Into the Mystic...

We were born before the wind. 

Also younger than the sun.

'Ere the bonnie boat was one,

 as we sailed into the mystic.

Hark, now hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky.

Let your soul and spirit fly

into the mystic...

 February 10th, 2009

The day dawned bright with promise. Or so I mused as I tumbled giddy Reds into the car for a much-anticipated visit with their beloved Nanny and Papa. We made good time despite the snowy roads and it was almost noon when we pulled into the drive.

Much laughter and lots of hugging followed - the foyer filled with excited chatter as snowsuits and hats were discarded in heaps at the door, Nanny bestowing long-awaited kisses and the boys eager to tell her of their new home here in Belleville.

15 minutes. I was able to spend 15 glorious minutes watching my parents light up at the sight of my children and basking in the comfort of being in their sphere. Of being home.

 And then the phone rang.

My mum picked up in the family room, her other hand still holding Matthew's and her happiness infused into her cheery, "Hello?" A pause..."Oh, hello Lindsay. How are you, love?"

And in that moment - the last whisper of time before our world fell apart for real and forever, I knew. Suddenly filled with this fierce and terrible knowing, I shifted behind my mum and wrapped my arms around her waist. Hung on through her gasp and gripped tighter still when she cried out, "He's dead!?!" seconds before she buckled.

I heard my Dad fumble for the other extension, his voice calm and measured as he interrupted Lindsay's tearful babbling long enough to find out where she was. Where his son was. And then he was gone - out the door, in the car and racing down the highway - too late, too late, too late.

The rest of that day was a blur of phone calls and endless cups of coffee. The Reds, bless their hearts, were impeccably behaved. When his darling Nanny slipped into her room to weep, in too, slipped Matthew. Wordlessly, he crawled up next to her and placed one small hand into hers. Sat quietly there until I motioned him out, grateful to him but aching for her, for Andrew, for all of us.

My Dad reappeared late in the day, looking drawn and tired. He'd been to the hospital and the funeral home all by himself - scrambling to gain some semblance of control in his world, suddenly turned upside down.

 Mark showed up shortly before dinner and quietly got the boys bathed and bedded down while my parents and I sat at the kitchen table in shock and struggling to comfort each other - a family of four, now three.

Blink.

The wake was surreal. For hours we stood hugging and greeting friends old and new. Teachers from years gone by, neighbours from Bowmanville, Burketon and Lakefield. Andrew's friends, many of whom we'd never met, some of whom I'd be happy to never meet again. Dozens of people filtered past, expressing sorrow, regret, shock. Gamely, we accepted their kind words and murmured words of comfort in return.

The room was full of photos of Andrew - from babyhood right up until his final months. His body rested behind my parents and every once in awhile I glanced over, shocked anew that he was still there, but not and not-quite-sanely hoping that this terrible thing hadn't really happened.

But it had and on February 17th, I kissed his cool skin for the last time, whispered "I love you, I love you, I love you," and stood breathless and weeping as the casket lid lowered on his sleeping face forever. My brother was truly gone.

Blink.

I spent the rest of last winter in a rage. I raged against God, for taking my brother - my only sibling and the only person in the world who knew what it was to be my parents' chosen ones. I raged at the senselessness of his passing, at his poor choices, his weakness, his strength and his heart - so huge and in the end, so broken. I raged at his friends, his enemies and his past. Mourned the loss of his future with angry tears and developed a blistering, terrifying hatred for those who should never have remained silent, but did.

I was angry with myself, too. I had spent many months not speaking to Andrew and I regretted it bitterly. Night after night, I begged him to visit my dreams, to give me a sign that he was ok. Realized that grief is not a shared experience, even though so many of us mourned for him. It is a bleak and desolate journey and one that, despite all my efforts to the contrary, I had to take. I had to move through it and so, I do.

Blink.

Andrew's birthday. Easter. Mother's Day. Father's Day. Every summer long weekend. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve.

For me, this year has been marked and defined by getting through these milestones. The weeks and days leading up to these special occasions have all been worse than the actual day, but even still, the celebratory nature of them is tempered by a keen sense of loss. Of emptiness. Of knowing that he is missing.

Of missing him.

Even when I am feeling fine and no longer think of him every minute of every day, I can be brought to my knees by a memory, a song or sometimes, nothing at all. Matthew speaks of him regularly and has broken my heart a million times with his innocence and his goodness.

"Mummy, I miss Uncle Andrew."
"I do too, sweetheart."
"Can we go visit him in Heaven?"
"No, sweetheart. Though I wish we could. Heaven is too far away."
"It's not that far, Mummy. See? It's just there, past those clouds. When we're done visiting, we can just jump down the clouds until we're home."

How I wish that it were so and that I could simply will my brother to me, or me to him. To be able to sit with Bamboo for an hour and have him tell me that he truly is free and whole and happy the way my heart desperately wants him to be. To hear his laugh and see his eyes twinkle as he smiles his crooked, slightly wicked smile. To tell him that I loved him before I ever knew him and that I love him still.

Blink.

February 10th, 2010

My Mum and Dad are coming to visit us today. The Reds are giddy with anticipation, eager to show Nanny and Papa our second new home here in Belleville. I expect that there will be much laughter and chaos when they arrive - lots of hugging and long-awaited kisses in the sun porch as hats and scarves and coats are discarded.

I hope the day dawns bright with promise and that Andrew's spirit will linger awhile before heading back into the mystic...and that he will know how desperately I miss him on this and every day.

A Light Snuffed Out...

11 days.

Eleven agonizing days for Jessica Elizabeth Lloyd's mother. 11 long, anxiety-ridden nights for her only sibling, Andy. 11 days that have simultaneously paralyzed and mobilized this city, far east of the places where bad stuff is supposed to happen. Just south of the place where Jessica died and of the home of her accused murderer.

Today - 11 days too late - the waiting is over and Jessica is gone. A beautiful light, snuffed out.

When L. rang first thing this morning - before I'd managed to even slurp through a single cup of coffee, before I'd logged onto the internet hoping for good news about Jessica, before I'd even turned off the porch light which has burned every night, all night since Jessica disappeared - I knew the news wasn't good.

Sure enough, L. glumly informed me that Jessica's body had been found in Tweed - a hop, skip and one long jump from her home north of Belleville. An arrest had been made and no, it wasn't the mechanic from Kingston whose name has been hastily scratched off the thousands of "Missing" posters that paper this city and beyond.

We both expressed our sadness and our guilt-inducing lack of surprise. It has been, after all, eleven days.

An hour passed before L. rang again, her voice low and serious as she relayed that the man charged with Jessica's murder is called Russell Williams. A few rapid keystrokes and a Google later I gasped as I saw who he is:  Russell Williams is the newly-appointed Commander of CFB Trenton. In effect, THE man in charge of the largest Airbase in Canada and as imposing a man on paper as he appears to be in person.

He is very tall. And very fit. Handsome. Colonel Williams looks honest, competent and good. He has an intelligent, reassuring, typically-military bearing  - one that automatically elicits respect. Obedience. Trust. He is also the kind of man who looks very familiar - partly that's genetics but also it's because he IS familiar to many of us. Because he has been here the whole time.

"Poor girl never stood a chance," I mused - angry, shocked and feeling suddenly afraid. "If a man in uniform, certainly one as "capable-and-good-seeming" as Colonel Williams appeared at my door, no matter the hour, my instinct would be to fling open the door and let him in."

"As it would be for most of us, " L. agreed quietly. We conversed in horrified whispers - trying not to scare and worry the children, hovering nearby. Trying not to scare and worry each other and ourselves.

We spoke of our shattered sense of  peace, our own vulnerabilities as both mothers and daughters. Mostly we expressed absolute shock that a trusted, indeed a larger-than-life universal symbol of goodness - A Canadian Soldier - has committed such heinous crimes. Worse, he did so in our happy, safe haven from a world gone mad.

Belleville has been dubbed "The Friendly City" and having now called it home for an entire year, I'd have to say that it's aptly named. The Lloyd family have been here for years and years - generations, in fact. I don't know them, but almost everyone else I know, does. It is simply that kind of place - a small town, wrapped in "City" paper. People ARE friendly and open - with doors, smiles, their homes, their hearts.

Horrific crimes such as the ones Williams is charged with committing - the murders of two local women in less than six months plus two vicious home invasions in which two other women were brutally sexually assaulted - are not supposed to happen here. We're the "Friendly City".

Apparently we were also the perfect place for a chisel-faced psychopath to find both esteemed work AND trusting victims. A tragic meeting place for light and dark, good and evil.

Given that, I think I'll leave the porch light burning for a few more nights - perhaps longer.

I leave the porch light burning to cast away dark shadows that appear, suddenly, to loom. To bring warmth to a city frozen in shock and grief for its lost daughter.

As a symbol of love and warmth for Jessica's family, who must now try to live with this awful black truth - and forevermore, without her.

To honor and embrace our shattered community and to remind myself that while bad things do happen this is still a good place.

And finally, in memory of a woman beloved: Jessica Elizabeth Lloyd. May her peace be deep.

Porch Lights Burning...

Every mother's nightmare has come to vivid, awful life for a Belleville mum. Her 27-year-old daughter, Jessica, has gone missing and as the days pass, I can only imagine her heart-clenching fear.

Jessica texted a friend around 10:30 on Thursday and hasn't been seen nor heard from since. She didn't show up for work Friday and all attempts by friends, family and co-workers to reach her have failed.

On Friday night, my husband and I made a quick trip to Walmart - giddy with the pleasure of buying for our new home and with the long-forgotten freedom of an evening without the Reds. Wandered the aisles happily, glancing down the ones not travelled, idly watching strangers.

Saw a girl with long, dark hair bending to show her companion a video game she wanted - I don't remember much of what she wore, my eyes drawn instead to the large and intricately-drawn tattoo that covered her lower back.

Blink.

 I stepped past the next aisle and the girl disappeared from view and my mind - until we returned home.

An FB (Facebook) friend had posted a plea for information about a missing Belleville woman - Jessica Elizabeth Lloyd. I quickly tabbed another page and brought up our local newspaper, where dark-haired Jessica smiled out at me. Missing.

The article described her as 5'5", weighing 125 pounds with a large tattoo across her lower back. My jaw dropped open as my mind's eye flashed on the girl I'd just seen. I hadn't seen her face at all, but called the number anyway - hoping against hope that I was passing on something useful.

Alas, three days have passed and Jessica Elizabeth Lloyd is still missing. Her family and friends have scoured this city and beyond, plastering her face on every available surface. Their efforts have taken them as far north as Bancroft, as far east as Kingston and into the Greater Toronto Area. A Facebook group called "FIND Jessica Elizabeth Lloyd" has already garnered more than 10,000 members and yesterday over 400 people gathered in the frigid weather to search for Belleville's missing daughter.

In the meantime, I gather my own sons closer - grateful to have them home and safe. Most nights the porch light here burns for their father, often trudging home long after night has draped our city in a blanket of darkness. But since Friday and until Jessica Elizabeth Lloyd returns home to her family and her mother's arms - our light burns for her.

Please pray that she finds her way home.


*** If you have any information about Jessica's disappearance or think you may have seen her, please contact Belleville Police  -Sgt. Jeff Green at 613-966-0882 ext. 2224. ***
http://www.thestar.com/news/ontario/article/758276--volunteers-search-for-missing-belleville-woman?bn=1

When You Wish Upon a Star...

So, a few months back, I started a different blog called "Seeking, Offering, Received." It's meant to chronicle the stories of weird/odd/compelling ads I find while trawling Kijiji.


One of the first ads posted was from a couple in another city, seeking "a child to love." They were having no luck adopting a second child through the regular channels and couldn't afford an international adoption.

Since I originally wrote them, asking for permission to put their ad on the blog, we've stayed in pretty regular email contact. A good friend of mine is embarking on her own adoption journey and I shared this couple's story with her. She asked me about them on Christmas Eve.

Today, this message awaited me:


To sum up: Prayer is powerful. Wishes come true. No doubt, the universe is unfolding as it should and frankly, this couple have completely made my entire day. Week. So far, year. Just wanted to share!

Hi Elizabeth,

I hope you are doing well.

I just wanted to send you an update. Not sure if it had anything to do with your prayers and your good wishes but a few weeks after your email, we were contacted by an agency asking if we were still looking to adopt and if so to send them a profile as they had a birthmother they wanted to show it to (nothing to do with our profile on Kijiji, this was just an agency I had emailed almost one year ago and never heard from since). We did and sure enough, a few days before Christmas we got the miracle you 'predicted' and we told we were chosen. It's not a done deal yet but is certainly looking very promising.

My advice to your friend is to keep at it and also try to contact as many agencies as she can. In particular, I'd suggest contacting agencies in more remote areas as they seem to have less clients. The same thing applies to CAS. As I detailed before we had been rejected by the CAS in Ottawa but I still contacted CAS's in other cities and the response has been much more optimistic. Basically, as long as you are registered with your local CAS, you can contact other CAS outside your area. Now our CAS plan is on hold but in the future, we'll probably look into that as well.
Take care and thanks again for any 'cosmic / religious / whatever' help you might have provided !!!

Mike

Tiny Little Milestone...

Overslept this morning, so I rushed the Reds into the car and raced to Matthew's school. Didn't make the bell, but there were other stragglers milling about and wandering in, so thankfully we weren't so late.

Instead of lugging Luke out of the car too, I told Matthew that I'd stand at the gate and watch until he passed through the school doors: "You're such a big boy now, I know that you'll go straight into class, right?"

Matthew regarded me with serious eyes. "I WILL, Mummy!" and set off, loping through the empty schoolyard with his hat askew and backpack threatening to topple him at any second.

He looked back once and waved. Twice. But not again and then I blinked and he was gone.

I know this should be an insignificant moment - it's no big deal, a traipse through the playground alone. But it feels like a big deal, like we've reached some sort of milestone. In taking those steps alone, it means he's that many closer to walking all the way to school by himself. And everything else that comes after.

Independence. Pride. Freedom. All things I want for him. Just not yet.

Not yet...