When I try to write, to recount the experience of my family, of my son, my thoughts evaporate. Inside my head, my chest, it feels like brown corrugated cardboard - dry, flat, rigid, empty. You know how it feels when you rub your dry fingertips over dry cardboard? That's how my mind feels.
I know I have to push myself, though. I can't let myself subside. I fear if I do I'll just shut down. And that would be an unnecessary defeat. No, I'll write. I'll find a way to slip my consciousness past the cardboard. I have to find a path that actually carries current, though.
I can say I love. I love my family like the blood flows through my veins. I would be empty, cold and dead without them. My daughter gets where my hugs are coming from. I hug her with all of my heart, and she hugs me back just the same, totally, loving me back, knowing I need to hug her as hard as I can. She is strong of mind and spirit, strong of heart, and strong in her love.
I remember a hug I gave my son. It was the night after his graduation from Army Basic Training and he was being called to formation. These young soldiers would be boarding buses soon to take them to their next phase of training. Minutes before, my family had held hands in the dark under the tall Georgia pine trees and I lead us in a prayer, blessing my son, praying the Lord's protection over him, praying for strength and wisdom for him as he moved forward in his training.
As he was called to that formation, we all hurriedly hugged him. My arms went around him and he, taller than me by several inches, wrapped his football player, soldier arms around me. I remember feeling his strong, hard chest against my middle-aged one. There was no question that an immeasurable love filled both our hearts as we held on to each other for a moment. To this day, years after, I can feel that hug, I can feel that love.
So love opens me up and lets me slip past the cardboard emptiness. My loved ones lead me to the things that I want and need to say. That's how I want it. That's how I like it. My love should lead me.
Maybe for now I won't write looking back. Maybe for now I'll write looking right here, looking forward, looking to God. I'll write towards the opening flow of life moving forward.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A complaint
I want to complain. I want to complain about "Christians" that know full well the tragedy my family has endured, yet they still, as has been their habit all along, walk right by me every day, refusing to make eye contact with me, let alone engage in conversation.
I'm not especially chatty myself for the most part. I don't want an exciting dialogue every time someone walks by. But I have to wonder what is going on behind those eyes that never lock on mine, eyes that have to look over at some indeterminate corner of the room, that have to look at the floor, because heaven knows we have to look at the floor when we walk. Is it fear? If it is, what are they afraid of? Am I frightening? I don't think I am, but I suppose my self assessment could be wrong. It must, by definition, be biased. Still, I look at people. I'm game to connect. Why is that so rarely reciprocated?
And I want to complain about co-workers who also know full well the tragedy my family has suffered, yet they don't make any effort to even ask how I'm doing. Initially this didn't bother me personally, I just thought, "Are they that afraid to reach out?" I don't want pity for me or my family, so that isn't the issue. I just couldn't imagine people being so insensitive, so unable to care.
But as I continued to ponder, amazed, this lack of compassion, it struck me that this absence of reaching must really be evidence of an appalling indifference. These people can't truly, practically, care about me or my family. If I told them that, they would likely take offense and deny it. But the fact says it all. If these people cared, they would not ignore the situation. If they truly cared, there would be some action to prove it.
Again, I don't want pity, and I don't expect people to ask for an update every single day. But I cannot process the fact that many of my co-workers have said NOTHING to me. That is an affront to me and my family. It means that we do not matter to these people, to any degree. That is a slap in my face.
I'm not especially chatty myself for the most part. I don't want an exciting dialogue every time someone walks by. But I have to wonder what is going on behind those eyes that never lock on mine, eyes that have to look over at some indeterminate corner of the room, that have to look at the floor, because heaven knows we have to look at the floor when we walk. Is it fear? If it is, what are they afraid of? Am I frightening? I don't think I am, but I suppose my self assessment could be wrong. It must, by definition, be biased. Still, I look at people. I'm game to connect. Why is that so rarely reciprocated?
And I want to complain about co-workers who also know full well the tragedy my family has suffered, yet they don't make any effort to even ask how I'm doing. Initially this didn't bother me personally, I just thought, "Are they that afraid to reach out?" I don't want pity for me or my family, so that isn't the issue. I just couldn't imagine people being so insensitive, so unable to care.
But as I continued to ponder, amazed, this lack of compassion, it struck me that this absence of reaching must really be evidence of an appalling indifference. These people can't truly, practically, care about me or my family. If I told them that, they would likely take offense and deny it. But the fact says it all. If these people cared, they would not ignore the situation. If they truly cared, there would be some action to prove it.
Again, I don't want pity, and I don't expect people to ask for an update every single day. But I cannot process the fact that many of my co-workers have said NOTHING to me. That is an affront to me and my family. It means that we do not matter to these people, to any degree. That is a slap in my face.
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