Betz Family Columbus

12.01.2009

11.29.2009

Blessed

by the brightest, busiest, best

baby boy Betz.

And, beyond words alliterative or not, by his beautiful big sister.
JEB

11.26.2009

Plenty of people tell us they’ve been blessed through our adversity. And although it’s lovely to hear, that our daughter or our example or our words are a blessing, an inspiration, it’s not what we’d choose. And although we don’t always feel blessed, even in the unwelcome moments and even when we feel like we’re giving up a whole lot, we do have plenty to be thankful for.

JEB

11.24.2009

Blogobble

I tend to think almost anything is blogable. But sometimes I draft blog entries and then delete them. Maybe it sounds too boastful. Perhaps a whiff of mind-numbing mediocrity hovers over some sentences. It’s possibly too personal.
Part of me wants to write without thought of an audience, without wondering where in the world my words go. But there is some self-satisfaction, some affirmation, some joy in knowing there are readers of these words. In the spirit of this holiday season, let me thank you and you and you, for reading. Although I appreciate you, I try not to think about you too much when I write, try not to worry about what you'll think. They're my words and I need to let them be here. But I am ever grateful that you're here, too. And I KNOW you'll agree that the photos below are blog-worthy. After all, that's really why you're here, right?

Hoping Roast Tuck is not on your Thanksgiving menu, but that your bellies will be full of your favorite trimmings, your homes will be full of all your favorite people and your hearts will feel full of gratitude.
JEB

11.22.2009

Confabulation

We will not always be able to hold her close. The words we write here let us try. Although I imagine, in the future, reading these words and looking at these images will feel like trying to hug a favorite song, trying to dance with a beloved aroma.

I wasn’t familiar with the term “confabulate” until recently, when Andy explained that it’s a word they use at the hospital to describe the way people who suffer brain injuries invent stories, fantasies that unconsciously emerge as factual accounts in memory. From what I’ve learned, perfectly healthy individuals confabulate, too, to help make sense of the world.
Already I’ve forgotten things. I close my eyes and earnestly reach into the corners of my mind, hoping to stumble across happy details. I’m frustrated when I can’t recall specifics, when I second guess whether she did something or said something. And it worries me to think that, as time passes, I’ll fail to remember even more. We don’t have video of her standing at the back door greeting Andy after work, uttering the only sentence she ever said, “Hi Daddy.” The photos we've collected won't allow us to touch the wrinkles in her chubby legs or hear her precious giggle. And we may, in fact, wind up embellishing the things we do remember, filling gaps in memory with fabrication.
Recent conversation with friends gave validity to the notion that the most distressing memories have the most persistent presence. Although these days aren’t free from stress, this time last year was difficult in different ways. There are details from that time that I can neither fathom nor shake. Things I'd rather not remember.
But I want to remember, well and accurately, the good times, the happy details, the real things. And so tonight I’ll attempt to commit a few minutes from today, I'll try to stash the time I spent holding Celia in the sanctuary listening to the handbell ensemble. She seemed to enjoy the ringing tones. Her hair was tousled, and I brushed it from her forehead. I cradled her back with one arm, and clutched her fingers with the opposite hand. Our bodies were warm, fleece pressed to wool. This afternoon I held her close.
JEB