Looking Back

Back in May, I started telling folks that my firstborn had been gone for "about six months." And though the story felt true at the time, it's only just become true now, in August. (Don't even ask how long it feels, today...)
Which is to say, six months in, I still miss him desperately. I can't step into his echoing room without going all misty-eyed. Keeping up with the laundry (for the first time in 20 years) ought to be cause for celebration, but really, I just stare at the half-empty hamper and feel a knot in my throat. Seriously, friends. There's no one throwing M&Ms around the house, or dropping clothes in the middle of the floor, or playing unspeakably loud music. And that makes me--get this--sad!
And as if that weren't enough, I've been blindsided by all the other goodbyes that I hadn't realized still needed saying. Who knew that saying goodbye to a nearly grown child involved also saying goodbye to each stage of their earlier life?! Just when was it that he quit tearing up the Children's Museum? When did he last catch a frog? When was it that he last asked for a ride to the movie theater? When was our last camping trip? And why didn't I notice the passing of each of these treasured moments of his childhood?
Mercifully, I suppose, we don't usually realize when something in life happens for the last time. The big milestones, sure, but the little things, the daily fabric of our lives - they slip by and are gone, and we don't even realize it. Then sometime later, something momentous jogs our memory, and all of a sudden we discover that goodbyes have been sneaking in all along. We just didn't see them for what they were.
So here I am, not just saying good-bye to a young adult, but to a cheerful wiggly toddler, and a grade-schooler with perpetual holes in his jeans, and an inquisitive, thoughtful adolescent. I'm confronted with the reality that that is all over, and frankly, I can hardly bear it. It's been so rich, so full, so intensely painful and joyful all at once, and letting it go hurts like nothing I've ever felt before.
Holding myself still long enough to face into these goodbyes is no easy thing. I'd much rather spend my time looking through the windshield (so to speak) than at the rear view mirror. As much as it aches to look back, though, it's helping me to discover that I wouldn't want to actually go back. Each of those phases was magnificent, in its place and time. But of course they all belong where they are - beautifully and solidly in the past. And clearly, I belong here.
Which means, I suppose, that all this "looking back" belongs to the odd magnificence of this place and time. The grieving and the tears apparently fit today, in some ridiculously miserable and appropriate way.

Awaiting Joy

"The people that walked in darkness

have seen a great light:

and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death,

upon them hath the light shined."

These words, penned by an ancient Hebrew prophet, set to music over 300 years ago by a German composer, still hold tremendous power.  What a magnificent promise - offering a vision for which I am not only willing to wait, but to work.  

As we begin the period of waiting and preparation that is Advent, these words articulate the hope that awaits us - that invites us into active expectation.  We learn in these days to wait for the coming of the Christ, and of His Kingdom.  And as we wait, we also prepare - hoping to become the kind of people who will recognize and welcome Christ upon his arrival, and who will work with him to see this promise come to pass.

Wishing you the peace of Advent - the peace of resting in the assurance of this promise.  And as you rest, may you also find ways to work and prepare for the earth-shattering arrival of the Prince of Peace.  

Beautiful people

The other day I stood in line with one of the world's most beautiful people. As far as I know, he's never been on the cover of People magazine, and now that he's 84, he probably won't make it. But public accolade aside, he is a spectacularly beautiful person.
I was stuck in one of those long check-out lanes, debating whether to make a phone call to "use the time well", when we struck up a conversation. He was waiting for his wife (of 60 years) so they could finish up their purchases and head on to their next stop; they were Christmas shopping for the 24 kids and grandkids that are coming home next week. Yep, all 24 of them come home, every year, to celebrate the holidays together. They schedule the days between Christmas and New Years, so that everyone can spend Christmas with "the other families", and then be together--in the home where they all grew up--for 4 days each year. As he told me about these times together, joy poured out of him...deep, deep gratitude for the riches of his life. Turns out he's been a minister his whole life, and now serves simply as a deacon in a church he planted years and years ago. He told me, with deep conviction and a broad smile, "Following the Lord makes every day a new adventure." He really, truly meant it. I've seldom seen such deep-seated contentment, and it transformed a short, elderly man into a vision of beauty.

39 and thankful

Several years ago my husband and I were sitting on the front porch with a friend whose life was falling apart. We shared mojitos and listened to his story, grieving his losses with him. After a time, though, he looked up and said, “I am so blessed!” I squinted at him and asked him to repeat himself. And again, “I am so blessed.” I asked how he figured that. And he proceeded to list the things in his life that were good, the blessings he counted in the midst of his pain.
I was shocked. I’ve been through difficult times, and have gotten quite good at acknowledging suffering. So good, in fact, that I sometimes forget how to see past it. This friend opened my eyes again to choice. The choice I have—we all have—to engage life with gratitude.
I turned 39 this week, and it was one of the best birthdays of my life. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was a deeply good day. The past year has been a great year. Not a perfect year, but a profoundly rich year. Gratitude has marked much of this year, and is beginning to leave its mark on my life.

I have committed myself to joy. I have come to realize that those who make space for joy, those who prefer nothing to joy, those who desire the utter reality, will most assuredly have it. We must not be afraid to announce it to refugees, slum dwellers, saddened prisoners, angry prophets. Now and then we must even announce it to ourselves. In this prison of now, in this cynical and sophisticated age, someone must believe in joy.
(Richard Rohr, OFM, 5/19/09 Sojourners)