Recently in Grief Category

I thought a lot about this Scripture, proclaimed at Mass yesterday:

Brothers and sisters:
I declare and testify in the Lord
that you must no longer live as the Gentiles do,
in the futility of their minds;
that is not how you learned Christ,
assuming that you have heard of him and were taught in him,
as truth is in Jesus,
that you should put away the old self of your former way of life,
corrupted through deceitful desires,
and be renewed in the spirit of your minds,
and put on the new self,
created in God's way in righteousness and holiness of truth.

The Universalis site uses the Jerusalem Bible translation:

I want to urge you in the name of the Lord, not to go on living the aimless kind of life that pagans live. Now that is hardly the way you have learnt from Christ, unless you failed to hear him properly when you were taught what the truth is in Jesus. You must give up your old way of life; you must put aside your old self, which gets corrupted by following illusory desires. Your mind must be renewed by a spiritual revolution so that you can put on the new self that has been created in God's way, in the goodness and holiness of the truth.

It struck me, and has anchored me the past day and through today. It has been busy with entertaining things, business-type things - a bit of writing, Katie's school registration, which is always an ordeal. And through it all, I think, "Six months ago today. Haven't seen him in six months."

And many thoughts have come to me which are not ready for this spot and are probably better suited for something longer and more substantial. But I keep coming back to one point, one that is not specific to Michael's death and my response to it, so it is probably the one most worth sharing.

What has been revealed to me, in a really profound way, is the inadequacy of language and intellectual constructs. I could sit down with you for a day, solid, and try to talk about this. I could write a book. We could maybe even talk for a week about our respective experiences, and still, words would not be enough to convey the mystery of it, which is not just the mystery of death, but the mystery of life, too, of course.

I always said that this was true - that words are inadequate - but the understanding of it has burrowed deep inside over the past six months, not in a mournful, despairing way, but in a way that is puzzling, intriguing and even though it is  frustrating, it is also...how shall I say it...inviting.

It just seems to me that while other areas of knowledge are necessary and helpful, the only areas of life which could even begin to say or express anything meaningful about all of this, that even begin to get close to the layers, the questions, the moments of clarity, the doubts, the assurances, the light and darkness, the gratitude and the mystery are two: art and faith.

And so we walk on, renewed, no longer in the futility of our minds, no longer aimless. As the man says.

The grass is there, but patchy.

The stone is there, too. His name, etched as if on the pages of an open book. It was not my first choice, but I did not notice that design at first. When I did, it became the only choice.

My name is there, too. I debated for a bit about that, internally, when Sister asked me. But then..why not. Whatever. It is a double plot, after all. Makes it easier on the kids, who will be left to make the decisions when my time comes.

It does not bother me one bit to see my name there, for that fear, swept away the moment I saw his body at the funeral home, has not returned. I am still unafraid. I am still ready when called

However, it did make a difference when I pondered whether or not to bring Joseph. The counselor had advised to let him make the decision and to trust my instincts. But then even before the moment had come for the offer to be made, I remembered my name, etched on the stone, and I thought - oh, how terrible it would be for him to see it there. What questions, what fears would it raise. So I decided I would not even bring it up.

He did, though. He said, "I know why we're going to St. Augustine - Daddy."  And the way he says "Daddy" at those times expresses his awareness of not a living presence, but of memories of February. I said yes, that is one reason. I gave him the choice. He said no, he didn't want to go. Which is fine. He was there from viewing to graveside and if he did not want to go back now, I understand, I would not blame him and never in a million years would I force him.

So I went alone Tuesday morning, with the boys in the safe, sure care of their grandparents and aunts and cousins, playing at the beach, digging through sand, letting it drift with the tide, watching it build up, collapse and bury.

I left them at the hotel and drove straight there, across AIA, over to Highway 1, taking a right, then a left, into San Lorenzo Cemetery.

A small family group stood conferring over a tombstone - an older couple and a younger woman. They were there the entire time I was, and as I drove out, the older man was seated on a bench in front of that tombstone, head in hands.

Sister sat in a golf cart around the bend, talking to an older woman.

I noted things I had not noted before. As one of his sisters had mentioned, the supreme irony is that a gym lies directly across the street. Sonny's Barbecue - always one of his primary Florida destinations - is closer than I thought. The traffic on Highway 1 rushed by, without ceasing, and I thought about his life here, in this part of Florida, and how much he loved this place and how, to him, it was "paradise."

It was good to be in Florida, at the beach. But it did not seem right to be here without his living, earthly presence. In a way, it seemed entirely wrong. In another way, it simply seemed entirely bizarre for me to be sitting on the ground at his grave, the traffic whizzing by, Sonny's in sight, him silent on it all.

I cannot figure it out.

Well, do I believe in God or not?

Yes, I admit, I do. Certainly.

Well, then.

Everything else follows.

Sitting there, nothing was revealed to me that I did not already know. Not really. I did not feel closer, and in fact I might even have felt a little further away.

Further away than I do at home, for at home, there is a closet.

Most of his clothes I gave away a while ago. I gave it all away except for his sports t-shirts and sweatshirts - his Gator, Jaguar and Bucs gear that I am saving for his sons as they try to answer the question of who their father was. And his dress shirts.

He did his own laundry, and he only washed his dress shirts every 2 or 3 wearings. So there is a tight row of work shirts that still, even after almost six months, bear his scent, the mix of his body, his deodorant and his cologne. They hang there and still, whenever I want, if I am near, even knowing the folly, knowing that I should be thinking finer, more eternal thoughts, I can, nonetheless, pass by the closet, pause, and take in what is left.

For a moment, two stories above ground, in a place I never thought I would be.

As I gather them all in close. My face in his shirts.

Buried.

Sometimes Daddy comes in my dreams.

Does he say anything?

Yes.

What does he say?

I don't remember.

All over Sicily, we lit candles for Daddy.

In Erice:




In Siracusa: (Santuario Madonna delle Lacrime)

In Modica:



..and some other places. 

Not as many as they would have liked. Partly because in most of the churches we were able to get into, you had to bring your own candle, and there were none for purchase nearby. We did light candles in a church in Barcelona after purchasing them at the front, but I didn't take photos. There were also a lot of electric vigil lights which we never lit, not on principle, but because I either didn't have change or we couldn't figure out how they worked.

But anyway, we lit candles. And they wanted to. Every church we went into, they wanted to light candles.

It was Michael who taught them and formed them in the practice, in the midst of all of our travels. They always lit candles for someone with Daddy, and he always had them pray - for my mother, for the intentions of some living person. It was never sentimental or overwrought, and if you knew Michael, you would know this. It was matter-of-fact and purposeful and, as a consequence, I think, very expressive of the faith at the heart of it. This is just true: Jesus Christ loves and redeems us, and through him we live, and to him we bring our hearts and souls, pains and joys. We tell him about it, we ask him for help, we ask his friends for help and we do this with words, with sighs, with cries, with music, with art...

and with candles.

A little child might not be able to articulate what he feels now that Daddy is gone from his earthly life. He might not be able to process what is inside and make a conscious decision, "Well, I am feeling this loss and these questions, so now I will say a prayer."

But in response to whatever is inside, entering into a place in which he is surrounded by signs and hints of what he learned, without fanfare or drama from his Daddy, speaks most strongly of lasting love, he can sense the pull to the light.

And with a little help, after letting his offering clatter into the metal or clink in the dish, after feeling the heat from a taper that got a little closer to his skin than he expected, he can respond to that pull, that nudge from past and present, and he can do it.

He can light the candle, and even if just for a moment, he can watch it. The light.



..

The agriturismo where we are staying right now has dogs and cats. Both boys are enchanted with this, but especially Michael. He races through his breakfast so he can run out and greet his friends. This makes me happy, sad, then happy again.

Happy because who doesn't want to see their child happy?




But sad because Michael - my husband- loved dogs, always wanted one, and wanted his sons to have one. But our lives never lent itself to it - we didn't live in the right kind of place, we didn't have a fence, we traveled too much - and so he never had a dog during the time we were married.

A silly regret, and perhaps about something that would not matter one bit now, for not a thing would be different. But a regret, nonetheless.


 


 


But then happy again, because his boys are delighting in these dogs, are marveling at the wonder of a fellow creature who will welcome them, be embraced, be friendly companions in the adventures of the day. Somehow, as the boys and the dogs make friends, I sense - hope? - that they are not alone.

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