I Got a Tattoo And Here's Why . . . .

I got a tattoo today.

It's my first. I've thought about getting one for a couple of years but hemmed and hawed about what I should get and where.

Then something happened.

On June 22nd, my only sister, Gabbie, passed away unexpectedly. She was 32, a wife of 13 years to her husband, and mama to two boys, ages eleven and seven. She lived with severe back pain and lupus and she was also a breast cancer survivor but managed to do it all with a smile and optimism, even when it was very, very hard to have either. 

It's been a very surreal few weeks, seeing family, saying "thank you" over and over again in response to the "I'm sorrys," going through the motions of traveling, viewings, and the memorial service. Even now, I've traveled home to Oregon to hold a get-together for Gabbie's friends here and scatter some of her ashes in the ocean.

Last week, I spoke at her memorial service. Here's what I said:

When Gabbie was two years old, she hurdled a Sunday school shoe at my head. You know the kind of shoe I’m talking about? Black, patent leather with a buckle and a little heel on it. She threw it just the right and hit me smack in the nose with the heel.

She laughed; I screamed.

And then I went after her.

In the end, only one of us got in trouble and it was me. “You’re the oldest,” Mom told me. “It’s your job to look out for Gabbie.  You’re her big sister. That’s what sisters do.”

Our family was small, just Mom and Gabbie and I. I was six years older so I was more like a second mom to Gabbie. She hated that most of the time. But, as her older sister, I have had the pleasure of watching her grow into a beautiful, kind person, a wonderful wife, and an amazing mom. 

For the last few days, I’ve tried to put Gabbie’s life into words and I discovered it’s impossible. There aren’t enough words to do that. And that’s pretty hard for me, a writer, to handle. But Gabbie’s life can’t be defined in words.

When she was little, there was a song we often sang to her. You’ve probably heard it:

You are my sunshine, my little sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are gray.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don’t take your sunshine away.

At first, those words sounded terribly sad to me. Then, it hit me, Gabbie’s sunshine is all around us.

It’s in every person who’s ever received a five-minute phone call that turned into a three-hour marathon.

It’s in every birthday card she ever sent. Or anniversary card. Or congratulations card. Or You-Got-a-Raise! Card.

Her sunshine is in every cheesecake and truffle or Thanksgiving meal she ever made.

We see her sunshine in the memories we each have of her, of how her kindness and optimism and sheer determination touched each of us in some way.

And her sunshine is in the smiles of her two boys, whom she loved with everything in her.

Gabbie’s sunshine will never, ever go away. The people who knew her will always carry a bit of her light with them.

A few days before she died, I posted a Bible verse on Facebook.

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”--Joshua 1:9

Gabbie commented, “I needed that reminder.” 

It was the last thing she would ever say to me. 

She was always stronger and had more courage than she gave herself credit for. She withstood more things than most people can imagine and she did it with strength and courage.

I’m taking comfort that Jesus was with her during her life, through all the bad things and the good things, and I know she is with Him now.

***

So, today I got a tattoo for my sister and also for me. It's to remind me of Gabbie and that God is with me wherever I go. 

Just like He was with her.

Just like she is with Him now.

A few photos:

The Forbidden School of Body Art

Chris, Tattoo Artist Extraordinaire 

It's beginning . . . 

Almost done. 

The finished product. Joshua 1:9 as a reminder of God's faithfulness.
The pink sun is to remind me of Gabbie always. 

I Dream of Your Voice: A Poem

I wrote a poem.

Poetry has always been equal parts intimidating and confusing to me.  But, this year has been a season of new things for me so when I started to play around with some words the last couple of days, it just happened. What started with a few whispers and what-ifs in my head, somehow evolved into a poem.

So, here I am, sharing it with you (despite my nerves). I think you'll figure out what it's about on your own.  I'll just add that this is probably one of the aspects of parenting a child with autism, especially with very limited language, that I struggle with the most.

I'm just a baby poet (if I'm even allowed to claim the title) so don't judge me too harshly. I hope you find something about it that touches you.

I Dream of Your Voice

By Sharon M. Peterson

I dream of your voice

soft, slurring syllables of a whisper,

harsh, staccato rhythms of anger,

smooth, rounded vowels of amusement.

The language you speak is foreign

and you are stingy with the lessons,

parsing out tiny bits of knowledge,

only to change the meaning.

I wonder at the words you’ve never said,

thoughts tumbling around unspoken,

questions left unasked, unanswered,

fears and hurts never voiced.

I ache to hear the words “I love you,”

without pretense or thought,

for them to slip off your tongue effortlessly

and be hidden indelibly in my heart.

Instead, I hear you with my eyes, guessing.

You speak without words. A look, a touch,

your movements, your stillness tell a story.

In your silence, you are speaking.

Am I listening?

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NaNoWriMo?

You might have noticed I've been missing-in-action the past few weeks.  That's because 15 days ago National Novel Writing Month started and I took up the NaNoWriMo Challenge.  It's a daunting goal--50,000 words to write for the entire month of November.

My biggest struggle with this challenge has been finding time to write. I've had to get creative about where I write: bed, the kitchen, in the minivan, Starbucks, and more than once in the waiting room at a therapy center.  Sometimes I can only write a paragraph but, late at night, after the kids are in bed, I can sit for hours.  So I do.  Some nights I even get to bed before 1 a.m. But, this year had been a year of me stretching my wings and this challenge is just one of them. I'm happy to say that I am just over half way to my goal.  At this very moment, I've written 26,215 words.

This is the reason my little blog has gone forgotten for a few weeks. It might be a two or three weeks before I can get back to blogging.  But I'll be back, I swear. 

What am I writing? Well, this is a novel writing challenge so . . . drum-roll . . . I'm writing my first novel.  I thought in lieu of a blog post, I share a short passage I've written.  Now, remember, this is a rough (and, I mean, really rough) draft.

****

            “Charlotte Anne, let’s go.  Move it!”  I shouted down the hallway.

            “Just a minute,” she said, her voice muffled and faint. Thirty excruciatingly long seconds later, the toilet flushed and Charley ran down the hallway towards me, her face flushed.  “Sorry, Tess.  I had business to take care of,” she said, her voice serious.

            I just resisted rolling my eyes.  “Next time, take care of your business before we’re late, okay?”

            “I’ll try but Daddy always says you can’t help when it’s time to take care of business.” That sounded exactly like something Aaron would say.

            “Just get in the car!” I said loudly and herded us out the door.

            It was only after finally getting Charley strapped in the car and I was pulling out that I felt it,  the uneven gait of the car.  I slammed on the brakes and hopped out, leaving my door open, and rounded the car with a sinking feeling in my stomach.  It was the rear passenger tire and it was flat.  A flat tire? Now?  Really?

            “Dammit,” I yelled, throwing up my hands.  “Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.”

            “Tess, those aren’t nice words,” Charley admonished me. “Mommy says we have to use kind words, even when we’re angry.”

            “I’m sorry!” My voice still too loud. I looked down at that flat tire and something inside me broke a little.  “I’m very sorry. I’m so sorry that you’re late to your first day of school and that Dustin hates me for making him sit in a car seat.  I’m sorry we got up late and you had to eat half a pop tart for breakfast.  I’m sorry!” My voice grew shriller with each word and my face felt like it was on fire. 

“I’m sorry that I’m not good at this.  I’m sorry that your mom and dad are gone and you’re stuck with me.  I’m sorry I don’t know how to talk to Dustin and I am completely confused about how to help him and his autism. I’m sorry that I wasn’t a better friend to your mom. I’m sorry that I screw up all the time and I’m tired and the house is a mess and I don’t have all the right answers.  I’m sorry about . . . about . . . about this dumb flat tire.” I kicked the tire in question and then winced as pain shot through my leg.  Worse though, were the tears that started to fall, making my eyesight blurry.  I tasted the salty wetness on my lips, felt them fall to my shirt.  “I’m sorry,” I sobbed.  “Dammit.”

My legs gave out from under me and I slid to the ground, my arms windmilling out to catch my fall.  Tiny bits of gravel bit into my hands as I sat there, crying.  I don’t know how long I stayed that way, staring at that tire, and wishing I could take back all those words, when I felt a small hand on my shoulder. Charley stood next to me, her pale blue St. Clair eyes somber.  “I’m sorry, too, Tess.”

My breath caught on a sob.  “Oh, Charley.” I’m not sure which of us reached for the other first but, the next moment, Charley fell into my lap and wrapped her arms around me.  I hugged her tight, burying my face in her hair. 

It was then, from the back of the car, I heard a small, high-pitched voice yell, “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" 

***
I'd love to hear what you think!  

Now, I'm going to back and write some more.  Stop distracting me! 

 _____________________________

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Did you enjoy this read?  Want a good place to start?  Click here: Telling the Truth