Splattering of Whatever.

I almost bought a gun this weekend.
Not just a gun.
A hand gun.
A scary looking one (this is the city-girl in me speaking).
I said as long as I didn't have to touch it
that I'd put it under my name.
I didn't end up having to do that.
Instead, I just sat on the floor in Cabella's
for way too long.
Watching weirdos buy guns.
In their pajama pants.
Holding their half-filled bottle of chew-spit-nastiness.
There are A LOT of weirdos buying guns these days.
But, at least there's a screening process to buy guns.
There isn't one to have kids.
(Dumb.)
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I had the chance to meet with a friend of a cousin.
She lost her daughter a few weeks ago
so we met to talk.
I was nervous.
I didn't think I'd be much help.
I had no idea what I would say
and I was worried that I would say the wrong thing.


We met over coffee.
And man oh man.
I sent so many prayers up
thanking God that I'm where I am now.
I forgot (or blocked it out) what it was like to be at that point.
Fresh out.
So raw.
Your heart hurts from feeling so much.
Your brain hurts from thinking so much.
And tears spill out every time you blink.
And breathe.


And, although I went to help her (as much as I could),
it ended up being something helpful for me.
I realized that, although I may not be where I want to be, 
or where I think I should be,
I have come a long ways.
I am not where I was.
I have grown.
I have survived.
I have figured out how to deal with this hole.
And that was really, really good for me to see.


And, although I think I should be at a different place.
Or, at least, I want to be at a different place,
I know I'm where I should be.
And I know I have grown
and I'm not where I started out.
(Thank you, Lord).


It does get better, H.G.
You won't ever stop missing her
or loving her.
And that hole will never be filled.
But it does get better.
You learn how to manage.
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A parent of a past student gave me a card 
and some delicious cookies.
As a gift for speaking this weekend.


Thank you, RF.
They were absolutely delicious.
We ate them all in one sitting.
(We'd love the recipe.)
Our bellies and hearts were full.
*************************************************
People have been giving me notes and cards lately.
They must know I need them.
My heart needs them.
Not only is the news from the doctor getting me down,
but I am getting a wee-bit nervous about speaking on Saturday.
I'm not nervous about speaking in front of a crowd.
I'm nervous to speak about Maggie.
What if I don't explain myself well enough?
What if I don't do her justice?
What if I blubber and do the ugly cry
in.front.of.everyone?


I got a letter that was just what I needed.
The letter reminded me that Maggie's death was not the end of the story.
The story continues as I try to help other women who are hurting.
Her story.  My story.  Our story is not done.
I want to know the "rest of the story." (sidenote: RIP Andy "Eyebrows" Rooney).
I don't want the ending to be her death.
And I don't want it to end in my sadness and heart break.
I want Maggie's story to continue.
To bear fruit.
To help and heal others.
If this is what I'm supposed to do, 
I'll do it.
I'll help others.
I'll tell my story.
Her story.
I wish there could have been another way to do it, though.

***************************************************
I believe that this is true.
There is joy coming in the morning.

No Source.  Just from my new addiction pinterest.