Over the past week and a half I have had conversations with some wonderful people. And these are people I have had conversations with before. They are people that are so full of life that it spills over into your conversation and you walk away with some of what they have. I walk away from these people with inspiration and motivation to be different than I was when I entered the conversation. I am in constant awe of the kind of people God makes us into, and in a way discouraged because I don’t feel like I am there yet. I want to be the sort of person these friends of mine are. I want my speech to overflow with love and kindness and grace and peace and goodness. Often times it doesn’t.
Our conversations are sacred. Community is a spiritual matter. Having coffee with your friend is spiritual. The 2 minute exchange you have with one of your peers between classes is a holy moment. I think that if we don’t treat it that way we’re robbing ourselves and others of something intensely good and life-giving. At least thats my experience.
Im sick. I feel terrible, so I slept between my afternoon classes.
And I dreamt.
I was in a driveway. I looked to my left and my aunt was sitting in a car there. I was surprised. She said “Go ahead honey, I’ll be in in a second.” I looked puzzled. She motioned across the street. And I saw my grandpa. He was walking up the stairs into some house. I bolted across the street. “take my hand grandpa” i said. He turned “Theres my buddy!”, he said. and he patted the back of my shoulder and grabbed my hand. My eyes locked on his hand for seconds. God, Ill never forget those hands. You could put his hands in a lineup of thousands and I could pick them out in an instant. It hit me, he’s dead, why in the world is he here? Was it a different family member that died? I recalled him in his casket. Blue suit. Glasses. He had surely died. But I was leading him in a house and he was upright and apparently healthy. We walked inside. I could hear the voices of some of my distant family members. He walked towards them.
And I woke up. But today, when I was sick, and my grandpa visited me. I figure he was just returning the favor. and I thank God for that.
This is often an introductory remark about myself. If people ask me to tell them something about myself, use this. I’ve been known as a huge lover of Christmas for years. It just feels good. The world feels good. Eternity must (if I’m comparing it to things i experience now) feel like Christmas all the time. I love that baby, born some 2000 years ago. Thats first. Thats why I can’t keep from tears every Christmas eve at church. It’s really the most beautiful story, ever. I love the commercialization even. Thats not to say the consumerism, but the lights, and tinsel, and santa..the whole shebang. I love it all. I love eggnog. I love candy canes. I thoroughly enjoy caroling. And most strangely…
I start loving it every year, before it’s even on anyone elses mind.
I get random cravings for the holiday midyear.
I get really sad in january, knowing I have eleven painful, mundane months before everyone is feeling it again.
And everytime, normally around September, Im ready to roll on celebrating it. (alone, no one else is at my level of insanity.) This year, this was delayed by grandpas death. But here I am today, having clocked a few hours of Christmas music listening, and having already had a few cups of seasonal coffees (eggnog as well as chocolate peppermint, which you can purchase at your local World Market). Ive had Christmas soda as well. I bought Willie Nelson’s Christmas album the other day. I’m waiting the arrival of Sufjan Steven’s Christmas album from amazon.
And I’m waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
I’m not supposed to be here right now. Im at Panera. Iced Chai and whole grain bagel with honey walnut cream cheese to my immediate left. I should be in the Johnson Center at Malone College taking in Dr. Watsons introductory Greek class.
This is simply not a possibility for me today.
It’s how grief works. You get time off for it. I missed four days of school excusably to mourn my grandpa’s death, but then I’m expected to get back in the grind. And at times it works. I took and exam last friday. I did well. But then there are times like now. I cannot focus on anything but this empty sadness that seems to always be looming. It’s as if its over my shoulder breathing down my neck while I try to read about whether or not God is everlasting or eternal, and trying to make the distinction. And I start to not care about the distinctions and the arguments that I’m expected to immerse myself in everyday. “I don’t know what God’s view of our actions look like Boethius, but frankly I don’t care right now!” I just know that I miss my grandpa and I am not at all acclimated to getting along without him. How do I manage mourning and grieving and coping and tending to responsibilities at the same time? At times the weight of it all is so immense that I cannot comprehend how I am to get along with my daily activities. But I imagine it’s expected. The world isn’t frozen as I am…
David Crowder talks about death in his book “Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven, But Nobody Wants to Die.” I read it. I read it twice. I read about the weight he feels in his chest because his beloved friend Kyle Lake is no longer with him. I read how he still has moments of great joy, but the weight is still there. I feel the weight now too.
My grandpa is gone. He’s been gone for a week. The weight has come. It does indeed pull at my chest. It is as though someone tied a large rock to my heart, and I feel it tugging. The sinews that hold my heart in place are sufficient to keep me from destruction, but just barely. I have moments of great agony. The night he died I listened to a voicemail he left me a few weeks ago. I had a freakout. A real freakout. I started screaming right there in my car. 20 minutes of intense shouting. It was of such volume that my voice was nearly gone when I was finished. I’m unsure that I am finished. There are still screams within me. I could scream right now in the middle of this lecture and not care what everyone thought of it. But I hold back out of respect.
And I want him back. When we lose someone of the utmost importance to our very being, logic is not prevalent. I tell God to give me my grandpa back. I find myself irritated at his doctors because they told us he could live six months and I was shortchanged by only getting three and a half. And oh! do-not-even get me started on his suffering. Why should the best man I have ever known have to die a painful death. He basically drowned. Drowning? my grandpa? my buddy? Clearly not fair. 86 years old. Wonderful man. Excellent husband (“61 wonderful years”, he’d say.) Great father. The best grandpa. my buddy! How can anyone justify his suffering.
And there are moments of joy. God grants me that. I still smile when I see Rachel. I am still excited that the Dodgers may make the playoffs. I still enjoy my friends. But the weight follows me. I have added the weight of his world war two dog tags around my neck, but this isn’t the weight I’m feeling. This weight follows me when I take them off. It’s there in the shower. It rests on me when I sleep. It’s there when I laugh. It will not leave me alone.
It’s as if the whole creation feels this with me. At least it did the day he died. It poured rain. The clouds felt the weight, and they burst. Wind storms. Power outages. The earth has set the stage for my grief. It’s as if the sun didn’t want to be insensitive and burn so bright when I felt so low. I appreciate that. I still think about him everyday. most days I tear up a little, if I don’t blatantly cry. Some people have been most consoling. Some people have been put off by my sadness and took a bit more distant approach. Everyone seems to notice that Im carrying the weight, and seemingly they are willing to help me to deal with it alone. I’m grateful for the gift of community, that God gives us each other
On my way to the Hartville flea market today with Richard, and we stop at McDonalds for breakfast. I order a McSkillet Burrito and a hash round. (I always say “hash brown”. However, I think its “round”.) and a latte. (Note: McDonalds premium coffee is only premium to people who have never had coffee that was decent or people who have had an unfortunate accident leaving them without the ability to taste.) my food comes. I have this convo with the register lady (clerk?):
Me: Can I have a few extra packs of salsa?
Lady: Sauces?
Me: Yeah just a few extra packs of salsas.
Lady: Um we have like 50 kinds of sauces! what kind do you want?
Me: Uh..Salsa.
Lady: Okay, heres some salsa. (Pause) Did you say salsa the other five times?
So. Friday day I get back from work and my phone rings (at this point in time i will refrain from telling you that my ringtone is “Our Song” by Taylor Swift) and its Chris, who lived on my floor this past year at Malone. He informs me that he has tickets to see the band Flight of the Conchords. I decide that I will take the free ticket and go. It was important that I get in their route so that we could ride together, and so I would meet them (Nate and Dan were going as well) at Wal*Mart in Massillon. Nate tells me not to eat food, as we would have plenty of time to all eat before the show. Fair enough. about an hour and fifteen minutes later I have been at wal*mart for twenty minutes wondering the aisles and I am wondering if they were picking me up. I call Chris, who informs me that dan is picking me up. Dan then calls. says he will be at the wal*mart (express, by the way) in fifteen minutes. He also mentions that we’re running late. I ask about eating. He says, again that we’re running late, and he heard nothing of not eating. I call Chris. He also thinks I should eat. I make a b-line (bee line? bee-line? b*line?) to the ever-so-convenient wal*mart (express) subway, that is IN THE STORE (brilliant!) I get in directly behind what looks to be a fifteen year old girl and an elderly african american lady, probably about 65 years of age. this particular woman is ridiculous. I mean this in a nice way. she is absolutely absurd. she is clearly under qualified for sandwich ordering. This was the conversation
Worker: Hi ma’am, what can I getcha?
Lady: UMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM… I want the sub with the various lunch meats. the one I had last time
Worker: *blank stare* …silence…. Um, ma’am Im not sure what that is…I mean, well a lot of our subs have lunch meats… and…
Lady: The one from last time. It had the various lunch meats on it. Salami was one of em’.
Worker: well… umm.. the spicy italian?
Lady: no nuh uh I dont think that was it!
Worker: maybe the subway club
Lady: No
Worker: Umm the BMT maybe?
Lady. No.
Somewhere in this conversation the lady started making a sandwich and the other subway worker (the one who apparently made the original sandwich containing the various lunch meats that captured this poor womans heart, but couldnt remember what that sandwich was) confirmed that it was the correct one.
absurd.
So the young girl steps up.
She orders. 3 subs. One with the toppings on the side ( “you cant microwave veggies” she exclaims.) she then, and I am not kidding, yells across the restaurant to her mom each topping option as it comes in to her vision. Example: “Mom you dont want tomato do ya’?” “yeeah!” “Tomato please.” This went on forever. And I wasn’t ready when dan got there.
Anyhow the concert was good. and I am still an awful blogger.
