Puzzle Pieces

Teaching has made me a different person. I see things from perspectives I have never seen things before.

I've been reminded that while, yes, teaching is hard...it's also very scary. I am in charge of the lives of students all day, every day, 5 days a week. But, that's something I already knew.

I'm seeing things from so many angles, I can barely handle it sometimes. Somehow, I have to be able to understand and accept the girl who has no compassion for others while simultaneously comforting and creating a safe space for the young man going through a serious identity crisis - sometimes while this girl is confronting the young man. I have to love the student who refuses to stand for the pledge as much as I love the student who wants to shove the U.S.A's conservative politics down everyone's throats.

And, to tell you the truth - that part isn't so hard.

The hard part is convincing other people that all of these different personalities and flawed youth and perfect youth and sensitive youth are all worth loving. The hard part is trying to convince other people to see how what they may be saying is (or could be) irreparably damaging someone else - even if that is not the intended consequence.

I'll burden you with my most recent plight: I feel like I am not hearing voices of compassion for those affected by tragedy so much as I am hearing demands being made by those unaffected. Now, I'm a grown up. I understand that we want and need to discuss our beliefs and opinions about guns and God or lack-there-of.

But I can't help but notice the missing voice in all of this - the people who might be getting tramped on.

I'm thinking specifically of Atheists - but I suppose the Muslims or Buddhists or any other non-Christian faith may fall under this umbrella - how those families must be feeling to be hearing again and again "lack of [CHRISTIAN] God has allowed for these things to happen."

The lack of a christian god is being used synonymously with "lack of morals" and "lack of being able to discern right from wrong" and "lack of self control" and "inability to empathize."

Do you think, out of the 26 families affected by the most recent tragedy, that there is not one family of Atheist or non-Christian beliefs?

What message are we sending those families? That their child deserved to die? That they were just bringing their child up in a way where something like that was just bound to happen in their life anyway...? That they are a moral-less people? That somehow, Christians have it figured out better than non-Christians?

I don't think a lack of God is our issue.

I think a lack of human decency is. 

Sad-urday Morning.

It's really interesting how death can put a relationship into perspective. When Jamie died, it became very obvious to me how much we communicated - facebook, phone. I hadn't ever noticed when it was happening. He became a permanent presence in my life when I was 15. I forgot what life was like without him - so when he drove his motorcycle into Heaven on his way to school, it was a huge shock.

It was then that I noticed - it was then that I remembered - what an important figure he had become in my life. 

But with my grandma - she'd always been there. There hadn't ever been a time where she didn't exist for me. I came into her life, not the other way around. My whole life is almost entirely built upon a foundation that she created for her family.  But when she passed (in August), it didn't hit me like a freight train the way that Jamie's death did. 

Instead, it's been a slow process. Slow. Painful. Jamie's death was overwhelming in a way that fried my brain for a solid year. It was such a shock to the system that it changed the way I function - probably forever.

My grandma's death feels more like I'm being starved. 

Can I call grandma and tell her about the crazy muffins I made this week? No.

I'm so excited to see grandma this October. No, you're not. She's dead.

I'm sick in the middle of the night, I'm going to text her because I know she's awake. Not this time.

I hate myself, I hate my body and I hate everything I do. Grandma knows what to say. Nope.

I ate a giant meal. I should probably let Grandma know about it. She thinks I never eat... Still Nope.

I want to sit in Grandma's closet and listen to all the music boxes play at once. Never, ever, again.

It's amazing how many times in a week I forget that she's gone. I was there. I kissed her goodbye. I cried with my cousins. I comforted and was comforted. 

But there is a part of me that seems to be inconsolable. Something that rejects the attempts at comfort and refuses to accept that she's no longer living. An abusive little part of my heart that wants me to regularly relive the loss of her.

I don't like knowing what a huge part of my life I lost. It's true - you never know what you've got until it's gone. Especially when you've had it around you your whole life. 

Mid-February Shouldn't Be So Scary

When I walk around cemeteries, I am always fascinated by the headstones. Some are modest, little plaques that say nothing more than a name and a date. Some are crazy large monuments. Others are strange symbolic figures that are comparable to abstract modern art. But, no matter what they look like, they are a very real signifier that beneath the stone - and my feet - lays a person who was once loved - is still loved - by many.

This plaque above will be on the back of Jamie's headstone.

His headstone. Did I just type that? It still feels unreal. I'm still waiting for him to send a text that says "JK everybody! Did you miss me?" I wouldn't even be mad. I had this sinking feeling in my chest as they closed the casket over him - would he be lonely? Was there enough space? Can I see him just a moment longer? When they put him in the ground, I had similar thoughts: would it be too cold for him? - It became very real. He was gone, and it was time to say goodbye. I just hate(d) thinking about him being under the ground when he belonged above the ground. With his wife. With his friends. Flying planes.

I let myself slip into denial from time to time. Maybe it's not healthy, but it's true. Sometimes, I just want to pretend he's still around. That I can send him that text. That he will still be taking my brother to lunch in the near future. That we will see him and the wife at conference and we will all play conference bingo together.

So, seeing the plaque brings me both joy and sorrow. Joy that we have all made it this far. Sorrow that we had to make it at all. It makes me sad that people may stand over his headstone, doing what I do so often when I walk through the cemetery... they will wonder what happened to this young man. Where are the people that love him? They will wonder at what his middle name was, and they will always be wrong because they won't know that it only ever was D. It makes me sad that people will pass by his headstone but not know him. They will not know his love for cherry dipped cones. They will not know his funny laugh. They will not know that he loved Firefly or Tomcat F-14s or F-18 Super Hornets. They will not know about how he proposed to his wife. They won't know about Lolita or his mission to South Korea or any of his funny sayings: Make all 100's! Remember who you are! Don't embarrass the family! Now - get out of my car!! They will not know that he achieved his dream and they will not know the pure love and joy this man embodied. His selflessness. His spontaneity. His steadfast faith in God.

Instead, they will simply know his name.

They will see his plaque. They will wonder - and then they will do what so many of us will struggle to do for the rest of our lives: they'll move on in a different direction.

I suppose that I'll have to visit him sometime. I know the story. I won't have to wonder. Not about this man. I will be able to stand at his headstone and know - remember.

And it is a beautiful plaque to be mounted aback a beautiful granite headstone that will appropriately mark the beautiful resting place of a truly beautiful human being who, to use the word one more time, brought a love of beautiful things to my life and the life of many others. So, this headstone brings me sorrow. But it also brings me joy. Sorrow that the world lost a truly righteous, honest, loving man and joy that, in this moment, I get to remember him...and Him...in such wonderful and powerful ways. Joy that I ever had such a friendship, and sorrow that it will be such a long time before we see each other again. Joy that the plaque brings a comfort, marks a milestone, signifies a wonderful life lived. Sorrow that comfort is needed, that milestones are being reached and that his wonderful live isn't still being lived.

So it is bittersweet. But it is beautiful. Just like he was.