Last evening began as any typical evening might in our house.
I arrived home, fretting about a jerky driver in front of me at a stoplight who'd been distracted (looked like he was texting), then proceeded to flip me off out the window when I beeped my horn at him. My hubby was in a state of anxious consternation about how to deal with a strange situation in which he's become the unwitting, unwilling liaison between two acquaintances who don't see eye to eye. And my son was in a snit because he'd gotten in trouble at school for horsing around in the hallway with a buddy.
We were all quite justifiably off-kilter as we huffed about the kitchen—or so we thought.
And then after dinner, I received an online notification.
A woman we know had died unexpectedly.
A woman I've spoken to, sung with at church, whose two children are close to the same age as my child.
A woman who was younger than I.
These past couple of months have brought a lot of bad news within my circle of friends and family, mostly news of sickness and death. Each time, though, I've been able to find comfort because those who had passed were older, and had lived good, full lives. Their existences hadn't been perfect or painless, but they'd been satisfying and successful overall. The passing of those people is still sad, but there is much to celebrate as well.
But this loss? A young wife and mom? Without warning, without any chance for loved ones to say goodbye?
This loss is a sobering reminder to me that I must stop giving energy and effort to the wrong things. Each day when I wake, I need to choose gratitude. Each time I start down the path of worry, anger, or self-pity, I must instead think of the opportunities I have been given, the gift of another day. The chance to make things better, to buoy others, to pray for them and extend kindness.
Not one of us knows the hour or day when life will be snuffed out. Our time will come, and our souls will leave this mortal coil and go... on. I must choose joy, and life, and the pursuit of good. I must choose to be thankful for every blessing, and to praise God in all circumstances. I want my life to matter. We're here for such a short time, even those of us who are granted many years of life; a centenarian is also a mere spark, truly.
In the interest of eternity, I urge anyone reading this to think about what will happen to us all, and to prepare. If you don't know Jesus, I hope you'll seek Him and let Him in. A great place to learn more is the book of John in the New Testament of the Bible. He is real, He is alive, and His presence in your heart will change you literally forever. The young woman I know who left us suddenly? She knew Him, and I am so thankful. I hope to sing with her again someday, because as you might know, there is a whole lot of praising going on in Heaven.
Whatever you choose in matters of faith, I hope you will choose not to waste time and life on trivialities; to do so is to squander our precious moments. While I'm sure I'll forget that lesson many times, I trust that God will remind me over and over again. Should I miss His reminders, I'll still be forced to revisit this realization every time someone I know passes on. And seriously? it shouldn't take a death to help me embrace life.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Putting it out there so I don't have to talk about it
So, my mom is dying.
I don't mean to be blunt. It is my nature, but I suppose some of you will find it offensive, even cold. I guess it's just the way I deal with what's happening. In general, I don't do sentiment very well, nor very often. It takes too long, makes a bad thing worse to me, and puffs my eyes until I'm unrecognizable. No, thank you.
Anyway, my mother has been dying for a while now. And yes, I realize that we're all dying; out of 1,000 people here on Earth, 1,000 of them will die. The odds are sort of stacked against us.
But my mom is dying in a slow, observable way. And it's been pretty damned difficult to watch.
Dementia is bad enough. Dementia combined with ill health is worse. Dementia plus general poor health plus the ticking time bomb of cancer? That, my friends, is the trifecta no one wants to hit. It happens, daily, probably to more folks around you than you realize. Once you become one those folks, then you begin to grasp how common this type of situation is. But you wish you didn't know, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.
As her memory faded, she began to fail physically as well. We all noticed, pushed the memory meds (which I suspect do nothing), and saw the general deterioration become a bit pronounced. And then a bit more. A urinary tract infection caused the first landslide, and we all saw the woman we know retreat into herself and become, temporarily, an unhappy and uncooperative person who wanted only her husband and to be left alone. A short stay in a rehab facility to help her regain strength was a necessary but difficult period of time; she was not a model patient. Finally, the infection cleared and she returned to us, somewhat less muddled but permanently affected.
That was 2 1/2 years ago. Since then, there have been more infections, falls, scans, biopsies, the deadly diagnosis of the "C" word, and a continuing decline. Help has been enlisted, then compounded. Some friends and family have been amazingly, touchingly supportive. Seeing this good in people, and spending time around the biggest helpers, have been humbling moments for me; I am a better person simply for proximity to these kind-hearted blessings in human form.
But the kindnesses and offerings and visits have not stopped the progression of the decline. Only God can do that, and I have to believe He has His reasons for permitting this. My heart has been softened considerably; never again will I be able to see a family dealing with a health crisis and not remember these days. I will certainly be slower to judge anyone facing terminal health problems; I will try to never take for granted my basic faculties and abilities. These are good ends, because I should never judge, and I should always be thankful. I wish there were easier means to acquire such wisdom.
She was never my best friend—we didn't have that kind of relationship. I was the third of three girls; I imagine that both of my parents were weary by then from the drama of all those female hormones. I didn't tell her my secrets, or give her every detail of my crushes at the high school dance. In the end, though, none of that matters. She is my mother, who protected me and bathed me and sat through my band concerts and made me do chores and helped me pick out clothes (until I was a teenager, at least). Her blood runs in my veins. I am here because of her, and thanks to her.
It feels now as if we are caring for a shell of the person we knew. Is she still in there somewhere? Does she remember bits and pieces, or is it mostly just gone? Sometimes she remembers me, but mostly she just knows that I am familiar. That's what she craves: the familiar. She is moving away from me, from us. I know we must be nearing the end because she has ceased to brag about her childhood singing voice; it has been months since she's told me that she was the smartest in her family, in her class even. Now she has begun to turn down sweets. My mother! Refusing a cookie! Not finishing a piece of cake. She used to declare how she loved to read—and she did, much more than housework!—and even though she hasn't read anything since this long, ugly journey began, it pains me that she doesn't even mention it anymore.
The person we knew is already gone, really. It's as if I'm watching a cheesy episode of Star Trek, where the crew members step onto those round platforms and disappear a little at a time (cue the shimmery, space-age sound effect). That is what's happening to my mom. She is getting more and more faint, even as I physically help her rise from her chair, even as we have to stand closer to each other than ever before so I can assist her with delicate matters in a way that the woman I used to know would never have permitted... Even then, she continues to vanish. She is disappearing right before my eyes.
I pray for her quick departure, that it is easy and light. Recently after waking, she announced to one of the wonderful ladies who help care for her, "Jesus loves me." Yes, He does. I trust He is preparing the arrival party.
I don't mean to be blunt. It is my nature, but I suppose some of you will find it offensive, even cold. I guess it's just the way I deal with what's happening. In general, I don't do sentiment very well, nor very often. It takes too long, makes a bad thing worse to me, and puffs my eyes until I'm unrecognizable. No, thank you.
Anyway, my mother has been dying for a while now. And yes, I realize that we're all dying; out of 1,000 people here on Earth, 1,000 of them will die. The odds are sort of stacked against us.
But my mom is dying in a slow, observable way. And it's been pretty damned difficult to watch.
Dementia is bad enough. Dementia combined with ill health is worse. Dementia plus general poor health plus the ticking time bomb of cancer? That, my friends, is the trifecta no one wants to hit. It happens, daily, probably to more folks around you than you realize. Once you become one those folks, then you begin to grasp how common this type of situation is. But you wish you didn't know, and you wouldn't wish it on anyone else.
As her memory faded, she began to fail physically as well. We all noticed, pushed the memory meds (which I suspect do nothing), and saw the general deterioration become a bit pronounced. And then a bit more. A urinary tract infection caused the first landslide, and we all saw the woman we know retreat into herself and become, temporarily, an unhappy and uncooperative person who wanted only her husband and to be left alone. A short stay in a rehab facility to help her regain strength was a necessary but difficult period of time; she was not a model patient. Finally, the infection cleared and she returned to us, somewhat less muddled but permanently affected.
That was 2 1/2 years ago. Since then, there have been more infections, falls, scans, biopsies, the deadly diagnosis of the "C" word, and a continuing decline. Help has been enlisted, then compounded. Some friends and family have been amazingly, touchingly supportive. Seeing this good in people, and spending time around the biggest helpers, have been humbling moments for me; I am a better person simply for proximity to these kind-hearted blessings in human form.
But the kindnesses and offerings and visits have not stopped the progression of the decline. Only God can do that, and I have to believe He has His reasons for permitting this. My heart has been softened considerably; never again will I be able to see a family dealing with a health crisis and not remember these days. I will certainly be slower to judge anyone facing terminal health problems; I will try to never take for granted my basic faculties and abilities. These are good ends, because I should never judge, and I should always be thankful. I wish there were easier means to acquire such wisdom.
She was never my best friend—we didn't have that kind of relationship. I was the third of three girls; I imagine that both of my parents were weary by then from the drama of all those female hormones. I didn't tell her my secrets, or give her every detail of my crushes at the high school dance. In the end, though, none of that matters. She is my mother, who protected me and bathed me and sat through my band concerts and made me do chores and helped me pick out clothes (until I was a teenager, at least). Her blood runs in my veins. I am here because of her, and thanks to her.
It feels now as if we are caring for a shell of the person we knew. Is she still in there somewhere? Does she remember bits and pieces, or is it mostly just gone? Sometimes she remembers me, but mostly she just knows that I am familiar. That's what she craves: the familiar. She is moving away from me, from us. I know we must be nearing the end because she has ceased to brag about her childhood singing voice; it has been months since she's told me that she was the smartest in her family, in her class even. Now she has begun to turn down sweets. My mother! Refusing a cookie! Not finishing a piece of cake. She used to declare how she loved to read—and she did, much more than housework!—and even though she hasn't read anything since this long, ugly journey began, it pains me that she doesn't even mention it anymore.
The person we knew is already gone, really. It's as if I'm watching a cheesy episode of Star Trek, where the crew members step onto those round platforms and disappear a little at a time (cue the shimmery, space-age sound effect). That is what's happening to my mom. She is getting more and more faint, even as I physically help her rise from her chair, even as we have to stand closer to each other than ever before so I can assist her with delicate matters in a way that the woman I used to know would never have permitted... Even then, she continues to vanish. She is disappearing right before my eyes.
I pray for her quick departure, that it is easy and light. Recently after waking, she announced to one of the wonderful ladies who help care for her, "Jesus loves me." Yes, He does. I trust He is preparing the arrival party.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Trusting in a season of loss
The past seven days have brought much loss—many endings. Some expected, some unexpected. All painful.
Summer (the school-free part, anyway) ended. My long stretch of no illness ended (thanks, stomach flu from hell). And on a more serious note, a few lives ended here on Earth. We lost an older woman my husband knew, mother to a close friend of his who preceded her in death, at 41, from cancer. I'm hoping he was there to greet his mom on her arrival. Another friend left us unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was only a few years older than I am, and left a wife, children, and parents who never thought they'd outlast their youngest.
When people die at an old age, we can take some comfort in the length of their lives. When people die young? Suddenly? When widows are bereft with children still at home, and the one who is gone leaves big, gaping holes in many lives? There is honestly no comfort then, none that we can find here. It is tragic, and awful. No question.
I waver between acceptance, and argument. Why? I ask God. Why are evil people roaming, healthy? Why are sick, tired elderly clinging to life while elsewhere a young family mourns Dad?
There is no reply. I must return to acceptance: Acceptance of my place in this universe (quite lowly); acceptance of my gratitude that good people are among us at all, and I've been blessed to know them; acceptance of the fact that I have created nothing, and therefore have claim on neither the extension nor the snuffing out of life.
I know in my heart there is a Creator. I know He is great; I see His works and His wonders. I know the Holy Spirit is real, because I have heard that voice inside me, so sure and true and clear that it cannot possibly be attributed to any other source. I know that this world around me now is not a good one, that it is fueled and ruled by a force that wishes me to be discontent, depressed, disconsolate, and doubtful. Lastly, I remember who I was before I knew that Creator and his saving Son. She was a miserable girl, and I don't miss her.
So, I trust. I think of this hurtful place, in time and space, as a stop on a longer ride to my true destination. I will visit here, and find good here; I will try to be good here. I will also try to hold tight to promises of salvation, and an eternity of pure love and worship so fabulous that I cannot imagine it with my small, pea brain.
Sometimes faith, like contentment, is a choice.
Summer (the school-free part, anyway) ended. My long stretch of no illness ended (thanks, stomach flu from hell). And on a more serious note, a few lives ended here on Earth. We lost an older woman my husband knew, mother to a close friend of his who preceded her in death, at 41, from cancer. I'm hoping he was there to greet his mom on her arrival. Another friend left us unexpectedly, of a heart attack. He was only a few years older than I am, and left a wife, children, and parents who never thought they'd outlast their youngest.
When people die at an old age, we can take some comfort in the length of their lives. When people die young? Suddenly? When widows are bereft with children still at home, and the one who is gone leaves big, gaping holes in many lives? There is honestly no comfort then, none that we can find here. It is tragic, and awful. No question.
I waver between acceptance, and argument. Why? I ask God. Why are evil people roaming, healthy? Why are sick, tired elderly clinging to life while elsewhere a young family mourns Dad?
There is no reply. I must return to acceptance: Acceptance of my place in this universe (quite lowly); acceptance of my gratitude that good people are among us at all, and I've been blessed to know them; acceptance of the fact that I have created nothing, and therefore have claim on neither the extension nor the snuffing out of life.
I know in my heart there is a Creator. I know He is great; I see His works and His wonders. I know the Holy Spirit is real, because I have heard that voice inside me, so sure and true and clear that it cannot possibly be attributed to any other source. I know that this world around me now is not a good one, that it is fueled and ruled by a force that wishes me to be discontent, depressed, disconsolate, and doubtful. Lastly, I remember who I was before I knew that Creator and his saving Son. She was a miserable girl, and I don't miss her.
So, I trust. I think of this hurtful place, in time and space, as a stop on a longer ride to my true destination. I will visit here, and find good here; I will try to be good here. I will also try to hold tight to promises of salvation, and an eternity of pure love and worship so fabulous that I cannot imagine it with my small, pea brain.
Sometimes faith, like contentment, is a choice.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Scrabbling for spring and clinging to hope
Here's my latest: Robbie Robin. I'm scrabbling for a toehold on springtime, and it's a slippery slope for sure when there's yet more snow falling outside and the heat continues to blast. Goodness, what a tenacious winter.(Robbie's for sale in my Etsy shop.)
Even if the weather had turned lovely, it would have been a rough few weeks. Not personally, thank goodness—but for friends, former neighbors, church family...
There have been a number of deaths. None of them were a total shock; all involved illness, sometimes a long, drawn-out illness. But as far as I can see, that doesn't make the loss easier.
Yet, while the memorial service I attended yesterday was sad, so sad, it was also uplifting. The one who'd left this earth was painfully young. A lifelong health struggle had finally worn her down. But the celebration of her life was joyful in spite of tears. She had lived well, changed people for the better, and she isn't "lost," the pastor reminded us. We know exactly where she is and Whom she is with. And that made it bearable, even when I hugged the young lady's mother, a strong woman who had suffered with and now mourned her only child.
I am very glad to have that hope. I am praying that if you don't have it, you'll stop reading right now and call out to Jesus, have a little tête-à-tête with Him. It's Holy Week. He bled and died for you and me, so we could have eternal life. What better time to invite Him in and make Him your own savior?
I can say with truth I've never regretted letting Jesus into my heart; I only regret that I didn't do it sooner.
I wish you peace, blessings, health. And warm sunshine!
Monday, February 7, 2011
The S A D day
"We came here to win the football game and we didn’t do that."
We know that football is a game that's played by mortal men,
And that to go to Dallas in itself was quite a feat.
We know our team will reach that final bowl game once again,
And yes, we understand that sometimes games will bring defeat.
And if we had to lose, well, Green Bay Packers are quite good—
And Rodgers, glad to say, resembles Brady not a bit.
He's got a cannon for an arm, and does the things he should;
That Packers team plays fair and well—they surely never quit.
And yet, it makes no difference, viewed through stinging, sullen eyes;
Our hearts are weighty things filled with regret for our mistakes.
We were so close, we reached for that Lombardi in the skies
Then saw it, firmly held by those in green who live by lakes.
Thanks to our team for all the thrills, a season filled with fun.
The ride was good, my friends, but watch that last step—then, it's done.
Friday, September 18, 2009
No longer
Without much warning, after nearly 13 years, I find myself petless.
My trusted kitty, whom I adopted all those years ago from a shelter, has left this spinning orb.
He hadn't been himself lately, and the last visit to the vet revealed some serious things amiss. And he was already 4 when I brought him home. That means, in people years, my sweet cat was probably around 92 or 93 years old. Growing thinner by the day, intestinal issues, digestive issues, kidney issues all confirmed. We went round in circles and finally decided that waiting for the inevitable wouldn't make it any easier when it came. Yet I still struggle with it, this evening, in our too-quiet home that no longer needs food and water dishes at the bottom of the steps: Did we do the right thing? I think we did. But I know that none of us truly has that right, to aid the natural process, to assist the permanent vacation from the body. Am I suddenly a Kevorkian who avoided a sentence because my victim was animal, not human? Do I still have to right to express pro-life beliefs? Should I ever be entrusted with another animal?
I hope that somehow, my good ol' cat understood how hard it was. I hope, on some level at least, he was ready to go. I know that recently, he didn't much resemble the cat I loved all those years. I know that he was not at all well. I know he was, short of a miracle, not getting better. I know he was really, really old. And I know he had a good life.
It doesn't make it any easier. Tonight, the world, our little world, is absent one soft, fuzzy orange mass of fur accompanied by a purr like a rumbling motor. Tonight I will not feed the insistently mewing creature. Tonight, he will rest in our yard and not in his favorite spot in the hall, where we all tripped over him at first and then gingerly stepped over him of late.
There is a hole here.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Good news and—once again—perspective
This past week has been an odd one. Mostly good, some bad, but definitely somewhat odd.
I shouldn't downplay the mostly good part, because it is quite good indeed. Make sure you're sitting down: Okay. Ready? Todd found a job! He started today. Isn't that a miracle all by itself? In this stinky economy, my dear hubby managed to land a job at the very first company to which he sent his post-layoff resume. It's been a long few weeks, but upon re-examination, I can see God's hand in much of what's occurred here recently. I still don't know all the whys of what's happened, but I feel pretty certain that this new employer is exactly where Todd needs to be right now.
So hallelujah, we are very grateful!
And on a completely different note, I was still quietly celebrating my husband's new job on Saturday morning as I dressed in my best, made certain the boy didn't have chocolate on his face, and drove the two of us to a nearby funeral home--to pay respects to a friend who'd just lost her husband.
There we stood in a crowded throng of mourners; while one part of me deep in my soul was still singing "tra-la-la, thank you Lord," the bigger public part of me was embracing this woman whose world has fallen in around her and her young sons. A woman who, just a few days ago, was probably feeling pretty normal. A woman who has such a bigger obstacle than no job.
It was a strange experience, to have my huge concern first solved, then completely dwarfed in the face of a genuine catastrophe. Our very real problem suddenly feels a bit like a persistent hiccup when it's juxtaposed with a life-altering tragedy.
What have I learned through this experience? Hmmmmm. I'm still learning. Mostly, I think I need to consider my blessings instead of my losses, and praise God more. I need to remember that there are no guarantees; each time I see someone, it may be the last time. I need to remember that this place, this fallen world, is a temporary home and perhaps I shouldn't even unpack my bags, really.
Does anyone else out there recall the TV show Hill Street Blues? "Let's be careful out there." And while we're at it, let's be thankful and caring out there.
I shouldn't downplay the mostly good part, because it is quite good indeed. Make sure you're sitting down: Okay. Ready? Todd found a job! He started today. Isn't that a miracle all by itself? In this stinky economy, my dear hubby managed to land a job at the very first company to which he sent his post-layoff resume. It's been a long few weeks, but upon re-examination, I can see God's hand in much of what's occurred here recently. I still don't know all the whys of what's happened, but I feel pretty certain that this new employer is exactly where Todd needs to be right now.
So hallelujah, we are very grateful!
And on a completely different note, I was still quietly celebrating my husband's new job on Saturday morning as I dressed in my best, made certain the boy didn't have chocolate on his face, and drove the two of us to a nearby funeral home--to pay respects to a friend who'd just lost her husband.
There we stood in a crowded throng of mourners; while one part of me deep in my soul was still singing "tra-la-la, thank you Lord," the bigger public part of me was embracing this woman whose world has fallen in around her and her young sons. A woman who, just a few days ago, was probably feeling pretty normal. A woman who has such a bigger obstacle than no job.
It was a strange experience, to have my huge concern first solved, then completely dwarfed in the face of a genuine catastrophe. Our very real problem suddenly feels a bit like a persistent hiccup when it's juxtaposed with a life-altering tragedy.
What have I learned through this experience? Hmmmmm. I'm still learning. Mostly, I think I need to consider my blessings instead of my losses, and praise God more. I need to remember that there are no guarantees; each time I see someone, it may be the last time. I need to remember that this place, this fallen world, is a temporary home and perhaps I shouldn't even unpack my bags, really.
Does anyone else out there recall the TV show Hill Street Blues? "Let's be careful out there." And while we're at it, let's be thankful and caring out there.
Monday, January 26, 2009
From the hip
I usually draft a post and re-read it several times before I actually go public. I don't sit around obsessing over it, or changing it twenty times, but I try to make sure there are no glaring errors and that the thoughts presented can actually hold water.
I'm not doing that tonight. I'm just typing from the hip. I'm sad. Another person who's been a fixture in my life, my family's life, has lost his battle with the "c" word. Another great one has passed from among us. There was no miracle. There was suffering, and waiting, and much prayer, but he has succumbed nonetheless.
The past couple of years have brought about a landslide of losses for my family, big ones that leave unsightly gashes in the side of the mountain. I suppose it comes to this, for everyone who lives a reasonably long life—this growing certainty that you are a shrinking percentage of the population. It's never easy to lose a loved one; perhaps the loss is even more difficult to comprehend and accept when the person who is taken leaves a legacy of hope, patience, strength, and courage. This fellow who ultimately lost his battle won many, many skirmishes. He smiled when others would have frowned, pressed on when many would have given in. He seized every moment he was given, grasping its hand and pumping it up and down with genuine joy. He inspired me, and all who knew him.
I must remember his example when I'm feeling sorry for myself, feeling defeated by what is likely a small matter in the big picture—I must embrace this glorious, wonderful gift of life and never depreciate it with petty pouting. I must take this loss, although it is the latest in a long list of losses, and I must hold it up to the light so it takes on a soft, warm glow—the glow of the man whose memory it represents. I must be thankful.
If I do all that, it will be the least of what I can do. Because, you see, I am here to do those things.
----------
(Another thing I must do? I must re-read The Reason for God by Timothy Keller*. I recommend it to everyone. To those who believe in our savior, it will strengthen your faith. And those of you who just aren't sure, but can't deny that no one leaves this spinning blue orb in quite the same form they had when they inhabited it? I especially recommend it to you.)
*Thanks for sharing that book, DK!
I'm not doing that tonight. I'm just typing from the hip. I'm sad. Another person who's been a fixture in my life, my family's life, has lost his battle with the "c" word. Another great one has passed from among us. There was no miracle. There was suffering, and waiting, and much prayer, but he has succumbed nonetheless.
The past couple of years have brought about a landslide of losses for my family, big ones that leave unsightly gashes in the side of the mountain. I suppose it comes to this, for everyone who lives a reasonably long life—this growing certainty that you are a shrinking percentage of the population. It's never easy to lose a loved one; perhaps the loss is even more difficult to comprehend and accept when the person who is taken leaves a legacy of hope, patience, strength, and courage. This fellow who ultimately lost his battle won many, many skirmishes. He smiled when others would have frowned, pressed on when many would have given in. He seized every moment he was given, grasping its hand and pumping it up and down with genuine joy. He inspired me, and all who knew him.
I must remember his example when I'm feeling sorry for myself, feeling defeated by what is likely a small matter in the big picture—I must embrace this glorious, wonderful gift of life and never depreciate it with petty pouting. I must take this loss, although it is the latest in a long list of losses, and I must hold it up to the light so it takes on a soft, warm glow—the glow of the man whose memory it represents. I must be thankful.
If I do all that, it will be the least of what I can do. Because, you see, I am here to do those things.
----------
(Another thing I must do? I must re-read The Reason for God by Timothy Keller*. I recommend it to everyone. To those who believe in our savior, it will strengthen your faith. And those of you who just aren't sure, but can't deny that no one leaves this spinning blue orb in quite the same form they had when they inhabited it? I especially recommend it to you.)
*Thanks for sharing that book, DK!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Somber thoughts, grateful thoughts
Hi, All.
2007 has been a rough year. We’ve lost a lot of really good people, to disease, to old age, to general infirmity…and I fear it may not be over yet. There we were at the funeral home again Tuesday night, paying our respects to a neighbor—a good-hearted woman whom we had the pleasure of getting to know for about a year. That was just long enough to begin to grasp what a hole she leaves in her absence.
It reminded me how many of those places we’ve visited this year, of how many holes have been left in 2007. It reminded me, too, that I can respond to these relentless and overwhelming losses in a couple of ways: I can think gloomy thoughts, and waste bitter hours asking why and trying to find logic and reason in the loss. Or, I can thank God every morning when I awake, and thank Him again when I rise from my comfy bed, and thank Him again when I eat my nice breakfast and enjoy my hot coffee and make a plan to drive to the market in my car and kiss my husband goodbye and hug my little boy good morning. I can choose to look at the blessings. It is a choice, after all. For some people—especially those who've lost someone they love, or who face daily hardships I can't imagine—perhaps it is a difficult choice. Hopefully, through much time and countless attempts, I can train myself to choose joy in blessings, instead of asking why. I want to ask it less and less, until hopefully my heart just stops asking, because asking why has never done me an ounce of good.
I can even take this a step further, by recalling two young friends that I lost while in college. Neither of them ever had the chance to finish that college degree. One was taken by cancer; the other was struck and killed by a drunk driver. I think of them both sometimes, even more often as I get older. I am stunned by the fact that I have now lived for twice as long as either of them did. I am saddened that they were denied the chance to experience more of life. And, I am so very glad that I was given the opportunities, the days and weeks and years, that those two friends did not have. I feel an obligation to all those folks who've been taken too soon; I am obligated to appreciate and embrace all the extra time I've been granted.
That’s about it for now. I’m putting this down in writing to make this choice a little more real, to make myself accountable in a way—and with the hope that as I articulate my desire to have a grateful heart, I plant that desire deep in myself a little bit more firmly.
Thanks for listening. Lighter days ahead.
2007 has been a rough year. We’ve lost a lot of really good people, to disease, to old age, to general infirmity…and I fear it may not be over yet. There we were at the funeral home again Tuesday night, paying our respects to a neighbor—a good-hearted woman whom we had the pleasure of getting to know for about a year. That was just long enough to begin to grasp what a hole she leaves in her absence.
It reminded me how many of those places we’ve visited this year, of how many holes have been left in 2007. It reminded me, too, that I can respond to these relentless and overwhelming losses in a couple of ways: I can think gloomy thoughts, and waste bitter hours asking why and trying to find logic and reason in the loss. Or, I can thank God every morning when I awake, and thank Him again when I rise from my comfy bed, and thank Him again when I eat my nice breakfast and enjoy my hot coffee and make a plan to drive to the market in my car and kiss my husband goodbye and hug my little boy good morning. I can choose to look at the blessings. It is a choice, after all. For some people—especially those who've lost someone they love, or who face daily hardships I can't imagine—perhaps it is a difficult choice. Hopefully, through much time and countless attempts, I can train myself to choose joy in blessings, instead of asking why. I want to ask it less and less, until hopefully my heart just stops asking, because asking why has never done me an ounce of good.
I can even take this a step further, by recalling two young friends that I lost while in college. Neither of them ever had the chance to finish that college degree. One was taken by cancer; the other was struck and killed by a drunk driver. I think of them both sometimes, even more often as I get older. I am stunned by the fact that I have now lived for twice as long as either of them did. I am saddened that they were denied the chance to experience more of life. And, I am so very glad that I was given the opportunities, the days and weeks and years, that those two friends did not have. I feel an obligation to all those folks who've been taken too soon; I am obligated to appreciate and embrace all the extra time I've been granted.
That’s about it for now. I’m putting this down in writing to make this choice a little more real, to make myself accountable in a way—and with the hope that as I articulate my desire to have a grateful heart, I plant that desire deep in myself a little bit more firmly.
Thanks for listening. Lighter days ahead.
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