Call on That Love

This isn't the post I had scheduled for today when I filled out my blogging calendar. But two weeks ago, I didn't expect to attend a funeral for an 18-year-old-child.

The most important thing I can share with you today, is this:

I just returned home from a funeral service for a child who passed away Saturday night. He graduated with my son from high school less than two weeks ago. The details of his passing aren't mine to share, but the reason for this post is the service that was held for him.

It truly was that: a service. The church was filled, upper and lower levels, for a bright and always smiling child. He was a gorgeous child, and had his mother's blue eyes and his father's easy laugh.

 I need to share the beautiful words spoken tonight by the priest, because I know, there is someone who one day may need to hear them:

"Never doubt your worth. The thoughts that tell you that you don't matter aren't true. Call someone, reach out to someone, when the darkness becomes too much, when the burden becomes too heavy to carry alone, when what you hear yourself saying becomes dangerous, reach out. No one is alone. The thoughts tell us we are, but they're wrong. Because there isn't a person who is here tonight who would not jump at the chance to help who we've lost. Feel the love in this room for him right now, that love isn't just here overnight, suddenly because of his passing. This love for him was always here. It's always been here. That love is here for us too. Believe in that love. Call on that love."
+++

Rest in peace, sweet child. We love you so.

--------------

A List of Ideas

My sister's son died. People ask when and my answer is to ask them back if it matters. 200 years ago or 200 seconds ago, it doesn't take away that he's not here with her.

At night, I think of ways I can help my sister be without him. My Idea #1 is to close my eyes and bring him back to her. I plan on thinking on this right before bed, and I will ask him to visit her in her dreams.

I want to pull him back from where he is gone to and then by the elbow I will push him up and front to see her, “See! Here he is! It's him!” and then step away to leave them together.

At night, I think of what I can do for my sister, and my next idea, Idea #2, is that she needs mothering. But we don't have our mother here so I think of Idea #3: My sister finds pennies and knows it's our mother leaving her messages that no one is really gone. Idea #3: sneak to my sister's house and reach into my pocket that I've filled with pennies and leave them inside her shoes, under her plates, waiting behind her sofa for her to find when she cleans.

I have boxes of pictures somewhere, from long ago. They might be in the basement or in my closet. I remember that I have these, in shoe boxes, and Idea #4 comes to me: I will concentrate, find and bring those pictures I must have of my nephew. I know I have his smile in a 3x5 space, and I need the photos in my hands, and I will take these pictures and hide them under the pennies I hid in my sister's house.

Idea #5 came when I scrolled through facebook and see my sister writing of doing life now, one day, one hour, one breath at a time. Idea #5 is to not miss any of her words and do her life with her: my hour with hers, my day with hers, my breath with hers. If I combine mine, it becomes my Idea #5: to divide the work it takes her to live life with her son away.

Since my sister's son died, she keeps his things in a small closet in the room across from hers. The door to the closet is closed.

Idea #6: I will go to my sister's house, open the closet door for a second, just one, to whisper, “Tommy, it's your auntie. I know you know this, your mother--anyway, I have some ideas, but I need three more. My idea #7, Tommy: if you would come visit me in my dreams and leave me three more ideas, then I will have ten. I can help her with ten."

 

That night, after talking to him, I will go to bed with a notebook and pencil waiting next to me on the table. I need to be ready so that when I wake up I don't forget what he tells his ideas are for #8, 9, and 10.

 

* * *

 

The Mind Works to Forget

Just two years ago today, my mother died.

And along with her going, she took culture, my history, my stories, and memories. Her passing also made me no one's child any more.

Today was a struggle, and I couldn't find the steam to operate the basics.

I tried to do all that I usually do in my days. The run to the supermarket, the back to school errands, some time out for fun with my kids. But from the time my eyes popped open surprisingly early at 6:45 AM, I have felt foggy, slow, unable to hear right or see right. And vulnerable.

It's so much like a day back in 7th grade when a boy knocked me down with a push to my chest. I flew, landing on my elbows but my head falling back and smacking on ice. I heard a deep clonking thud. Stunned, I looked up to find a faceful of kids around me. I knew, but still tried to understand what had happened.

Last night before I went to bed, I prepped myself. I knew that I would wake up to this being the two year mark of my mother's death. I closed my eyes and gave myself a pep talk. I would brace myself and make it through August 5. I had survived the first year of firsts, surely, year #2 couldn't be any harder.

I made plans to visit my mother's grave with my children in the morning. We would take the roses she wrote she wanted to have close by, always. One by one, we would place the flowers and say a prayer and then it would be back home to roll up my sleeves and dig into the day.

But as my friend, Christy, told me last month, the body remembers what the mind works hard to forget. I gave in at 3:00 PM today. I told my kids I was going to go upstairs and to not worry, I was going to take a long hot shower. Beyond the daily six minutes of hot water use we allow for each of the five in our house. I held my face up to the warm water and it felt like noonday sun. I lifted my hands to scrub my hair when I hit upon a tender spot on my scalp. I stopped and slowly felt the bump on the back of my head. I had forgotten about it.

It was from this morning. It was early, but I had been half awake for most of the night so I thought I could get up but my arms felt too heavy. I changed my mind and let myself lean back against the bed. In the darkness, the back of my head fell hard against the headboard. As soon as I heard the dull whack of skull against surface, I recognized the sound. It was that same shock of a thud from so many years ago. I looked out, confused, knowing but still trying to understand what it was that happened.

"The body remembers, even when the mind works not to.”

 

* * *

The Art of Being Human

Last Tuesday, I sat at a funeral for one of my friends from college.

It was as heartbreaking as it sounds.

 

Back in college, we were a group of eight. My friend was not on the outskirts of this group, but at the core. Even within our own small circle we knew then what a gift of friendship we had in him. You would have liked him instantly, because he made you feel liked first. Laughter was easy for him, appreciation of a witty remark was a joy to him, and you were his friend from the first time he shook your hand. 

 

We had seen each other steadily through our four years in college since we shared the same network of friends. I worked at the campus bar along with his classmate, and we crossed into each other's lives again when coincidentally I was roommates with his college girlfriend. After graduation we fell out of touch, but in a moment of serendipity eight years ago, I saw him once more.

 

It was toward the end of the school year, I was outside of the school's main entrance waiting for my children at pick up time, and I saw his six foot frame from around the corner. I opened my mouth when I recognized him. He looked the same. I rushed over, and from ten feet away, I heard his laugh. We had crossed paths once more. I told him I was there for my children, he said he was there for his daughter and our eyes danced back and forth as we asked about the people we had known decades ago. Our voices were filled with the familiar rise and fall of two people who share countless memories. I wondered if Crazy Becky was still crazy, and asked if William had married his girlfriend of ten years. We leaned in and said, "Remember that trip we made to the horse track? When we actually won on wild bets?!" Stories flew between us, of too many trips to Madison in too small of a car. Since then, we saw each other almost daily for the next eight years.

 

When he fell ill late last year, I was able to hear how he was doing through school. Not wanting to intrude on this private time with his family, I asked about him through acquaintances. When I received the startling email this weekend that he had passed away on Sunday, tears caught in my throat. The weight of loss sat in my chest like a brick. I thought of his wife, his daughter, and the good person we no longer had on this earth.

 

He was one of the good guys.

 

All of this was so hard to grasp at Tuesday's funeral.  I sat among his friends and family, and I know that not a one of us could understand how we came to be here, for this - for him today. I wanted to sing along to the hymns his family had chosen for him, but the ache in my throat stopped me.

 

The weather on Tuesday was befitting him. Unseasonably bright blue skies and temperatures warm enough to need no jacket. In front of the church sat his car, the one we had taken to Madison. As the numbers of us stood outside waiting to enter church, our lines spilled out of the church, down the length of the block, then carried into the parking lot across the street.

 

Every person who came, standing under a glorious blue sky, was here because of him. 

 

He touched so many lives. We all were here, hoping to take what we had in our hearts for him and share with his wife and daughter -- somehow wishing our love for him would hold them up that day.  Around us, you heard the same words murmured, "He was one of the kindest people you'd ever meet."

 

When you think of someone and feel deeply grateful to have known them -- that is a person who excelled in the art of being human. And that was my friend.

 

His greatest gift was never holding back emotion -- when he felt a good, hard laugh coming on, he let it go. When he saw you, he hugged you with both arms, lifting you off the ground. The first thing he would say to someone when he was them, was their name. That was all, but in those syllables, you heard Hello, How are you, and louder than anything, I'm happy to see you. 

  

The only way you could walk away after seeing him, was with a smile and a warm heart.

 

We will miss you, my dear friend. The sky now shines brighter with you there among its stars.

 

“Sometimes people are beautiful.

 Not in looks.

Not in what they say.

Just in what they are.”

~Markus Zusak, I Am the Messenger

 

I wish you peace, light, and love, my friend. I wish you our hearts full of love to accompany you on your journey to your new home now. May the memory of seeing all of us who came to say goodbye to you comfort your wife and child. May they remember our eyes as we spoke to them about you, may they carry our stories of how you excelled so on this Earth. May they never forget how not even a church was big enough to hold the number of people who came to tell you, Thank you, I am so glad I knew you.  

 

* * *

Christmas, Again

This was our second Christmas without my mother.

We set a place for her near our tree, her wedding picture alongside a lit candle, before we began our Christmas Eve. It has been 16 months since she passed away, and moments of her still sneak into my day. It's a surprise where these snatches of memory come from—I can't trace what coaxes these thoughts out, because I will be in the middle of something unrelated to anything my mother did, like washing out my son's lunch box, and then I'm suddenly standing, remembering how she never liked driving in icy weather.

Sixteen months, and I don't miss her any less, and I don't miss her any more, than that first holiday without her.

People ask me if things are easier for me this year. I know, or at least I hope, that they mean to soothe me when they promise, “You'll get over it.” My hope is that I never get over it. I don't want to not notice that she's gone from my life. I don't have as one of my goals, to get “over” losing her.

There is a fear of sadness, I can feel it from others. An uncomfortable vibe that reflects fromthem, to me. I'm sure, seeing me, lips trembling, voice cracking, eyes tearing, it can't be easy to witness. But there is a beauty in sitting, giving attention to someone when they tell of how they love and miss, dream of and wish for, that person that is now gone and forever absent from their life. Right there, that moment when I listen to them, I can picture the place in their heart.

 

In the beginning, my children were afraid of sadness, too. They would get nervous and interrupt when I'd begin to talk about my mother, asking for reassurance, "You're not going to cry, are you?" I would answer honestly, "I just might." Then, I'd add, "but it's important that you let me finish. It's all right if I cry. Don't let it scare you."

 

I began a lot of stories this holiday week with the words, "My mother used to..." My children listened, no one stopping me with the worried question, will you cry? They know, I love telling stories about her, the memories of the life we shared together. If I break into tears, they're no longer fearful. They let my emotions run their course, slowly then peaking, then ebbing away. Happy that I had ears to hear her name. I don't always cry, more often than not, I do tell a story with my voice even and unwavering.

 

If tears come to my eyes when I talk about my mother, it's not always because of grief. There is pride, too, in being her daughter. If a tear or two drops, it's from the love for her that overwhelms me. You think you feel love for someone when they're breathing next to you. There is no way I can prepare anyone for the heart explosion of what you feel at their loss.

Just as there is more than one kind of tear, there is more than one way to celebrate the holidays. The commercials on TV and radio show us what they ideally are: full dining rooms gathered with family and everyone home. But the mourners celebrate too. With achingly less volume, and more quiet, with less words from our mouths, but hours of replayed conversations once had. We are loving, remembering, and lingering on memories of the ones we will love forever.

If you know us, the mourners, ask us how we're doing. Give us the chance to say their name, to let who they are fall off our tongues and float into the universe.

Don't be scared to let us speak.
Don't hush our tears, or cut our words short.

As uncomfortable as raw emotion is to see, be our friend. Take our hand, and don't break eye contact, let us tell you the words we carry.

Grief is a gift. I'll never be over not having my mother with me and I don't want to be.

 

Allow us to give our sorrow, words. It helps to keep our hearts from breaking.

 

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the over wrought heart and bids it break.”

-William Shakespeare

* * *

What I Pray

He had both hands covering his face, just the curls of his brown hair peeking out from around and below his thumbs. I was looking at a black and white picture in the newspaper, and I was transfixed. There were no words with the photo, but I heard a thousand things. A teenage boy, his face tilted up toward something, maybe away? I was small then, around four, and I asked my sister about him and she told me he was standing near to where his father had just been killed.

That photo haunts me still. I remember it, and I feel the weight of his ache, right in the pit of my stomach. When I hear that someone has lost a person vital to their life, I imagine a 50 pound brick being tied to their heart, and then the world tells them go on, just keep going, one foot in front of the other. 

That's how you do it. Keep telling yourself, one foot, now pick up the other foot.

At night, I pray, for all those with loss in their lives, because there is a universal wish we have for each other, to take away the pain. The holidays, the months of November and December, make the missing of those we lost into such an inescapable void, that to one foot in front of the other keep going... how? Life now? Live? As if nothing has changed.

I pray at night for them, for treasured memories to surface and bring peace, for sweet snippets of time together to lull their eyes into such heaviness that in their sleep, their hearts are made light by tender visits in their dreams from those they love. I lay in the quiet, my hands on my pounding heart and I pray for hope, that they see the ones they miss being happy now, at rest, giving them reassurance in their gentle way, It's all going to be okay. I'm okay.

And when that middle of the too dark night comes and sits on their chest, when with eyes wide open, we stare out and only see the blackness, so pitch it disorients... I pray the hardest. For those moments that invite despair, I pray. For a light, just a small ray, to show them where they are, to feel a balance of their place again.

I pray for all of us with loss, that we recognize light, and see it. We just need a bit, something to shine even if it is just a pinpoint, to help us know where to look. I pray this every night, 24 hours apart, just 24 hours at a time, for them, for us, to make it through the hard work of life now, without them.

For the broken-hearted I pray, for one more day we manage here without them. So that day by day, there is family, friends, community, to remind them of life and joy, in places forgotten. I pray that when it is we who are in the lives of others, we hand them brick by brick, what they need to slowly rebuild.

Because a life that's been leveled is never simply just put back together. It has to be reconstructed. And that's too big a job, to be done alone.

My mother, this past August, at the lake with my son, Xavier

Written, with my nephew, Tomas Garrett, and my mother, Leonor Rosas, in my heart. We are missing you beyond words this year. 

* * *