You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘family’ category.
My mother and grandmother just left, and my house is back to it’s typical quiet stillness, except for the occasional sound of dog nails sliding on the floor. I’m sad. This is the exact same feeling I’d get after each holiday or extended visit with my grandparents or cousins when I was a child.
Even though I knew we’d see each other again, I’d sit in the back seat and cry most of the way home. That heart-in-a-vise-grip bawling that never seems like it will go away and makes you feel so silly when it finally does.
And it does. Eventually.
So here I am with way too much work to do and not one ounce of desire to do any of it. I’d much rather hop in the car and drive over to the beach where I could cry behind the cover of sunglasses and the pounding of the ocean waves. But life goes on, and my grandmother purposely cleaned my house so I could focus solely on the work she knows I have to do today.
I wonder why it hurts so much, and yet I already know the answer. I guess I just thought that I’d reach a point in my life when I could say good-bye to the people I love without the lump in my throat.
At least I can recognize this feeling and embrace it, as painful as that is. Two years of therapy paid off in that I’ll sit here and cry just long enough to clear my head instead of eating the rest of the macaroni and cheese my grandmother made for me. Or making a pitcher of margaritas. You have no idea what progress that is for me.
There’s a comfort in knowing that I do view my family as people I’d rather wrap around my life. Still, none of that changes the fact that my heart aches right now. So I’ll let it ache.
My sister and I had a conversation last weekend that has haunted me all week. For one thing, just that fact that we had a conversation was a shocker. We haven’t talked like this since February. Our interactions have been strained “how’s the weather” discussions at two family weddings and a bridal shower. I suppose that’s a story for another day, but suffice it to say that I’ve missed talking to her because as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, she knows pieces of me that no one else will ever understand. It must have something to do with our shared DNA.
She said something about how much it bothers her that people cannot be happy for another person’s good fortune. I listened to her for a while, and we eventually hung up, but I haven’t been able to shake her words since then. All week, I’ve thought about times when I sat back and sulked when everyone around me seemed to be riding along on the great train of life. Yeah, it’s hard to jump up and applaud when you’re the one left behind. Dr. Seuss was right: unslumping yourself is not easily done. At the same time, how fair is it to expect those around us to feel the same thrills we do for new milestones?
A few days later my brother called to tell me that he and his wife are expecting a baby next summer. I’m happy for them and cannot wait to have another nephew or neice. At the same time, if I had not been in the parking lot at work, I would have crawled under the covers and wasted away my day hiding from the sun. My sister’s words echoed in my head, and I really searched my soul that morning. My happiness for them is genuine, but it’s not as great as it would be if I wasn’t in my current situation of hoping for a baby of my own. That is all I have to offer. For better or worse, that has to be enough.
My cousin, Geoffrey, turned 21 today. I called him tonight to wish him a happy birthday and was thrilled to hear his voice. It was filled with life and a sense of awe. As he so aptly put it, “I’m sure Shakespeare has a word for how I feel right now, but I’m too lazy to look it up.” I remember that feeling. I still feel it. We talked briefly about those moments in life where you look around and understand right there what a wonder it is to breathe.
About an hour later, I found myself stopped on the road waiting for an accident to be cleared. As I watched the medical helicopter fly away, I mumbled, “Lord, please help them.” When I was 18, my response to being stopped by an accident was, “Someone had better be dead since I had to wait all this time.” Now I want to cry. I love how putting some time under your belt changes your perspective.
I find these days that I say two prayers on an almost daily basis. The first is in the morning before I even stretch my legs. Before I open my eyes. “Lord, we need your strength today.” The other is the one I mentioned at the accident scene. Doesn’t it all seem to boil down to that? Help. Strength.
And when these two concepts become a real part of our lives, magic happens. I’m sure Shakespeare has a word for that, but I’m too tired now to look it up.
P.S. Happy Birthday, Geoff!
Four years ago today I received a phone call from my cousin, Rachel, who sobbed into the phone, “Grandpa’s dead.” He had been sick for a few years, and we knew this day was inevitable, but it still sent shock waves through my soul. I’d love to tell the story of his funeral, and perhaps I will sometime this week, but for now I just want to share some of my memories of this remarkable man.
He was a big man with a gruff voice that scared me when I was younger. I never wanted to make him angry for fear of what he would sound like. And yet, I can also still see him standing next to me in church singing worship songs in that baritone. I can also still hear his voice blessing Sunday and holiday dinners.
The year before he died, we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning on the front p
orch swing. He told me war stories about Navy ships and German torpedoes and how isolated and frightening the South Pacific is in the middle of the night. I also remember wondering that night just when he would stop talking so we could go to bed, and I’m so glad tonight that I just kept listening. It turns out that was one of the few times he ever talked about his time in the Navy.
I once sat across from him at the kitchen table eating cereal. Always aware of my manners, I wasn’t sure if I could drink the remaining milk from my bowl like I would at home. After trying to scoop out the milk with my spoon, he told me, “Just drink it from the bowl” and proceeded to do so himself. He would later offer other useful tips like, “A house is just a place to hang your hat and store your crap.”
We watched a lot of football together and cheered for both the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Florida Gators. I still have his Bucs jacket hanging in the closet, and I will wear it even though it is 3 or 4 sizes too big for me. He took me out on his boat more times than I can remember, and that deal worked out well for both of us. He could fish and I could pretend to fish while getting myself mentally lost in the nature around us. He once took me to see Lake Kissimmee in the boat after my endless pleading, and when I asked him to take me down the Kissimmee River to see Lake Okeechobee, his response was a Dean classic: “Have you been to the beach? Well, it’s a big lake that looks like the ocean. You’ve already seen that.”
It’s hard for me to describe how just his presence made me feel safe. No matter what kind of turmoil was swirling in my life, I could just sit in a recliner next to him or lean up against his shoulder and all seemed right in the world. Even as his health declined, I still felt more at ease just being in the same room with him watching Wheel of Fortune or working the newspaper crossword.
For 26 years of my life, this man was a constant. He never varied in his convictions. He loved his family and his Lord dearly. At his memorial service, I remember saying something about how his ideals should live on in his grandchildren and that if I could live even a fraction of the truth he lived, my life would be a success. He left behind some big shoes to fill, and right now I miss him very much.
My cousin, Rachel, and her almost-four-month-old baby spent the weekend with me. We both needed the down time to sleep and laugh and pour out our hearts (something we’ve been doing since we were 10 and 17). Rachel is one of my kindred spirits who embodies an amazing ability to accept you as you are but not let you walk all over her. It’s one of my favorite qualities in her.
As our time together neared it’s end, we landed in an extremely emotional discussion about choices and consequences and the human spirit. At one point, my faced scrunched up and I yelled, “Why do we have to be so mean to each other?” She looked at me and said, “We all forget that we’re human and don’t like the reminder that we all make mistakes.”
Think about that one for a minute while I compose myself.
There was a time in my life when I sat in my own ivory tower and passed judgment on those around me. I could spot a sin a mile away and rested in the knowledge that I could point out such flaws in others because I didn’t indulge in those behaviors. Although I didn’t say it, I frequently thought, “I’ll never…”
Real life settled in, and I discovered that my ivory tower was made of cardboard. It’s conveniently easy to say, “I’ll never” until you’re faced with those decisions. Moments build and circumstances sometimes within and sometimes beyond our control join forces. Reason doesn’t always triumph emotion. Emotion doesn’t always triumph reason. I can sit here and tell you that I would never have an abortion, but you what? I’ve never been in a situation where I had to make that decision. I’d love to announce that I would never rob a bank. Again, I’ve not been desperate enough to attempt such a scheme.
So I’m left here with my fury and frustration at the human race. How can we sit back and look at someone in distress, ridicule and berate them, and then justify our actions with a simple, “They made a mistake and deserve the pain”? I just don’t get it. It’s only by the grace of God that I’ve not been forced to face more drastic consequences than I have. It’s only by the grace of God that I’ve made it through the consequences I have faced. Who am I to do anything but show that same grace to my fellow man?
There once were two dogs who wanted to please their master and earn the master’s love through obedience. They raced to see who would be first to greet their master and then tried to outjump each other to show who loved the master more. Each one would bring the master a slipper and the newspaper, and they even learned how to carry the laundry basket.
When the master wasn’t around, they pushed and bit each other and fought epic battles for the top position within the pack. They counted out the number of kibble pieces and kept track of the length of their walks with the master believing that this would show which dog was more loved. And they compared notes.
“On Tuesday, you got to climb onto the bed. I don’t get to do that.”
“But I was sick, so that doesn’t count. Besides, you got a new collar in my favorite color.”
This went on for years. The dogs struggled and battled and neither ever seemed content in his position within the pack. They wasted so much time that they never played with their toys or chased a squirrel or pranced through the woods or took a long nap in the sunshine. They never knew the joys of being a dog or the comraderie of being part of a pack.
I am one of those dogs; much of my life has been defined by a very similar race. I cannot help but wonder what would happen if I dropped out of the race? Is there still a competition? Am I still in the race if someone thinks they are competing against me?
What I do know is that I’m worn out. You can only run for so far or so long. I’m out of breath and thirsty and oh so ready for a nap. So why can’t I just slip out of the race? My fear is that it makes me a failure and will give the competitor a false sense of victory. It’s a sad and shameful testament to my humanity: I don’t want to go on anymore, but I also don’t want to lose.
