TANGIBLE REMNANTS OF LIFE

My friend collected all of these shells at the beach on Sanibel Island in December of 2011. And it appears she had a reason in mind for how she wanted to artistically display these dead creatures. However, she never did tell me. If anything, she may have placed them with care, and they were purposely arranged, or maybe done in a random act? I really can’t recall. And yes, in a way, it matters because these shells helped me through some of the most difficult events that I could have never imagined.

In the three years since we spent this week at the beach together, both of us have had our share of tragedy.  Mostly random. Funny how life works that way. It is inconvenient to say the least, unbelievable to sound almost cliché when describing sickness and death. Little did I know that I would witness the loss of eight people that I loved, including my brother, mother and father within one year. And I never dreamed that the one who collected these shells would go through radical breast and lymph surgery due to an aggressive cancer that nearly took her life.  

These shells in the photograph are beautiful, but dead. How can this be? The deaths I have experienced were anything but beautiful.  In the months and years that I have suffered great loss, I have often asked myself where to find the beauty in the midst of my world. Quite frankly, it has been hard to see, and I have tried to imagine it

Looking more closely at the photograph, I could not help but notice the red, purple, brown, pink, white and other hues of colorful shells. Vibrant, even in death. Really? Death is certainly not vibrant, it is depressing and painful, in my view.

Some of the shells are smooth, some are rough. Death came like that for my loved ones. For some it was sudden, for others it stalled for months and it was a brutal road.

One day, just like my friend took the picture of the shells, I took inventory of the memories of my loved ones.  Was there a big difference between the shells and my loved ones? They both died. I think the hardest thing to accept about death of a loved one is the absence of a physical “shell”. II only have my memories to rely on, the inner beauty of my loved ones and my inner abilities to conjure up pictures in my mind and heart of what they looked like, and who they were.

Life is ironic. I have always loved shells for what they looked like on the outside, never for the creature that was alive within. I never really bothered to know or enjoy the inner being of most of these creatures. And it is that inner being that caused such beauty to last.

Revisiting the photograph one last time caused me to look at things about death in a whole new perspective. That is the beautiful thing about grief. I get through it by seeing little glimpses of life, in the obscure, and this thing about dead seashells is definitely obscure. In doing so, I am reminded to make the intangible remnants of my loved ones’ lives matter. Intently, I place memories in my heart and mind.  I recall my mother’s words saying “honey, you always do a great job…”, my father taking the toothpick out of his mouth, tilting his head my way, waiting for a kiss on the cheek when I greet him, my brother reminding me to defrag my computer, and my friend conversing with me over the phone telling me about each of her four young children. I capture remnants of their characters, their kindnesses, their accomplishments, and dreams, often. Those things are what I picture deep inside. They are my shells, I just have to make the time to walk along the serene water’s edge and embrace them.

Space to Give

So many times in life each of needs a friend...just like the song lyrics "Lean on Me". But so often in life, we are all busy.

In the last year and a half, I went to eight funerals including three immediate family members. Life has been shady...too shady.

But the sun has come through the darkness in the form of people. People have been my light. They have stepped in and removed the burdens of sadness and loss.

Some of my best friends were too busy to help me, while some of my acquaintances became my source of strength.

And through it, in Texas, while visiting one such person, under a deep blue sky and palm tree,  I realized that as humans, sometimes we have the space to give to another, and sometimes, we need to make space for others to give to us. And the warmth of knowing that life is like this brought about great healing.

And that is what makes life so clearly beautiful!

Galveston, Texas 2014

Living Gracefully with the Process of Grieving

My brother, mother and father all died within one year. Prior to them all passing away, my friend died suddenly as well. She was the mother to four young children. In that same time span, a friend was diagnosed with cancer, my aunt died a month before my mother, and a great aunt died in between.

Grief is truly something that can only be understood when one goes through it. Many well meaning Christian friends have told me that Jesus walks with us in our time of grief. He, who has been through sorrow, knows our sorrows. Yet, that was not comforting, because although my faith tells me Jesus is present, my physical being is in need of comfort from tangible sources.

Along my journey to grieve in a graceful manner, I have had to close off certain people from my life. Naturally an extrovert, I have become more introverted. I just don't have the energy to deal with people. Most of my friends are busy with the daily affairs of life. And they want to relate to me in the same way. I, on the other hand, have literally had my whole word and ethos moved, shaken and taken away. Jesus understands that I am quit, tired, angry and confused. And He is there. What I have found I needed from my friends is just someone to be present as I sort through the journey of loss, and come in to a journey of hope and love once again. ( I attended a wonderful Grief Retreat through the "Spark of Life" Foundation that helped me understand this journey of life a little bit better).

While cleaning out my mother's closet, I found Jesus. He was hidden in a box. My mother was a woman of faith, but she did not advertise it. She just lived it as best she knew how. I put Jesus on the dining room wall. With all of the loss, it is hard to see His presence, but when I look at my mother's picture out in the open instead of hidden in a closet, I somehow find courage to grieve openly as I process what has just happened. And in that freedom to be sad, tired, lonely, angry or confused, I am finding healing in the grief that so many around me don't understand or just simply want to ignore the fact that I am feeling all that I am.

What is comforting, is looking up at that picture of Jesus, and knowing that He is here in each feeling along the way to my journey of  healing.