In Print.

I received this from my sister in law today, as she'd promised she'd send it. I created the header for Lemmondrops, and this fantastic print piece for the St. Paul Pioneer Press by Molly Milliet has a screenshot of the blog including header. I read the story again and all of the sadness rushed back in to my blood. That photo - of her and Steve in that moment - is everything without words.

It's always been difficult for me to explain - to those who weren't a part of her blogging life- this situation and how it affects me. But today, as I work through the most difficult time in my lifetime, I hope to pull from her amazing, amazing ability to take nothing for granted, and cherish the joy in life, even when very, very small. I need that so very much right now.



Things like this.

Sometimes my desire to live, to hold onto this world, hits me full force, like it did this morning when I was driving across the Mississippi River with Daniel on the way to the mall, and the chilly air winked with sunshine, and K.D. Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" was playing on the CD player, and I turned around to see how Daniel was liking the song, and we held each others' gaze just long enough until I needed to watch the road again, and tears came to my eyes because I love this life, this music, this autumn, my family, so much.

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Still Midwest

I haven't been able to really be online since landing in the Midwest; I've checked my email and pertinent things on my Blackberry, but since this is the first "vacation" since leaving my old job I knew I needed to have the first trip where my laptop, for the most part, stays in my luggage.

Tonight I've spent a little bit of time uploading pictures, replying to messages and reading stories and blogs I have gotten behind on. I checked my blog reader for new posts from my blog list and, forgetfully searched for a new post from Lemmondrops before realizing that there wouldn't be. And won't ever be.

I don't really have the words to express how I feel, but I'm really...sad. I miss her insight. I feel like I could use it tonight.

I really hope that Emilie knew how much her writing inspired her readers. And how very much she is mourned and missed.

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An Eve and and End, or Beginning

I got up this morning and rushed to upload some photos I wanted to print before leaving tonight. I got dressed, and rushed out, only to deal with the hordes of people trying to spend money before the stores close for Christmas. I got annoyed and angry at people who were driving like idiots. I almost got hit by a car while walking. I got less done than I wanted to, and came home feeling annoyed.

And then, I logged on to my blog, and saw a post in my reader that I didn't expect to see. I knew I'd see it someday, but I didn't expect, on Christmas Eve, to see this post, titled "Emilie's Passing". I almost didn't click on it, but I did.

It's amazing to me that someone who I have never met has touched my life. I never once spoke to Emilie, but the honesty she shared through her writing made me feel as though I knew her. She was so open, so genuine, and so real about her life and her soul. I found Emilie's blog through my Sister In Law, right before her oldest son was born, and I've followed her ever since. Looking through the comments left for her over the past months, I can see that hundreds of other people who found her blog through one vein or another have been touched just as I have.

Now, I sit on the floor of my living room, with so much stuff left to do, and no ambition to do any of it. I can only think of sitting next to my husband, enjoying him, listening to him, keeping him close to me. Doing and being the little things that I miss in my hurried nature far too often.

I ache for Emilie's husband and her two sons. I know they will be alright. I know Emilie's spirit will keep them and guide them as they grow, teaching them that life is about love and soul and spirit. I think about what a miracle it was for Emilie to become pregnant with her youngest son naturally, when she and her husband tried for two years with fertility help before conceiving their oldest son. Had Ben not been conceived, so magically, Emilie would most likely have had much less time when she finally learned of her cancer. Instead, she was able to survive (and her son in utero) a surgery, lots of chemo, and another year. I smile for the connection that little Ben will feel with his mother, even after he's forgotten her touch.

I'll leave you with a post Emilie wrote two years ago that I stumbled upon just yesterday and re-read, feeling a much different sentiment than I did the first time I read it: Easter Prayer.

Emilie, rest in peace.

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