Four Leaf Clovers

Yesterday afternoon was hard. There were tears.  And feelings of loss.  I've been doing so well recently, and a kind word from a woman I've never met, but have communicated with for four years, sent me over the edge. (Betty is the administrator for the agency that I'm on the Board of Directors for, and she's lovely.)  Betty had called to let me know that the Executive Director insisted that I go on my birthday date with Stu rather than coming to the next meeting that had been switched to land on my birthday.  When I told Betty that it wasn't a problem for me to switch because I felt bad for missing the last couple of meetings due to illness (I didn't think she was aware of the pregnancy) she told me that sometimes when you're pregnant that happens, and there will be lots of meetings to come.

I died.

And I started to cry.  The E.D., whom I adore, must have told her that I was pregnant even though I had told him I wasn't telling anyone at the time.  Which would be fine if I still had my little bean.  So, I had to tell her that I lost the baby.  And then the tears started.  Out of nowhere.  The poor woman.  But, she was so sweet and ever so apologetic, and she told me she would stay on the phone as long as I needed.  Somehow between my tears I disclosed that I'd lost my contract and I was looking for something new, and a little about how truly sick I was.  Betty was outraged that I'd lost my job, and was set on getting the E.D. to put out feelers to help find me something new.  I told her that I have an interview for a music teaching spot at a private school, and that I wanted to be out of the field for awhile. 

And Betty comforted me.  Told me that she was going to include me in her prayers if I didn't mind.  A woman, whom I communicate mostly via email about my availability for meetings, gave me comfort in the space of a few words.  Let me cry on her shoulder and didn't judge me.

When Stu got home, I was still curled up in bed, a mess of tissues surrounding me.  He got me up, kissed me, hugged me and let me cry on his shoulder.  He tried to coax a smile from me, and told me silly stories and imitated the cats - with their made-up voices we do.  He drew me out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where we started making dinner together.  He kept up the silly stories until I started to smile and he knew I would be okay.

After dinner, I looked to the top of the bookshelves in the living room and found that my gaze settled on an old photo album of my grandmother's that she had filled with recipes cut out of newspapers.

My grandmother passed away in the early hours of New Year's Day in 2004.  It was devastating.  I loved my grandmother dearly and spoke to her often, at least once a week.  She was strong, smart and stubborn.  Oh so stubborn.  She was an amazing cook and baker (and pianist!) and I have never had an apple pie that could come close to matching hers.  And when I try new recipes, made my first attempts at pastry and bread making, I thought of her, and hoped that I was making her proud.

And so, when I pulled that 40 year old photo album down and ran my hand across the cover, I felt closer to her.  I thought of the things I wanted to tell her.  Wished that she was here to give me sage advice. 

I hadn't looked through that book since I'd brought it home almost 7 years ago.  I couldn't remember what was in it, what recipes I would find.  I found the recipes of the maple cream fudge she used to make.  The hand written measurements for the family recipe of Batchelor Buttons (an uber delicious cookie our family has been making for at least 125 years.)  Recipes for breads and muffins...and jellied salads.

And I found something better.

I found four-leaf clovers pressed under the protective plastic between the recipes.  Pages of them.

And they made me smile.  Truly smile.  With each turn of the page, my fingers traced the outlines of the decades old clovers, still green, reminders of my grandmother -of the way she smiled, the way her hands glided over the piano and the way she effortlessly made dough.  I can hear the sound of her voice if I listen hard enough, telling me how happy she was that I'd started to teach piano, and if I try really hard, I can remember just how her voice lifted above all the others when we would stand and sing the hymns in church. 

Those clovers made me remember that no matter what we lose, it is not forgotten, and it gets easier over time.  The hurt will fade, and the tears will dry and the dull ache in my heart will fade away. 

But I'll still have my four-leaf clovers to make me smile.