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Tonight I had the opportunity to see a new play called “Cicada” written by my friend, Jerre Dye. To try to describe what it is about would be difficult because the script is so incredibly rich with human experiences and emotion that it is as complex as life itself. If you like ghost stories, you would like this. There are ghosts all up in this thing!
One of those ghosts is the dead husband of the neighbor to the main character. There are these funny, sweet, and so real scenes with the widow talking to her dead husband that, of course, it brought up this whole grieving process for me again. I found myself imagining my own mother’s pain and lonesomeness. It didn’t help that he was a preacher. Nor did it help that he had a very playful nature. Nor did it help that he liked to push his wife’s buttons to set her off and running on some sort of rant about a particular evil in the world.
In this play, the dead were all around interacting with the living. It is a common theme, one which many claim in their own lives. So, once again, I found myself wondering “why not me?” But, the truth displayed in the show was that this interaction with the dead was actually dibilitating to the living. At least, that is my interpretation. In order to be free, the living had to release the dead and move on.
I don’t yet know what that really means. I don’t yet know how one truly does such a thing. But through the magic of theatre tonight I’m beginning to see that while losing my father sucks (I will not allow anyone to take that feeling from me!), letting him go is liberation for his spirit and for mine.
If you happen to be anywhere near Memphis, you will want to see this show. It is one of the best plays you will ever have the opportunity to experience. Check out Voices of the South, get your tickets now. Tonight’s show was sold out.
Briefly last year I considered changing the name of this blog to “The Grief Blog” because it seemed there was nothing I could write about other than the death of my father. Today is almost over and I am so thankful. Today marked two years since he died. I stayed in bed most of the day.
It is just a day. Through sobs last night, I said to my husband, “He isn’t any more dead today than he was yesterday.” And yet, this date – these last two days – have held some significance for my entire family. My sister says it best when she says, “Today sucks.” Really, there is no way around it.
You want to know what I believe? I believe in eternal life. I believe that my father could not have died any better than he did. I believe he chose when, where, and how to let go. I believe he said goodbye to me roughly 13 hours before he died – the last time I saw him. I believe he is in the very presence of Jesus Christ. I believe he is at total peace. I believe I will see him again.
And, I believe this sucks. Because I don’t want some sweet by and by. I want it now. I’ve never been very good with the whole patience thing. I want to hear his funny stories now. I want to hug his neck, even with the stinky smell of smoke permeating his clothes, now. I want him to see my son missing his first tooth, now. I want him to see my daughter start ballet classes, now. My family is a family of faith. We believe. We really believe. And, this still sucks!
I don’t feel his presence in some mystical way with me. I laugh when I think of him. I remember stories he would tell my boy – making them up as he went along – about characters he called Zack and Blackey and, of course, Grimey Guts McGoover. I remember him and I am at peace about his life and about his death. But he is not still with me. Do not tell me he is still with me. He is not here. And, it sucks.
I am inspired by a revival of “This I believe.” It was a 1950’s radio program hosted by Edward R. Murrow that featured short essays from all kinds of voices on what they believe. Now, there is a website that is archiving those early essays as well as new ones. Anyone is invited to submit a brief statement of belief. The guideline for submission is beautiful in and of itself. Writers are encouraged to be brief, to tell stories, be personal, and positive. Writers are discouraged from preaching, pointing fingers, or making statements on American politics. I have in my head that I would post on my blog a series of these essays – delving into my personal beliefs – one belief at a time. The first one has been on my mind for months. I have avoided writing about it because I know that some of you will not like it. I have avoided writing about it because I want to be able to share my own belief in the way that “This I believe” encourages me to. We’ll see how that goes.
This I believe. I believe that the Bible is the inspired Word of God, living, breathing, working in our lives. I have had experiences with the Word that are impossible to explain. I believe that the Word is written on our hearts because scripture tells us so. I have found myself in a situation where someone was looking to me for help and as I sat there feeling completely helpless, useless, even questioning my own call, passages from the Bible would come to me, flow from my lips, and I knew that it came from a place deep within, brought to the surface only by the power of the Holy Spirit.
I believe that the Bible is the Word of God, not God. I believe that, if not careful, I can make an idol of this gift that God has given to the world. I believe that God continues to speak and that prophets are being heard every day. I believe that using the Bible as a weapon against others causes God great pain and sadness. I believe that most scriptures can be used to say what we want them to say, that we must seek guidance from the living Christ to enlighten them. I believe that arguing over whether Creation happened in six days or through evolution is a waste of time. I believe whether or not Job was a “real person,” the truth found in his story touches each of us. I believe in miracles. I believe it is a miracle that these documents come together to tell the story of God’s love for God’s people.
This I believe. This book we call The Holy Bible is our gift from God. The gift can not outshine the Giver. I believe.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a morning person. This does not even begin to touch the reality of the situation. I’m a firm believer that the world should not begin to operate before 10:00 a.m. and that I should not be expected to be anywhere until about 1:00 p.m. (The flip side of that is that I also believe that things should really pick up around 9:00 p.m. and that bedtime should be around 2:00 a.m.)
Having two children and a full-time job in a world that hasn’t caught on to my forward way of thinking makes things difficult. Luckily, I’m married to a man who wakes up at the crack of dawn – no really, he literally wakes up at the crack of dawn! – who is willing to lay out clothes for the day, make breakfast, make sure teeth are brushed, shoes are tied, etc.
Me? I sleep until the last possible second, jump out of bed, take a shower, dry hair, apply make-up, get dressed, and run downstairs screaming some form of “We are late! We have to go now!”
I exagerate only slightly. That is why realizing how excited I am to walk downstairs to see my family in the morning was such a shock to me today.
As I stood there looking at myself in the mirror, putting powder on my face, I realized that I was speeding up, irritated that I still had to take time to blow dry my hair, anxious to get downstairs to see my hubby and two babies. Once I understood this feeling that was happening inside me, I realized that I feel it most days. I get ready and, as I do, I wonder what they are up to down there. I open the bedroom door and listen for the sounds of the morning. The first sound I usually hear is my daughter calling out, “Momma!” because apparently she is as excited to see me each morning as I am to see her.
Today I made it all the way to the dining room before I heard her. Miracle of miracles, she was actually still in her bed. (My children’s sleep habits come from my husband’s side of the family!) When I opened her door, she was still lying there on her pillow, hair a mess, puffy and sleepy eyes, and the biggest smile on her face as she said again, “Momma.” Stopping for a moment in the rush of getting out the door, I sat on her bed holding her. She sat and let me rock her back and forth for at least a minute (another miracle!) with her head on my shoulder.
If I’m lucky I get to give my son a kiss on his cheek, but I definitely hear whatever schemes and dreams with which he awoke. If I’m smart and thoughtful, I take time to hug and kiss my husband. His arms around me gives me a sense of calm heading out into my day that nothing else can provide.
How many days have I gone through this routine and not acknowledged the sacred nature of it? Thank you, God, for giving me eyes to see our ritual today.
This is a subject heavy on my mind today. Recently, I read about a principal who had instituted a new way to help students release their anger and frustration for himself and for teachers. He would place a photo of the teacher on a punching bag and encourage the students to wail away at it. There was immediate outcry from parents and community activists.
I had several feelings to arise when I read this story. First, I was filled with humor. I found myself laughing at such a ridiculous notion. The thought of pre-adolescents punching their teacher in the face made me giggle. I admit, I have a sick side to me.
Which leads me to the second emotion – I was a bit disgusted that we live in a world where children would even have such anger to let out. Are things so bad at that school that this principal would feel it necessary to resort to such a strange solution? Sick.
Today, though, I find myself thinking something entirely different. What is wrong with this idea? Why would it be either funny or disgusting? It seems to me – right at this moment, anyway – that it may be a very healthy way to deal with emotion.
We are inept at managing conflict. When I say “we,” I mean you! And, I mean me. In particular, I mean the Church, but I believe it to be a general problem in our culture. We either run from the conflict, sidetrack it by including those who should not be included, or blow up inappropriately and create additional conflict.
I’m beginning to believe that parents, community activists, and myself were disgusted by this innovative way for kids to deal with their feelings because we would much prefer everyone just smile and pretend it is all okay. I’m beginning to understand that my own laughter at such an idea is not so much my sick sense of humor as it is a discomfort with the idea of children actually being encouraged in the public arena to express their “negative feelings.”
We can’t manage conflict if we don’t acknowledge its existence. The elephant in the room isn’t going anywhere.
