Tag Archives: Death

Connecting the Dots

15 Friday Jan 2010

Posted by in Far Away Places, Prayer, The Great Outdoors

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Walking a Prayer Labyrinth

I confess to not sitting in front of the television for the latest news in Haiti.

If ostriches bury their heads in sand, count me as their close feathered friend.  I do not wish to watch the Haitian people pick up the scattered and broken pieces of their lives on my television set for the same reasons that I refuse to rubber-neck at the scene of a car wreck.

I risk that others might find me hard and uncaring, but I keep my eyes averted out of respect and compassion for the victims of the tragedy, and those close at hand who are doing their level best to lend a helping hand.  Refusing to rubber-neck at television coverage is my way of  granting the Haitian people privacy and space to grieve, to grapple, to gripe and grope toward solutions that are barreling upon them at warp speed.

I’ve been getting my occasional updates off the radio.  I was sitting in the Subway Sandwich parking lot when I first heard the story on NPR, last Tuesday evening.  The island of Haiti had suffered a major earthquake, the news anchor said.  Seven point O on the Richter scale.

The story did not  grow into front page headlines on Wednesday, at least in my small dot of the world.  I wondered if there were no ‘hard’ news to report.   But by Wednesday afternoon — or was it Thursday? — I heard tell of 50,000 dead.  Later it grew to 100,000.  But those interviewed hedged their bets by saying that no one really knew.

So far, the few dots I can connect are these:  Tuesday afternoon late.  7.0.  Death and destruction.   Aid promised and descending, and in the short-term, disconnected.  Shock all around.  Years to recover.  For the “lucky” ones.

Why is it that we talk of what we do not know, especially when tragedy hits?  Is it a way of making the unreal real or thinking about the unthinkable, a way of expressing grief, of showing concern or merely an exercise in connecting dots?

Until God shows up in the actions of human flesh, women in Haiti are leaning on their faith to deal with the aftermath.  I learned this news from CNN, while waiting for a doctor’s appointment earlier today.  The reporter concluded by saying that these Haitian women were turning their eyes to God for help.

Following their lead, I too will keep my eyes on God…and connect with the “dots.”

Twelfth Night

05 Tuesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Prayer

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

“Out of the jaws of death.”  — William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night or What You Will

I am tired, on this last night of the Christmas season.  The week has been busy and I have not slept well the last two nights.

I woke up to names last night.  One in particular, a little boy named Al, who was seriously injured in a car accident yesterday that left his young mother dead.  At the end of  last night’s class I was asked to pray for Al.

I guess I went to bed thinking of Al.  And if it’s possible to pray while one sleeps, maybe I did this.  It would be a first for me to wake up in prayer; usually, it’s the other way around

Yet, once I’m awake, I’m awake.  There’s no turning over and going back.  So no longer sleepy, I lay in bed and pray.  For Al.  For Connie.  For Connie’s mom who is dying.  For others.  For peace.  An hour later, I am at peace.  Sweet blessed sleep.

Daddy was sleeping when my brother Jon and I walked in to Dad’s room this afternoon.  It’s been two weeks since our last visit.  Too bad today was mostly a sleeper.  Even Daddy’s roommate Larry slept through our visit.  I’ve noticed Larry sleeping more these days, every since Larry told me a month ago that he was ready to die.  How does one wake up to a new day when they are ready for death?

Tomorrow I will wake up to dental surgery.  I’m having a dental implant that both dentist and husband assure me is the right thing to do.  Why am I less sure than they?

What I am sure of is that post-surgery, I will be less than my normal cooking self.  So I spent this morning  preparing soft meals for the next few days.  It will be good to have this long dreaded surgery behind me — it will be better to have sore jaw that the angst I feel right now.

I pray to sleep tonight.  And I pray Al to sleep tonight.  And Connie too.  But for Connie’s mother and Larry — for those in the jaws of death — how do I pray for these on this twelfth night of Christmas?  I know.  Just this, Father God: What You Will.

Home

15 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

Today my mind flits between two homes.  Neither are mine.

The first, of course, is here in Brazosport.  Spending time amongst familiar surroundings and faces is always good.  Yet, there is something about returning to a place that makes one feel as if they are returning to life from the grave.   It’s a bit chilling to think this way, but I’m not the only one to have these thoughts.  In an email yesterday, a local friend wrote these words — “Rhonda and I just hang our heads and say, “We sure do miss Janell….”.

Perhaps I need to read Thomas Wolfe’s final novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again.”  I anticipate a few gifts waiting in this title, which may speak to where I am in life right now.

And where am I today in life?  I am haunted by that seasonal song  first sung by Bing Crosby  —  “I’ll be Home for Christmas” — realizing for the first time, that this song will never be true for me again.  Home and the hope of new gatherings of family around the fireplace that Mom kept burning bright all died with Mom.

In my mind today are thoughts of Dad and the nursing home where he now lives.  It is Tuesday after all, and every Tuesday afternoon is devoted to spending time with Dad.  I wonder how Daddy is today.  Is he more there than not?  Friends are kind to ask after Daddy’s state of health.  To one friend yesterday, I recall saying that Dad was just a shell of his former self.  And that his shell was really broken and fragile, carried by others from one place to another, to attend to the business of living.

Daddy will never be home again.  And I don’t just mean the home he shared with Mom, but the the here-and-now home of this world.  And these seashells that litter the beach, that we pick up on our long walks with our dogs…these seashells remind me of Daddy.  Some are paper-thin just like Daddy’s skin, a little frayed around the edges.  Rarely do I find a shell left fully intact from its rough and tumble ride on the surf.  Most of the washed up shells on the beach are mere shadows of their former glory.  I pick them up carefully and wash out their sandy remains to take them home with me.  They will become a sacred souvenir to remind me of my time here at the beach.

One unexpected gift of our trip is it will allow me to once again go home for Christmas.  I’ll go bearing gifts of washed up  broken seashells from this eastern sandy shore that so far has been absent of visible sun and blue skies.

It will be to my own home that I go, the one that sits in Mesta Park.  If one doesn’t leave home for long, one can go home again and it will feel and smell like home and nothing much important will have changed.  Except for this one change:  There in Mesta Park, I will become the home to which my family goes to for Christmas.