Sometimes the lights go out. Just for a while. Maybe longer
than we’d like.
I never thought I’d be the type to get short on words when
it comes to writing but when my nephew passed away this past February the words
stopped coming. The lights went out.
Thankfully it was a busy time of the work year so I was able
to dive right into preparation for what would surely be another long playoff
run.
My heart did ache knowing that not everybody who knew and loved
my nephew Zachary had the luxury of delving into busy distractions. The quiet
of evening swallowed me whole on more than one occasion. I could only imagine
what it was like for my loved ones whose days and nights blended together
without interruptions of requests and phone calls and ‘important’ things to be
done.
They say everybody goes through the grieving process. It
might look different from one person to the next but apparently involves shock
and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining,
depression/reflection/loneliness, the ‘upward turn’ (sunshine and lollipops,
right?), reconstruction and working through, and then acceptance and hope.
I don’t know if
I’ve gone through any of those let alone all of them. Certainly I was very
angry very early. I can tell you that much. Good thing there weren’t any sports
or board games to be played at that time because my fuse was short. Dodged that
one.
Initially, I didn’t want to tell anyone about what had
happened. Maybe that was my way of denying it had. In my mind I was worried if
I opened my mouth to say those words, the dam I had so carefully constructed
emotionally would break and the tears and who knows what...would come. If there’s one thing my dad
taught me, it’s nobody likes a cry baby--and that Fruit & Nut chocolate
bars are the best breakfast for early morning hunting trips (don’t worry, I
never hit anything but coins and markings on a wood stump).
Then one night something clicked. I think it was a light
switch, somewhere. I grabbed my guitar. My therapy so many times before. And
started playing a song that began with lines I’d been living for weeks:
“I’m okay on the outside but it’s all caving in. I can
pretend that I’m alright but I’m close to the edge.”
I know I’m not the only one that was feeling that way. That
has felt that way.
I thought about calling this entry “Don’t say your $%*@
don’t stink” but thought my LDS friends would think I’d gone apostate.
But really, we’ve all got stinky parts to us. Some people
wear the stinky parts on their sleeves (ew…bad visual). Some people quietly
carry the stinky stuff, trapped under its weight. However it appears or doesn’t
appear, it’s there.
Only time can teach you certain lessons but golly do I wish
I’d learned a lot earlier not to judge other people. You can’t ever know what’s
in their heart. What’s in their lives. In hindsight I remember kids in
elementary school that came from very broken homes. My best friend up until I
was five was living with his grandparents because (as I later found out) he’d suffered
at the hands of a pedophile. I never knew! I never knew.
We might never know.
But we can love. We can embrace. We can show compassion. We
can show understanding…sometimes, many times, without understanding.
Recently my cousin posed the question on facebook about the
Coldplay line “every tear is a waterfall”. What does that mean?
To me, it means we’re all connected. Pain can beget pain.
Likewise, joy can beget joy. We can’t control everything. But we can control
some things.
Be love. Be embrace. Be compassion. Be understanding. Be there.
