From the time I was ten years old, I was the one and only, officially designated and paid nursery “helper” at church. I received a dollar for my work during each church service. Mrs. Wilson, an older woman, was the official nursery attendant and I was her only employee. She never missed a Sunday or Wednesday night for years and years. The two of us handled ten or twenty babies under the age of two each Sunday morning, faithfully passing out Ritz crackers and changing diapers and distracting babies from their distress at being abandoned by their grateful mothers in the church nursery for two hours.
The nursery was located in the back of the church in those days. A window separated us from the sanctuary. I imagine that window was just regular glass, but in my memory, it has turned into one of those mirrored windows where you see only your reflection on one side while the people on the other side have a clear view inside. As we tended babies, I felt like we could see out, but people could not see in, despite that window. Perhaps we had a curtain obscuring our view. But the feeling of being on display, in a fishbowl of sorts lingers somewhere deep inside my psyche.
From time to time, I feel like I’m inside this blog, toiling behind a glass, seeing only my reflection when I peer through the window . . . yet suspecting that I’m being studied by a critical group of people on the other side who have a crystal clear view. Now that people I see face-to-face read my words here, I feel like they’re looking at me, even though I can’t see them.
Obviously, I have delusions of grandeur and think that I am the center of the universe. I am sane enough to realize that this is simply not so.
My 4-year old daughter developed a dread of people when she was three months old. I took her to my mother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner when she was a three-month old baby. I expected to nurse her and put her down for her regular nap on my mother’s bed. My baby shrieked and cried inconsolable tears until I gave up and returned home. She immediately quieted once in the safety of familiar surroundings and went to sleep. She’s hated friendly people ever since. I try to explain that she is slow to warm up and by “slow,” I mean at the speed of a glacier and not one of those melty ones that worry Al Gore so much.
Although she is coming out of her shell and occasionally smiles and chats with random adults and visiting kids, mostly, she is reluctant to interact with people she doesn’t know well. When I dress her on Sunday mornings (or, more accurately, watch her get dressed herself because she is a big girl who not only can do buttons, but who can also whistle), she says, “Mom, will they look at me? Don’t let anyone look at me.” She would like to stroll through life without attracting any attention whatsoever, an invisible girl who appears only to safe people who don’t scare her.
I understand. On one hand, I want my voice to be heard. I want my viewpoint to be valued and my perspective to be validated. I want to feel as if I belong, as if I count, as if I am as valid as the next woman, mother, human being.
Inside, though, I am the girl who knows that people are watching me through the window and I pretend not to notice that I’m being noticed . . . and then, I wonder if anyone’s looking at all, but I don’t want them to catch me peering out. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!
The trick is to carry on, to speak without considering popular opinion, to think without censoring myself, to frame my world in a way that pleases me, t focus on what seems vital to me and, perhaps, only me. Audience or no audience, the show goes on . . . this is no dress rehearsal, either, but the real thing, the only performance I’m ever going to give.
No one lives this particular life but me. No one can describe this exact moment but me. No one inhabits this sphere and orbits this trajectory but me. This life is unique. That alone makes my story worth recording. When I am gone, no one will slide into this place. I alone occupy this body, this moment, this place in time and space, regardless of whether or not I’m noticed or ignored.
So I write, even when nothing happens of note. I’m leaving footprints, broken twigs along the path, wisps of torn spiderwebs to mark my path.
I wish I’d taken photographs of my father during his last hospital stay. Those last eleven days haunt my thoughts, fragments of images in my memory, but not a single photograph of him in a hospital gown, propped up on pillows, an IV tube snaking into his hand. The trauma burned moments of those final days into my brain; the way his bloated hand clung to the armrest like a pale starfish, his slow-blinking eyes blind to the room full of those who loved him–I have no photographs of anything. No pictures of the funeral, of the people who attended, of the flowers on his grave.
As much as I long for pictures of that long ago week and a half, I wish more that he’d left a trail of words I could follow. I wish I could see the world through his eyes, even the mundane parts, the insignificant details, his private thoughts about matters big and small. He’s a stranger to me, a man who scarcely mentioned his childhood, who never explained his behavior, who hid behind silences and moods for reasons I never knew.
I wish he’d left a trail.
I wish he’d scrawled thoughts into journals. I wish he left a record of his day-to-day existence. I wish I had from him what I leave here . . . footprints left by an ordinary person, living an ordinary life. Whether or not people are watching, life slips and slides away, one moment at a time, until it finally runs out like it did for my dad, only twenty-one days after he turned forty-seven.
And so I leave words to mark my path, a paltry trail of breadcrumbs to show that once I rambled along this path, I went this way, I was here. I was here.
I was here.
Actual Unretouched Photo 
This resonated with me for so many reasons. I seem to go through phases where I feel like everyone’s watching me; and recently someone attacked my viewpoint on my homeschooling blog and I felt like I was in a room full of people and they were all laughing at me, even though in reality it was only one. (I think.) And I have a daughter who at once both craves attention and dreads it. Her biggest fear in life is being laughed at. I love that you are leaving a trail for your daughter, not only of your everyday life but of your courage and boldness in sharing yourself–even when people are watching.
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Well said.
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Beautifully said… resonates with me, too. The fear of being looked at by people who might not be quite safe… and the desire to make a record of my life even if no one cares.
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Great blog. I think that’s part of why I blog: so my kids will know a few of the things that I think. I haven’t printed any for about a year now. Maybe I should get to it, eh?
I had a flashback that a chucrch that I attened in Montreal until I was around 10 or so had one of those nurseries with a window into the sanctuary.
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No judgement ever, Mel. Just an empathy. We are all plodding through our own unique lives, leaving trails for those who just may be interested.
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Mel, your reasoning concerning the “whys” and “wherefores” of blogging closely resemble my own.
I lost my own father in 2004, and I love reading such thoughts of his that are written down.
When we were missionaries in Lebanon when I was a little girl, my older sister came back to the states to finish high school. My dad wrote letters to her–newsy, lengthy, full of wisdom, advice and humor. My mom recently put them in a scrapbook for my sister, and she cherishes them dearly. They are indeed a treasure.
Several years ago, I gave my dad and mom books that I had purchased in which they were to answer questions and record memories. My dad filled out most of his. I haven’t read it all yet, but what I have read is priceless.
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I think that is the purpose for me as well – to record things, to bounce ideas off other people, to leave a trail. This was beautifully said.
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I say that the reason I blog is for myself, but that is not entirely true. I do it in hopes that my children will read it one day and know me better which in turn will help them to know themselves better when they start to question things too.
Well put, Mel.
And I’m glad you’re here.
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I can honestly say you don’t want pictures of that. When my FiL passed last July, someone took pictures of him at the hospice. They are horrible and not the way he would have wanted to be “pictured”. Nore the way we wan to remember him.
Remember the life that was shared with you, if even a small amount was shown to you. Remember the last days, hours, moments in your heart as precious. But put his face, that of life in your soul, that is the one to be remembered and treasured.
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1 Corinthians 12 “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part;then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”
Perhaps your father’s trail is yet to be found.
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Like many others, I can completely identify with this blog. While I’ve never thought about why I blog (other than I have always enjoyed writing my thoughts down), I have always felt like I lived in a glass house and for some reason, up until this year, I cared about what other people thought of me. Don’t misunderstand me, however…I believe you can argue with an opinion – everyone’s got one – but you can’t argue with a testimony. It’s real. I’m real. And maybe that’s why I’ve decided that what others think of me is none of my business.
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I am envious that you do such a great job putting your thoughts in to words. I just can’t seem to get there. You are great at it.
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Wonderful post Mel. I have a series of emails from my Dad that I cherish. They are brief but they show the amazing sense of humor that he carried with him right up until the end. One of the most intriguing written pieces I have is a paper that he wrote for school when he was 13 in 1949. It explains a lot about the man he became.
Keep up the writing. You never know what it might mean someday to those who love you.
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After reading this, I picture you sitting at your keyboard, staring at the monitor as you typed, tears rolling down your face. I don’t think 1000 tissues could mop up the tears that have flowed as I’ve sat in front of my own computer the last couple of years. And it is the posts like these, where we let our vulnerabilities, our pain at loss come thru, that are so truly soul-cleansing. My mom left behind a handwritten journal of her last year of life. My estranged brother’s had it in his possession for the past 14 years ever since it’d been passed on to him. As consumed by hate as he is, I’m sure it was burned or trashed years ago. But I DID get to read it…at least I got that! My blog is my living testimony, my best friend. I would be lost without it.
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Your post brings so much to mind. I too am haunted by my dad’s last 2 weeks. I too wish I knew better the man that was my dad. But I do know that he loved me and I know he knew that I loved him. I am grateful for that.
I agree with your words on so many levels. I am no writer but my blog, in many ways is my journal. I print each post and place them in a binder.. one for each year. Someday I am hoping that my kids and grandkids may read them and come to know their mom and grandma just a little better.
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Lovely post Mel, just lovely.
I blog simply because I like to hear myself and I think everyone else should, too. In fact, I can go back and read my archives and crack myself up. Isn’t that pathetic?
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One of my greatest desires is to be called blessed by my husband and children because in them doing that, I know that I fulfilled what Christ has called me to do. I don’t want the praise for praise sakes but because all that I do in my life I hope to let it reflect Christ. I have failed time and time again in my walk but in the end, perhaps it will be a greater testimoney of where HE is leading me.
I also think that the desire to journal or in your case Mel, blog, is our deepest desire to be remembered and to carry on a peice of ourselves for future generations. There is nothing wrong with this as anyone that is truthful in thier writings will share how human they are and that in turn can bless others in a multitude of ways.
Mrs. Garcia
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My grandma has kept a diary for years. It’s no secret. She keeps it out in the open, and anyone can read it; she doesn’t care. Mostly it’s just a couple of things that happened that day, but it’s interesting to read.
DH’s grandpa and great grandfather also kept diaries. Both died many, many years ago. I haven’t had the chance to read their diaries, but many other family members have. It’s neat to have those glimpses into the lives of others, especially after they’re gone.
I started blogging because I’ve never been able to keep a diary/journal very long, our family is spread out, and I thought that if I had the “accountability” of keeping it up to let others know what was going on, I could do it. It’s been 1 1/2 yrs now that I’ve been blogging, so I guess it’s working. My blog might not be very interesting to others, but that’s fine with me. It’s my life, and I’m just jotting down snippets of it.
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Is it weird that I love it when you make me cry? To me it means that your words, your life, resonates with me in in a place I didn’t know needed to be touched. I too want to be here. I feel like I’m spinning, not knowing where to grab and BE. Like you mentioned on your other site, desperately wanting to do it (in that case diet, take the leap to take control), but not being ready. When will I be ready?
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