Too Soon

Andy heard from a friend today who unexpectedly lost her father. She is our age, and so it was an early death. It is sad news, and what is even more sad is how many very close friends we have who have lost at least one parent at what would be considered a young age.

I know these losses have been truly painful and continue to leave an empty, sad space for so many. It is very difficult to imagine what it must be like... I don't think I really can. I just know there is an ache in their words sometimes... a deep and raw sadness that they touch on in certain moments. I think that is often the nature of grief—the loss becomes a part of who you are for the rest of your life.

For those struggling with such a sadness, may your heart feel lighter, your memories sustain you, and your suffering ease over time.

An Instant Can Change Everything

I was talking to my sister today, who is celebrating her birthday. She just had surgery and everything went very well, which was a great relief. She also just landed a great job, and she and her new baby are both doing very well.

Then she shared some sad news with me. Her godson fell off a boat and drowned. He was going to turn three in a few months. His death has created a rift between his parents, and Lydia is not only mourning his loss, but is also very concerned for her friend (his mother) who is, understandably, devastated.

Ariana is a very willful and independent child. It's something Andy and I love about her, but also something that causes us a lot of stress each day. She is spirited and strong and fast and fearless. This means she often skips around the fringes of danger, and we must be extra vigilant with her because she is not always good at remembering all the little pieces of advice mommy and daddy have shared in the hopes of helping keep her safe and out of trouble. (And she is only 2... so it's not like we really expect her to.)

That said, I can admit that there have been times when my focus on her has lapsed... where I have stopped following her with full attention for a few seconds - and she is suddenly no longer in my line of vision. A split second of realizing I was not keeping track of her... and then she appears, happily involved in something with an unwavering gaze.

Andy and I have been lucky. Our lapses (which I believe every parent has) have never ended in tragedy... those seconds of "Where's Ari?" have never led to any serious danger, hurt, or panic. But sometimes, it is just that... luck.

If you believe in such things, please keep this young boy's family and friends in your prayers. And send him your blessings for peace and love as he transitions into whatever may come after death.

Woven

I found out shortly after writing my post yesterday that a death has touched our Fellowship. I don't feel comfortable giving details, but I think everyone - even those who don't know the family really well - are heartsick.

It's amazing, in ways that can be both joyous and sorrowful, how becoming a member of a church or fellowship can expand and change your experience, because it extends your "family." Suddenly, you are interconnected to hundreds more lives, and their happinesses and sadnesses weave with your own.

Sometimes I think it's helpful to formally extend prayers or blessings to others. A way of moving thought, to word, to action. And so... this is my chance to pray for their peace and comfort. If you feel comfortable doing such things for strangers, then perhaps you can too.

i m p a c t

I saw a squirrel get hit by a truck today. I was driving home after dropping Simon off to be groomed and saw a squirrel dart into the road. I had time for a sharp intake of breath and he was down. Hit by the truck speeding ahead of me who neither swerved nor slowed.

It looked instantaneous. Although I'm pretty sure I saw a split second of surprise or fear or confusion as the vehicle hit his body. Very fast, but unmistakable: an open-mouthed, paws-up reaction to impact. Which was difficult to see and still sits with me now in my chest as I recall the event.

There is so much dying in the world right now. And I certainly don't suggest the death of a squirrel running across the road carries the same import or effect as the death of a human being in the local or national arena - at least, not for most.

But I do wonder if we are sometimes exposed to these smaller, seemingly insignificant deaths in order to remain sensitive to the larger ones. It's as if taking in mass casualties on a human level can be too overwhelming, too big, too frightening to fully comprehend. And we lose the ability to feel, mourn, and process the loss of each life.

By opening ourselves to fully experiencing even the smallest of deaths... we are more able to remain open to the ones that hit closer to home, link to more loss of life, or elicit more primal and real fears of our own in response.

I said a little prayer for the squirrel. And then said a prayer for all of our soldiers in Iraq, and the Iraqi citizens, and the many who have died in Israel and Palestine, and NIU, and Virginia Tech, and Afghanistan... I tried to remember everyone and to include everyone.

Which lately can feel very overwhelming.

Celia Juanita Baggett (1917-2005)

My grandmother passed away in 2005. June 16, 2005 to be exact - the same date as one of my best friends' birthdays. I live in her house now... and sometimes I think my mother's supposition (that I decided to live here because I could not yet let go of her) may have a ring of truth to it.

I still miss her very much. I used to cry every time I went into the linen closet because it still smelled like her closet - the one I had grown up with and grabbed towels out of every summer for as long as I could recall. Even though I use a different detergent than she did... the towels still come out of that closet smelling like Ma-Maw's towels. For the first year we lived here, I'd stand in the shower every so often, a towel pressed to my face, crying and dripping wet, until the wave of grief passed.

It still happens sometimes. I will think of her or see something in the house that belonged to her and it will all come rushing back. The finality of her absence and the way in which her death progressed will settle around my chest and my eyes will start to well up, and I'll try to think of something positive about her or remember something funny instead of focusing on the fact that I never got to say good-bye or that she will never know my daughter.

Death is. Undeniable, unavoidable. Natural, unquestionable. Circumstances may differ... and I know and love several people who have had to let go of family members much too soon.

I feel very lucky she lived such a long life. I had a tremendous opportunity to know her, love her, and learn from her. And now I live in her home... the one my grandfather and great-grandfather built and worked on throughout their lives. It breathes the life of my family - past and present - and unites my childhood and adulthood under one roof. We feel protected here. We love this home. For me, it felt familiar and like a part of me before we ever moved into it. And when I'm here, I can hear my grandmother's voice more clearly than from anywhere else.

And that's an incredible gift... one that will indeed be difficult to let go of.