November: The Days We Said Goodbye

This post just about refused to be written, stubborn little thing. And in its rebellious streak, it will likely leave out important details. Downright unruly, I tell you. And late to boot!

For the last three years of my life, November has arrived with equal weightings of dread and excitement. It's the gateway to the Holidays, time with friends and family and food amuck; but it also means little sleep, stress to the max and more pies than I can count.

In many ways,  this November was no different, and yet, it was also like walking into a foreign land. This would be our last Thanksgiving at Pie Place, at least in its current format. My way of coping for the first three weeks was basically to pretend it wasn't happening. Not healthy, I know, but old habits are hard to break. My general plan was to just "get through", and so I did. And by the time we arrived at November 21st,  my heart began trying to back-pedal, realizing I had arrived to this moment OK, but wasn't ready to keep going.

Over the days and weeks preceding, I had cried intermittently, nearly always at the wrong time. Come to think of it, that seems to be a trait of mine - like not crying at funerals, but instead on the drive home. I read somewhere that introverts are often less outspoken because we internalize and slowly process things before we making an outward response. It makes perfect sense to me. I'll chalk it up to that, but it usually ends up meaning situationally-imbalanced tears, belated words of thanks, and terrible responses to surprises (sorry, all). During most of closing week the air felt thick, like the sky before a storm, almost tangible with the weight of imminent rain.  The impending "lasts" threatened to do me in. I've never been very good with lasts, even with things that caused me heartache.

Luckily, baking several hundred pies will serve as a pretty decent distraction. Best friend and I wore our pretty aprons. We worked hours on end, we rolled dough, shaped crusts, made countless fillings, egg-washed, and admired our handy work. I photographed everything I could think of; all the things I had been too busy to notice in the last 3 1/2 years. I almost felt panicked about documenting the details - the flour on the butcher block, the stack of rolling pins, the pie boxes. Would I remember what this kitchen looked like (would I want to? haha), or the dining room, or these people and this moment? Click, click, click went the camera. We changed the sign from "Open" to "Closed" one last time. Click, click, click. We hit the lights in the dining room one last time. Click, click, click. We sold our last pie. Click, click. We roused the boys (who had fallen asleep on tables/the floor after having been up for well over 48 hours), and broke out the champagne (which I'd been saving, little knowing that it would be to commiserate more than celebrate) and managed to find a handful of words to toast the closing of this chapter. To pie. To a sold-out empty case. To broccoli, the glitter of the kitchen world (I would explain this, but it probably wouldn't seem very funny). To new adventures. Click, click, click.

We went to dinner at Frescos, a post-Thanksgiving-pie-rush tradition. We smiled and laughed, genuine in our joy, but the rain still loomed. As so often happens with me, when it was over and we were headed home, it was in the quiet that the downpour finally came, and so did the tears. I had fought them, as to my logical brain it felt utterly silly to be crying over such a first-world problem. I was clothed, fed, happily married, not broke, friends still by my side. But God - my God - He is big enough to catch even the tears that don't make sense. And so they fell. They fell for my feelings of failure. They fell for my hatred of endings. They fell for dreams unrealized. They fell for my self-perceived lack of bravery. They fell for fear of the future. They fell for every single moment that took place in that building - the good, the bad, and the ugly. And that dear sweet husband of mine wrapped me up in his arms like a physical extension of my Comforter. He didn't shush or try to reason with me. Lord, bless that man for sticking with the dose of crazy he married.

God let me lament. He let me say goodbye. He patiently waited until my tantrum had run its course and I was ready to listen, again, to the words He whispers - this does not define you. And I know that. He knows I know that. I think my head knows all of the right words and answers, but that journey from head to heart...its a slow-go sometimes. I fell asleep in exhaustion and awoke the next morning to a quiet house, sunlight streaming in my windows, and my heart quietly says The storm always loses to the sun. Amen and amen.

I kept up my three-years-running ritual of grocery shopping on Thanksgiving morning. Something about wandering the empty aisles of a grocery store feels therapeutic to me (cheaper than a therapist, and often resulting in good eats...I'll take it). We spent the morning cooking and the remainder of the day with family. And although we had chosen the previous day as our last day of business, I couldn't help but feel that it was God-orchestrated that my day of self-focused sadness was hemmed in by a day of ritualized gratitude. Because as I've repeatedly realized, thankfulness is quite the antidote  to self. So I gave thanks. For knowing that earthly failures are small in His story. For endings, which also mean beginnings. For dreams yet unrealized. For knowing that true bravery can be found in a heart that is tied with His. For the hope that lies in a future unknown to me. For every single moment that took place in that building - the good, the bad, and even the ugly. For a friendship that outlasted a business and a husband ordained for me. And I prayed for a life-manifestation of that thanks in place of just words. Because my head knows that to make this worthwhile, to do that gift of the Pie Place justice, to hope to progress our business with any firm foundation, gratitude must go before me. And while that knowledge makes its way from my head, to my heart, to my feet, I'll say again and again, Thank You.