Too Soon

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of catching up with a friend I hadn't seen in some time.  Seeking to set the stage for further discussion, I casually mentioned that my father had passed away.  My friend, full of surprise and sympathy, exclaimed, "I'm so sorry. I had no idea your dad had passed away."

It was slightly awkward.  My first response was to apologize to her.  I had assumed she knew, and mentioned the event only as a point of reference for other events in the life of our family.  I had not meant to plunge her unexpectedly into the role of comforter.  I wanted to tell her the whole story and assure her that I am indeed "alright," but the unexpectedness of the situation only brought tears.  Words were beyond me.

"It's okay," she comforted. "It's still too soon."

I wanted to say that it's not so much that it is "too soon," as it is that it is "too unexpected."  I have told of my father's death many times, spouting medical, legal, and psychological terms without the least hint of a watery eye.  I just wasn't prepared to do it at that particular moment.

And this is where grief gets messy and beautiful all at the same time:  No matter how long it has been, no matter how many times you have shared it without emotions welling up and threatening to overcome you, grief is grief.  It will smack you in the face at the most unexpected moments.  In those moments, you will feel all the raw sorrow and horror of the initial tragedy.  You will also feel the fleeting, anguished beauty of a life never to be recaptured.  It all feels incredibly ugly, but it is a precious gift.  It reminds you that you are human, and human with a history.  It proves a connection to the deceased.  It proves both the power of the life they lived and your love for them.  There is no statute of limitations on sorrow.

Another beautiful thing is that some of the triggers that release your tears will be intensely personal and completely inexplicable to anyone else (and sometimes rather humorous when you remember why something reminds you of the person).  Running on the treadmill last night, I listened to U2, one of my sister's favorite bands. A particular song came on, and I tried to listen.  I really tried.  I've always liked the song and really wanted to hear it... For many reasons, though, I had to skip it if I was to avoid bursting into an uncontrollable flood of tears.  I could feel the waters threatening as I thought of the horses my sister so loved and of a young man whom my sister had been waiting to come around to talking to her again.  (They bickered routinely, only to return to being best of friends. She knew that time would come sooner or later and said so in the days before her death).  I would not have finished my run if I hadn't skipped to the next song.  There are several such songs that bring my sister so clearly to mind, some perfectly cheerful and uplifting and some just silly.  I will not call them all by name, at least not here, not now. They are sacred treasures, pathways to memory, not to be disturbed at present.

In closing, I know this isn't the cheeriest post, and I'm not entirely sure why I wrote it, except that I felt like writing something and this was on my mind last night.  Also, I assure all of you that I am not a weeping basket case!  Yes, I have my cries from time to time, but most of the time, it's neither "too soon" nor "too unexpected" to discuss the losses of my father and sister.

Sometimes, though, it's nice to know that that there are some feelings time cannot soothe into oblivion.  In the end, when the swell of sorrow subsides, you can smile, cherishing precious life gone by and new life flourishing at every turn.

Husbands Come in Handy

I love my husband.  In many ways, we're a lot alike.  We're pretty laid back, come-as-you-are people.  Our senses of humor are, to put it gently, slightly warped.  And yeah, we have a knack for sticking our feet in our mouths...

But we're also quite different from one another.  Besides the obvious fact that he's a dude and I'm clearly not a dude (at least I hope that's clear!), we just function differently.  It dawned on us about six months into our marriage, when we looked at each other, a strange realization rising in each of our minds.  I don't remember what precipitated the conversation, but it went something like:

Him: "I didn't realize you were so emotional."

Me:  "I didn't realize you weren't."

That was about eleven-and-a-half years ago, and we have had plenty of opportunity to witness one another's responses, with all their tears and stoicism, to life's major events and minor occurrences.  I'm not sure if Geoff has quite figured out what to do with my tears and worries - because along with this "emotional" thing comes a propensity to overanalyze everything to a ridiculous degree - but I do know one thing:  I am thankful he's not like me.

On more than one occasion, I have been ruffled to tears or nearly to tears over some event, the importance of which might be debated.  (And of course, I do debate the importance of such events from every possible and impossible angle, further exacerbating my emotional turmoil...)

Then my husband weighs in on the matter.

"So."

So?  The world might be falling apart or our children might be doomed to delinquency or so-and-so might have interpreted such-and-such that I said thus-and-so or... or... or...

Or maybe he's right.  Maybe the things that ruffle me so are mere passing breezes, not the earthquakes I imagine them to be.

Maybe... no, most definitely...  It is a very handy thing to have this particular husband around.

The Sound of Rain

A steady rain is falling on this lovely Sunday evening.  As I washed dishes, gazing out at the falling rain, I felt a sudden urge to open the window and hear the beautiful, rhythmic pattering of this life-giving downpour.  As I listened, I could almost see the clover and grass and trees and flowers growing...  At least I could imagine an even more lush yard filled with beautiful, varying shades of green and accented by white, yellow, pink, purple, and blue flowers, all having been encouraged to grow and blossom, in part, by the very rain now descending.

I also thought briefly of the many recordings of "The Sounds of Rain" I have seen over the years.  It seems there is something in this sound that is universally appealing to human beings, and I suspect that "something" is linked to an innate understanding that rain means the eventual growth of flora that enrich our vistas and if not feeding our bodies directly, doing so indirectly via the great, unending food chain.

Rain, life-promoting and life-sustaining rain, is good.

Even so, when we speak of difficult times in our lives, we think in terms of rain.  We speak of "rainy days," "downpours" and "storms of life."  To be sure, rain can be damaging, but I don't know...  I guess the point I want to make is that even the toughest, stormiest days of our lives can bring growth and beauty.  It's easy to look back, after the storms, and discover how we have grown and what beauty has blossomed as a result of our suffering, but what about during the storms?  How do we view the falling rain, as a curse or a blessing?  Do we dread a disordered future or live in the hope of good to come?  Do we trust that the rains of life are working to birth in our lives lush greenery and brilliant blossoms - deep beauty to be enjoyed in the sweet warmth of a sunny day that will eventually dawn?

I hope we trust, and trust enough to see the beauty before its birth.

The Big 1-0

It's quiet over here, and before I destroy it by gently reminding my eldest that he still has a math lesson to do, I thought I'd take a moment to mark a sacred event in the life of our family...

The arrival of the double digits.

Yes, the day we have long dreaded and eagerly anticipated is upon us.  Tomorrow, we will celebrate Andrew's TENTH birthday.  I can scarcely believe we are old enough to have a child with two digits to his age, and I'm at a loss to explain how we've come so quickly from cradling our very first newborn to asking our eldest of four if he might be interested in a club that will explore a profession in which he recently expressed interest.  (Said profession will go unnamed, since he was a little irked at my mentioning it in front of his brother this afternoon).  I can't for the life of me figure out how the last DECADE has slipped away.  My baby is growing so quickly, halfway to twenty already.  I know, I know... I shouldn't get too far ahead of myself.

The years from now to twenty will likely pass as quickly as the years from zero to ten have, and my emotions can't quite handle the thought of my young son (who requests I not act so foolishly as to refer to him as "my sweet baby boy") being all grown up and on his own.  On the other hand, here we are, on the brink of ten.  That means we have already survived many milestones, and life marches undauntedly onward.  As he grows, I find myself too busy enjoying the child - unless he is now more accurately called a youth - that IS (except maybe in the midst of a Saxon Math lesson, when he is not entirely easy to "enjoy," but that's a very special exception for which he most certainly can be excused for falling slightly shy of Mr. Sunshine, as I'm sure a few of you will agree)...

Oops, sorry for that.  As I was saying, I find myself so enjoying the youth that is that I have little inclination to mourn the baby that was.  Despite his all-too-understandable aversion to mathematics, Andrew is a great kid.  He is curious, observant, thoughtful, intelligent, creative, resourceful, funny, and increasingly responsible as he helps around the house, works in the community garden, or helps his younger siblings.  In short, he's a really neat kid, and I wouldn't trade the privilege of spending these years watching him grow into a man for a lifetime of cuddling a newborn Andrew, as precious to me as the memory of his infancy is.

When he blows out the ten candles,  I may very well shed a few tears over time never to be recaptured, but mostly, I will cherish the moment at hand, this fleeting moment of youth in which my boy loves Legos, devours fantasy fiction, and climbs trees with little thought of turning twenty and leaving his mother to wonder what happened to the last two decades.

Happy TENTH Birthday, Andrew!