(It’s not a big deal because it’s some shock or something, because it’s not, because she’s awesome, but it’s a big deal because I LOVE HER and I’m super happy for her.

Also, this means I’ll be take a little trip to Dallas this week. It’ll be fun. You should come with me.

….On the Internet, that is. Not in real life.

Unless you are Ben. Then you can come.

Off we go. Tomorrow.

The Happy Couple

In other news, Ben got me her book Treasuring God in Our Traditions for Christmas and it’s amazing and refreshing.

Happy 2010.

(Me and Chrissy. Edinburgh. 2004. I think.)

I didn’t do a week of blogging.

A friend of mine asked about my blog over the weekend. I realized that part of why I blogged was because I felt like there was all this stuff I needed to get “out there”, mostly while I was in Scotland, and terribly lonely, with all these things happening to me, with no one to tell besides the big internet. Now, I feel like I have less to say - not that I *think* less, or process less, but just that I have less to put “out there”. Maybe it’s because things have settled down. Maybe it’s because I’m married, and at the end of the day I feel like I’ve gotten my of that stuff out of my system (I have a husband who is a great listener). I don’t know.

And I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately. For a variety of reasons - some of which I am aware of, but I think some of it I’m still figuring out.

A few weeks back, somehow, I started reading Anne Jackson’s blog, Flowerdust.net. I don’t read a lot of blogs anymore, because I’ve gotten out of the habit, and I don’t follow link-to-link like I used to, back in college. Anne’s is one that I come back to. She wrote a book that just got released, called Mad Church Disease, about burnout in ministry. I felt like it was something I should read.

I mentioned this to Danny last week. Danny is our staff chaplain…I’m so grateful to be employed by a workplace that even has a staff chaplain - especially someone as great as Danny. I told Danny I hadn’t read it yet because it wasn’t at the library yet. He got all kinda-fake mad at me and said that was silly, because he would love to buy it for me. (I…didn’t really think about that, to be honest. But it didn’t shock me.) The next morning I got a call from Danny. “God is thinking of you today, my friend,” he started. He went on to say that that morning, he walked into his senior pastor’s office (of the church where he’s on full-time staff) and saw the book laying on his desk. “Where did you get that?” he asked his pastor. The pastor shrugged and said someone gave it to him. Danny asked if he was going to read it. He said not soon. Danny asked if I could borrow it. His pastor said sure.

Danny came in with it the following day, so I could have it over the weekend. Last night, Ben and I spent the night in a cabin - not so much for a romantic Valentines weekend, but more for just a night’s break for me. I needed….SOMETHING. My mother has called every day this week to tell me about her vacation in South Padre. I cried the third time. Not because I really like South Padre Island (it doesn’t do much for me), but because I felt like I was going to break.

(She called me on Friday to tell me about the horrible sunburn she got that day, and how much pain she was in. I said she deserved it. Thankfully, she laughed.)

So Ben agreed to a cabin in Brown County. It’s beautiful down there. I got to read. I stuck to Mad Church Disease and the Bible. Ben and I watched a movie. I woke up to the sound of a single bird - and that was all. It was otherwise silent. I usually wake up to sirens from Methodist Hospital and the Fire Dept, both of which are three blocks away, and busy traffic. I’m used to it now - I love living in the city, honestly - but the sound of a single bird was so out of the ordinary, it was stunning.

It was a start.

I’m headed to the library.

I love - LOVE - our downtown library. And we only live a few blocks away. Only two things keep me from there:

1) Because the homeless need a place to go that is warm, there are usually clients of mine from work (I’m a homeless youth case manager) there, especially during the winter. Which is fine, I love my clients, but it’s like mixing work with pleasure. (Most of the time they are on the computers anyway, so I just stick to the books.)

2) I owe something like $80. This is because I have had three books since last May or so. To be fair, that was right before I got engaged, and then I had wedding stuff and moved and….well then I was too embarrassed to turn them in. (Though, once I actually get them back, they shouldn’t be $80 anymore, since that includes the cost of my keeping the books.)

However, we’re in a recession. This is no time for shenanigans. I like free stuff, even if I need to pay my debt to society before I can get more free stuff. And I like the library, and I don’t like feeling like there are library snipers every time I go in, talking on their walkie-talkies to each other about how that’s the one that owes $80. Because I’m so certain that happens.

So today is the day. I’m taking the books back.

Also, I’m rooting for the Steelers, only because they are Jonathan’s team and he’s my friend. I really hate Pittsburgh, though. I mean, as a city.

I’m not often uncomfortable in social situations, and even when I am, I have learned how to handle myself in most of them. But I’ve never done well with funerals and wakes. I think this is because it seems everything anyone says near a dead body seems trite and pithy. No matter how deep you get, you cannot overcome the severe weight of death in the very room you are in.

Also, I like to make jokes when faced with uncomfortable situations, and funerals aren’t a good place for jokes.

Ben and I went to see Grandpa Flack in his casket. I also don’t like open casket viewings, but I see them as a neccessary evil. The closed casket funerals I’ve been to left me without the closure open caskets have. Thing is, no one ever looks like they did when they were alive. And they shouldn’t. My grandmother had a very bizarre jowl thing happening at her viewing, one that was even more unpleasant that it was in real life. And she was buried in her wedding dress - which was a miniskirted dress from the 60s. It added to the bizarre.

Grandpa’s nose was too thin. Flacks do not have thin noses, like the Forbes do (not that mine is thin, but that is because I have my mother’s nose, rather than my father’s and my brother’s), so it looked odd. But otherwise, he looked…..honorable. He was buried in Uncle Bob (his son’s) Marine dress blues, because his were too worn - given that they were issued to him when Grandpa was 16. It was filled with medals and ribbons. His retired police badge was in there, along with a hat from a group of “four” old Marine buddies, of which he was the last to go - and they were all buried with the hat. He wore his Purple Heart.

Occassionally, as these things go, we would go up there with people who came in. I always want to touch the person in the casket, but I’m always fearful. I didn’t that night.

Grandma saw us and waved us over. I gave her a hug.

“How you doin?”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

I thought for a second, and realized Grandma is a pretty straight talker, and doesn’t mind directness.

“Don’t you hate people asking that? Because of course you aren’t really very good.”

“Yeah….you’re right!”

“You should just start telling people you’re really crappy!”

This brought a smile, and a little chuckle.

“I should!”

We mingled with more family, waited for the line to die down at the TV and the table. Ben started flipping through a photo album, which ended up being an album of old clippings and photos from Grandpa’s police days.

“DUDE,” says Ben.

“….Yeeesss?”

“Dead bodies!”

Of course Grandpa had photos of homicide victims from the 60’s in his photo album. And it was only proper to show them at his funeral.

….Or something.

(To be continued.)

I stopped at home to get dressed, do my hair. This doesn’t happen often, as I’m usually in casual attire for work, unless I have to show up at a court date or meet with “professional” social work types.

Feeling somewhat presentable now, I drove up north, to Allisonville and 96th street. Next to the Starbucks which was my first Indiana job (also, the Starbucks where Ben and I once worked together…long before we were “we”), there is a funeral home and cemetery. I turned left into the cemetery.

I was running late. I was not intentionally late, but if I’m being honest, I didn’t mind missing the first hour, which was “private”, for family only. I’m still the new kid in the family, and I still feel like I’m getting my sea legs as a Flack. I should have been on time to support my husband, but then, in my imagination, that hour was more awkward than I think it probably really would have been. In any case, the viewing was no longer closed. I parked far away from the chapel, behind dozens and dozens of police and sheriff cars. I walked through the cold in a steady stream of all sorts - men in Nascar shirts and jeans, Marines in uniform, police in uniform, and people dressed as if they are attending a wake. Which they were.

Ben met me outside the front door, in his new suit and new haircut. I didn’t notice the haircut (though I did know he was getting one that day), which is good, because I was wholly against his getting a haircut. I liked it long. but it was only a bit shorter in the back, so it made all parties (meaning Ben and myself) happy. I notice this approximately two hours later.

After a hug and a kiss, we walk in the door. There is a long line, the first I’ve ever seen a line at a wake. Most are in uniform. I hang up my jacket, and head toward the family area, which is poorly partitioned from the general area. This means random people kept eating our food all night. This also means we had fodder to talk about:

“Who the hell is that kid eating all the pepper jack cheese?! Does anyone know that kid?”
“She came with Aunt Nadine. She’s her great-grand niece. Or something. I don’t really know.”
“…Oh.”
“She better slow down on the cheese.”

I mingle, hug, talk, hug some more, while I wait for the line to slim down. The line wraps around the front of the chapel, where the shell of Ben’s grandfather lay in a steel colored casket lined with baby blue. It then moves towards a large TV, showing a local news segment that Channel 13 did a few years ago on Grandpa, and then towards a long table full of his life: photos, newspaper clippings, medals, writings, paintings.

I just missed the presentation from the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Grandpa was, so I’m told, the most decorated officer in IPD history: 1 bravery award, 4 Red Cross Hall of Fame awards, 38 commendations, the only IPD officer to ever recieve two valor awards, and Policeman of the Year in 1969. This, in addition to a Purple Heart in Okinawa in World War II, and other awards and medals that he lost count of himself.

As I walk past the line, I see Sally, an officer who served under Grandpa, and who I met last month through work. “He was the greatest man I ever worked under,” she’d said at the time, when I mentioned I married Lt. Flack’s grandson. “He would die for you. Everyone knew that.” As she left the office, she asked me to say hello to him for her, if he remembered her.

I had called her earlier on Thursday - though I was certain she’d heard about the funeral, I wanted to call her anyway. She wasn’t in, so I left the message with the office receptionist. “Oh, yes, she knows. My husband worked under him as well, they’ll both be there this evening. I’ll let her know you called.”

There in the line, I note how different Sally looks out of uniform. I hadn’t yet had a chance to let her know that I did mention her to Grandpa on Christmas Day. “Sally! Well YES, of course I remember her!” He went on to tell stories of her husband (also an officer) got shot in the line of duty, and how she “took down the perp” after a colleage got shot another time. He says she was one of the best officers he knew.

“…And she takes out that .357….and….POP-POP-POP!….and down he went….” Grandpa makes the hand motions for all this, miming drawing the gun, closing one eye and taking the shot, all from the living room arm chair.

He went on to tell the story no less than three times. I never minded. All my grandparents are gone, and I’m a sucker for a good story. I never cared how many times I had to hear the same story from Grandpa, I was glad they were being remembered.

I tell Sally all this, that he remembered her as fondly as she remembered him. She smiles, thanks me for telling him. We talk about work, as she asked for an update from the last time I saw her. I let her know what the status is. “Good job,” she says. I didn’t know what to say, which is rare for me. I was a little surprised at how that encouragement made me feel, coming from an officer I respect. I eventually say something along the lines of “oh, well…I mean…” blah blah. We wrap up the conversation as I’m being summoned by other family. “Whenever you need anything, you just let me know, I’m happy to help.” She says, truthfully.

As Ben always says, it’s good to be a Flack in Indianapolis.

(To be continued….)

Anyway. Til then (like, in the next week or so), you can follow my mundane movements and comments there.

http://twitter.com/BeautifulMess81

Second of all, this is the part where I’m supposed to grovel and apologize about not blogging and blah blah, but I don’t feel bad given I was busy and stuff. So now I’ll settle nicely into wedded bliss or whatever and pretend I’ve been blogging the whole time.

Back to my birthday. Ben and I were planned-out after all the wedding stuff, so we were brain-fried when it came to planning any birthday stuff. Plus, I didn’t really care enough. So at the last minute I decided we could invite folks to The Journey….an all-you-can-eat buffet, but one of those classy ones, with tile and mirrors and less red all over. Then no one really wanted to come, which I decided was maybe fine by me, since I’m starting to feel a little of the November Ick, that almost-sick I get nearly every year. So I cancelled it. Hope you heard in time.

It’s 1:33pm, and Ben isn’t back from work. And by “work” I mean the one where he’s paid worship intern at Redeemer Pres. So, given their service starts at 10am, he should be done, right? I know there was an Artist Talk with Kyle Ragsdale, but I’m assuming Kyle isn’t STILL talking….so…..Hm. Two newlywed options:

1) Get cranky and drink the entire pot of coffee while my feet get cold because it’s my birthday, so I shouldn’t have to walk all the way to the bedroom (approximately 10 feet) to get socks, or all the way to the thermostat to change it (approximately 9 feet), wondering why my husband has decided to spend so much of the Day of His Wife’s Birth away from The Dear Wife (me).

Or.

2) Assume that he is buying/planning something grand and elaborate, because he came up with a brilliant idea for it last night and so must accomplish many things for his wife now for her birthday because she’s awesome and…born.

3) Try and be patient and blog.

Or, maybe I could do all three. So far, I have.

Anyway, I can’t complain about my birthday. The more major celebration was last night, after church, when we went out with our friends the Parsons to see Bob Schnieder. I’d only heard him a few times, but they are massive fans, and we love hanging out with them. Plus it was a great show. They have two kiddos, so most of the time we just hang out at their house after the kids are in bed. But they got babysitters! We had a grown-up night! With beers and dinner and everything! It was fabulous. They are a good time. And that went past midnight, so that counted as my birthday celebrations.

Update.

The husband just walked in.

Ben: (Sigh. Sets down guitar and bag.) “I HAVE GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS. The bad news is I just wasted an hour looking for something I really wanted to get for you and I couldn’t get it. (SIGH.) The good news is, I can get you something else but…..we have to take a trip. Before 4pm. So there’s that.

:) Number TWO FOR THE WIN!