October 8, 2021
Every family has its own emotional tasks to work out. I suspect that when those are not approached fairly openly in some way, either in conversation or by ritual, the tasks are divided up among the members who then deal with them separately, and each in their own way. My family of origin had its share of tragedies. Both of my parents came from families scarred by suicides, untimely deaths and financial reversals. My father was always and forever in seriously ill health, and my mother lost twins at seven months. All of those events seemed eternally present; at every meal grace, we thanked God that my father was still alive, and each twin was invoked by name. there was too much grief.
In any event, I carried the family’s sadness. My younger sister was the angry one. It’s not as easy as claiming that we did or didn’t “work through” our feelings, in the glib parlance of the helping professions. We did life just as everyone does, as best we could. And through the years, I gradually became aware that, while I was generally known by friends and peers alike as joyful and funny, I had a large reservoir of sadness that was the lens through which I viewed the world and my reality. It’s a good thing that God called me to a ministry where that worked well.
And so while I really have been very happy in my lifetime, I always felt as though my own death was a more reliable companion. I used to joke that I didn’t particularly worry about having a “happy death,” as much as I wanted an early one. When I survived a fairly serious health scare in my early 40s, I was overwhelmed by my disappointment that I would live. I always did life at full throttle, never in a red convertible, always in a secondhand station wagon. I was always so energetic that no one, including me, came close to suspecting that I might be simply depressed. So I soldiered on.
That changed when my daughter and her husband brought their children to visit for a week this last July. Like a good mother, I worked hard to provide them with maps, choices and recommendations, but careful not to interfere. It was like driving that station wagon full throttle, with a safety brake on. The maps I sent ended up on the floor underneath their living room sofa; the tour books and trekking poles for my son-in-law never made it out of the garage. When my granddaughter took matters in hand and sent me a nine-page flowchart of all the places they wanted to see along with admission and parking fees, I relaxed. Then when they arrived, I let myself be cosseted. I felt loved and cared for and cared about. Conversely, I think my daughter relaxed as well. As I stopped internally steeling myself against her attacks, she stopped needing to attack. Everyone melted, loved, and him and appreciated one another.
As the weeks have passed since then, my daughter no longer calls three times each week to see if I need anything and to reassure me that if I did, the whole family would come to help me. We have settled into a still happy but more relaxed rhythm. Nevertheless, the awakening has been such an incredible new experience for me. A little part of me wonders if my neighbors at Pilgrim place would occasionally cosset me as well (or at least open a door for me) if I could relax my fear that they won’t. But that would take a real miracle… in my heart.
But I figure I’ve got time. I’m only 80, after all. I no longer want an early death, even if it weren’t too late for that now. I can’t wait to see the doors my granddaughters will open and rush through in their lives. My grandson, my buddy, shared pictures of his first real date for homecoming. Most miraculous of all, whenever my daughter calls, I think a lifetime is not long enough for me to cherish her marvelous laughter. God knows she has her own ghosts to exorcise, and mine pale in comparison. Her own intensity, her own full-throttle approach to life did not allow any full-throated laughter at all. It’s time!