I’ve been quiet on this blog for quite some time, but I’ve been thinking about how to reintegrate it into my life and show that life goes on after tragedy; even though in the midst of tragedy, going/moving on is the greatest fear. Last night I was baking my husband’s 37th birthday cake. He was 32 when our world fell apart. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries always bring up the thoughts of what would’ve been. I was watching the ingredients mix together in the stainless steel bowl of my Kitchen Aid mixer and the flour and cocoa came rising out of the bowl making “snow” on the mixer and the countertop and I was remembering. It suddenly came to me that the kitchen Aid mixer was a baby gift. That’s right, a baby gift.
We had come home from the hospital, baby-less (Lydia was still very sick and in Cook Children’s at this time), and my mom asked if I would like to see the gifts that friends and family had sent. My mom walked in with it and what seemed like a TON of other gifts and placed it on my dining table. It was a gift sent to me by my Granny when Lydia was born. She admitted it was perhaps a strange gift, but knew I had wanted one. I think she was thinking of birthday cakes and happy memories that would be made with this brand new mixer. I thought it was a great idea, maybe even more like a “push gift”, an idea that had been gaining popularity at the time. I was so excited to feel better and use it, but at that moment, I just wanted to know if Lydia was going to get better. I remember trying to force myself to be excited about all the lovely gifts that our parents had brought to us from family and friends, but the excitement was just not there. After the funeral and things settled down, the gifts given to Lydia went in her room and the door remained closed for a very long time.
But one thing stayed out, the Kitchen Aid mixer. I made cakes every month for probably the first 6 months. I needed something to do since I didn’t have a baby to celebrate. I had the need to make something from nothing, to make a beautiful and delicious creation, to set aside time and remember. And honestly, there was also a little comfort in whatever sugary confection I created. It fueled a passion for baking and decorating. Me and Kitchen Aid are pretty tight nearly 5 years later. You can tell this mixer has seen its share of hard work; the motor tends to groan a little if I’m mixing something thick and heavy. The plastic knob that covers the metal bar that determines the speed is broken off, but it still works. I guess this mixer is a lot like me. I’ve done a lot of hard work walking with my grief. I groan a little when the load gets heavy and I’m missing a part of myself too. But there is one distinct difference, the part of me that is missing is now an eternal soul who lives with Jesus and I will be reunited with her again. The plastic knob from the Kitchen Aid is gone forever in the landfill in Fort Worth. There is hope for me, but none for the mixer. I’m remembering all of these things as I hear a little voice behind me saying, “Momma can I have a lick?” I’m jarred back to the present by the one thing that holds me on this side of heaven; another tiny soul that has been entrusted to me to raise to love the Lord with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength. This one I get to keep for a little longer than I did Lydia.
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I’ve been quiet on this blog for quite some time, but I’ve been thinking about how to reintegrate it into my life and show that life goes on after tragedy; even though in the midst of tragedy, going/moving on is the greatest fear. Last night I was baking my husband’s 37th birthday cake. He was 32 when our world fell apart. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries always bring up the thoughts of what would’ve been. I was watching the ingredients mix together in the stainless steel bowl of my Kitchen Aid mixer and the flour and cocoa came rising out of the bowl making “snow” on the mixer and the countertop and I was remembering. It suddenly came to me that the kitchen Aid mixer was a baby gift. That’s right, a baby gift.
We had come home from the hospital, baby-less (Lydia was still very sick and in Cook Children’s at this time), and my mom asked if I would like to see the gifts that friends and family had sent. My mom walked in with it and what seemed like a TON of other gifts and placed it on my dining table. It was a gift sent to me by my Granny when Lydia was born. She admitted it was perhaps a strange gift, but knew I had wanted one. I think she was thinking of birthday cakes and happy memories that would be made with this brand new mixer. I thought it was a great idea, maybe even more like a “push gift”, an idea that had been gaining popularity at the time. I was so excited to feel better and use it, but at that moment, I just wanted to know if Lydia was going to get better. I remember trying to force myself to be excited about all the lovely gifts that our parents had brought to us from family and friends, but the excitement was just not there. After the funeral and things settled down, the gifts given to Lydia went in her room and the door remained closed for a very long time.
But one thing stayed out, the Kitchen Aid mixer. I made cakes every month for probably the first 6 months. I needed something to do since I didn’t have a baby to celebrate. I had the need to make something from nothing, to make a beautiful and delicious creation, to set aside time and remember. And honestly, there was also a little comfort in whatever sugary confection I created. It fueled a passion for baking and decorating. Me and Kitchen Aid are pretty tight nearly 5 years later. You can tell this mixer has seen its share of hard work; the motor tends to groan a little if I’m mixing something thick and heavy. The plastic knob that covers the metal bar that determines the speed is broken off, but it still works. I guess this mixer is a lot like me. I’ve done a lot of hard work walking with my grief. I groan a little when the load gets heavy and I’m missing a part of myself too. But there is one distinct difference, the part of me that is missing is now an eternal soul who lives with Jesus and I will be reunited with her again. The plastic knob from the Kitchen Aid is gone forever in the landfill in Fort Worth. There is hope for me, but none for the mixer. I’m remembering all of these things as I hear a little voice behind me saying, “Momma can I have a lick?” I’m jarred back to the present by the one thing that holds me on this side of heaven; another tiny soul that has been entrusted to me to raise to love the Lord with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength. This one I get to keep for a little longer than I did Lydia.
.JPG)
