i showed him the abnormal cake that i had pulled from the oven, the partially broken circle that was disguised by a can of icing. he had requested one for our date night, that would be a wifey-cooked meal and time with netflix. i stopped for icing and orange sprinkes on my way home – a nod to fall.
as he looked at the mangled cake doused in sugar-induced chocolate glaze, he started smiling.
“you must really love me.”
we sat with our cake, in our little suite attached to the den where he used to play indoor football with three brothers and a dad.
little flutters of thankfulness came, quietly. so much rush in the day, so much to do at work, so much to do at home with year end insurances and medical appointments.
but for tonight, our date night, we just existed together.
for anyone living on the east coast, this has been a crazy week. fortunately the flooding we had in our room the week before we moved in did not happen last night. thankful for waking up to a dry floor.
ian prayed last night for everyone in the path of the hurricane and we will keep praying for those whose lives have been completely interrupted. it’s a dreary day through our window and are thankful for all of those braver than us who are helping to rescue and rebuild.
tonight is for writing at my new favorite destination. photos to come.
clearly we’ve been lacking in posts lately, and while i’d like to say that it’s because we’re just so busy, that wouldn’t be honest. what we have been doing though is trying to get into the habit of writing regularly for the book, which has unfortunately consumed a significant amount of my brain cells, which affects our blog posts. so as we take on this new adventure, the blog may suffer, but please know that we still covet your prayers.
nothing too new to report on the Murphy front. just an average week. we have the joy of having our former flatmate with us for a month and we’re digging in to writing our book.
thanks for sticking with us when we have sparse posts.
I remember sitting in the sterile, hospital hallway, back pressed against the wall with my knees tight to my chest. My cell phone was pushed against my ear, hard, as if the closer it was to my ear, the more likely he was to come back. It was an old voicemail, just a few days old, and he was singing obnoxiously and with falsetto to me on the other end:
“I can’t see me lovin nobody but you for all my life. When you’re with me baby the skies will be blue, for all my life.”
He continued through the whole song and so many times in that hospital I found a quiet place by myself and tried to find comfort in that voice.
Six years ago today the hospitals, missing Ian’s voice, losing my best friend all started. Another rainy, September day, just like today, lead Mary, Steve and I on a trip to Pittsburgh, each silently praying that it wouldn’t be his brain.
Last night as I told Ian how sad I felt with each anniversary, he said sweetly,
“That’s why I love you. It makes you sad because you care about me so much.”
Today does make me sad.
“Sorrowful yet always rejoicing” is my prayer. To have strength for the rejoicing, even if it’s just quietly in my soul.
I think that it’s supposed to be fall but I hear lots of crickets outside our bedroom window. The mornings are getting colder though and so are the evenings. I want to like this season, an excuse for outdoor fires and Sunday football for Ian and leggings with thick sweaters and moccasins.
But I just can’t do it. Because fall is when Ian’s car slid under an suv and is when Steve died. Sunday marks six years since Ian’s accident and eight days after that will be three years since we’ve seen Steve.
And so autumn, you are beautiful but you hold in you so much sadness. Too many leaf-strewn drives to the ICU. For that, I’ll be ok when you’ve passed.
