that this thing was too much.  Too much to ask of Miles’ parents.  Too much to ask of anyone.  As a family we prayed; we fasted; we cried; we waited and waited.  Until, finally, Mark and Andrae had to make the unimaginable decision to let their son go and to say goodbye. 

These three days, one year ago, have completely changed the way I see the world and the way I define my life.  I have questioned every thing I ever thought I knew and have spent many late nights and very early mornings trying to make sense of my new world.  On those nights, when sleep is dismissed by the tornado of thoughts raging in my head I get up, pull out my computer and I write it all down.   Once those thoughts are out of my head and on the screen (usually) I can sleep. 

Lately I have been contemplating why this is.  And I’ve decided to share some of these thoughts publically with my friends and family in the hopes that some of the conclusions I’ve come to in the past 12 months are actually lessons that God has taught me and would be of worth to you. 

I am not a writer.  Words do not flow for me or from me.  More than likely I will be doing more digging and wrestling than flowing, but I hope that you might get something from what I have to say.  If nothing else, at least I’ll be able to get some sleep.

(Here is a link to Miles' family's blog.  It is really beautiful and I think you'll really enjoy it.)