For Whom the Bell Tolls

Don't worry, this isn't a Hemingway book review.  (Though surely it would be better if it was.)

My wife and I just returned from a funeral for a precious 2-year-old girl.  The church was packed; there must have been 300 people there.

What an absolute gut-wrenching tragedy.  It's the sort of day when everyone files solemnly out of the building...a long procession of shaking heads and swollen eyes.  For believers, a reminder of the promises of eternity, though nothing assuages the loss of a child or the promise of years unlived. 

We are each constantly reminded that growing old is a privilege promised to no one, are we not?

When I was a boy I yearned to be a man: to have car keys and a place of my own.  The irony is, I am once again a subject outnumbered and surrounded by girls...my wife and daughter have a profound capacity for turning our home into a sorority house within hours of walking in the door.  Pots, pans and dishes everywhere, clothes strewn all over the floor, curling irons and hair dryers and make-up all over the place.

I am privileged, indeed, and count my blessings.

Though 'all grown up' (chronologically, at least), it's clear to me now how simple and naive my understanding of 'adulthood' was.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Several weeks ago, I drove to pick my daughter up from a sewing lesson.  As I stood in the lobby of the 'arthouse,' a dozen eight-year-old girls were squealing and screaming about some apparently super-exciting item of doll clothing they had just completed.  But here's the funny part: one of the girls looked at me, then turned her head to another girl and asked, "Is that your dad?"

"No," replied the 2nd girl, "My dad doesn't have white hair."

Ouch.

Apparently, I am becoming my father.  (That, however, would undoubtedly be both an improvement and a high compliment.)

If you are reading this blog, God/the universe/fate/karma/destiny/luck/fortune/chance (whatever you believe or do not) has been inarguably kind to you--gracing you with yet another hour to squeeze your kiddos or hug your spouse or, even more special, to thank one or more of your parents (yet again) for bringing you into this world.

You might not enjoy being known as the parent with white hair, but take it from me--it's a blessing to be a parent at all, and it's an unpromised privilege to live so long that everything aches, creaks, pops or burns upon use.

We should only be so fortunate.

For any of you who, tragically, are the parents of a child who has passed--for whatever reason--I understand fully that there are zero words of consolation.  Such a loss, like our dear friends', is a hole that never stops seeping hurt. 

Time may pass, sediment or scar tissue may build up around the wound, but the nerve endings throb forever.

There is nothing so unnatural as outliving a child.

Had things gone differently, our precious daughter would have a 4 1/2 year-old brother by now.  His name was Will.pdf (827.78 kb), and he didn't quite make it.

Not a day goes by that we don't hurt, pray for his soul, or see a 4-5 year-old boy and wonder, "What if only?"  These ruminations are natural, and I know they never go away, especially for parents who lost children they came to fully know...children whose smells and smiles are emblazoned in parents' memories as if sensed or shared this very morning.

May we cherish however much time we have on this earth, brief or long.

And where it's brief, and you feel suffocated in the darkness, remember that you are not alone.  Our losses--and they are incalculable across all humankind--remind us that, if nothing else, matters which have nothing to do with life, death or eternity are virtually trivial.  The speeding ticket, the bosshole at work, the neighbor with his rock music and the tone-deaf blowhard politician: these are each simply part of the scenery, trivialities of the ninth order.

Sniff and snort and huff and puff if you must, but remember: (1)you cannot step into the same river twice and (2)the world will continue spinning.  Don't waste any more time on distractions that keep you from living your life to the fullest for as long as you've got or that keep you from holding those who know you (and love you nonetheless!) close to your bosom.