Blame Faith
The kids and I just returned from a week long visit to sweet home Chicago. It was a good visit filled with family and friends and more fun than Mickey and his World. Or at least almost as much fun. But regardless of all the fun, there was a death and dying theme to almost every day we were gone. Seems like death has been making abnormally frequent rounds, hovering over like a gray cloud on a windless day.
As usual, it takes a child to point out the most obvious of life's lessons.
The sole purpose of this visit was to see my oldest, dear friend Holly and her kids. They live all the way on the other coast so a meeting half way in Chicago was convenient. Holly, pictured here because she told me that I could NOT put a picture of her on my blog and I really wanted to show her that just like my grandma taught me I can do anything I set my mind to, is a tall, athletically thin, gorgeous blonde who makes this short, squat, dumpy, old fat housewife look even shorter, squatter, and dumpier. She lives in an insanely huge mansion with her close to perfect husband and three great kids. She's got a fabulous, practically together life and I'd be pea green with envy but for the fact that she lost her mom in April to a brain tumor. To me, after, of course, losing a kid or spouse, losing one's mom has got to be the suckiest shit to swallow down.
Now, most of us, at some point, will have to bury our moms. Tis part of the natural course of life. But Holly's mom was 60 -- too old to be young, but too young to be dead. As we frolicked with our kids at Holly's mom's house in the woods, I was plagued by a melancholy itch that her mom should be there, even if just to remind us to keep the kids' shoes off her sofa. She's missing out on grandkids and gray hair, rocking chairs and wrinkles, highballs and hair appointments. She didn't bury her own mother or see her granddaughters graduate from the kindergarten. She missed out on life, good and bad.
I talked to Holly's much older stepdad about his second wade through grief and realized he's still mired in shock at having to bury the young wife he thought would nurse him in his elderly years. His gut is racked and his hands too idle after years of nursing the wives he has outlived. The whole situation just doesn't seem right or fair.
On the last day of our visit, Holly and I took all the kids up to visit the family of an old high school friend. Bob died in September of last year leaving a huge, gaping hole in the lives of his stunningly beautiful wife and two most awesome boys. Coincidentally, it was a brain tumor that also took Bob. When I found out about Bob's passing through an ailing high school grapevine kept alive by the ever so curious Holly, I was stunned with the sorrow that filled my heart. I hadn't talked to Bob in almost 20 years. We both walked out of high school and never turned back, even for the 10 year reunion. I'm sure he thought about me about as often as I did him -- just about never. If even that often. But something about his death just hit me below the belt and I was left gasping.
Around about Christmas, I contacted Bob's widow, Andrea. Immediately we hit it off. I really liked her and, quite frankly, I don't like most people. Our kids connected, too. In fact, it was their sons' picture that Reilly Kate packed with her when she tried to run away. As we sat in Bob's dream home on the 10th hole of a suburban golf course, perusing his senior year yearbook, chatting about life and kids and death and kids, I was struck by how much I missed Bob. Not for me. For him. For his kids. For his wife. I shouldn't be sitting in that kitchen, I thought. He should be. So much was stolen from them all, I wanted to find the culprit.
Andrea and I have remained friends, exchanging occasional emails and visiting whenever I'm in town. Our kids seem strangely close, without the usual fighting over toys or bickering and teasing that accompanies young children thrust together practically unsupervised while their mothers sit chatting. Many times over the past few months I've thanked Bob for bringing us together while whole heartedly wishing he never had.
On the drive back from our visit, Reilly Kate asked me why Nathan and Wesley's dad had to die. "He had a brain tumor," I told her. "Like GG, he got sick and the doctors couldn't make him well and he died."
"But why?" she asked again.
"I guess that's God's plan, baby," I offered.
"I hate God's plan!" she exclaimed at a volume close to a yell. "It's stupid!" she continued while kicking the seat.
"Reilly Kate!" I was shocked not just at her words but by the very real anger that accompanied them.
"I do! I hate it! I hate it and it's stupid. God's stupid!"
I knew I had to do something to try to explain the unexplainable. Five years old is just too young to lose faith in a just and loving God.
"It isn't stupid, sweetie. There's a reason-" I was cut off.
"Yeah, I know," she interrupted. "People die to make room for new people," she said, dripping with disdain. "But he wasn't even old! It's not fair!"
"No, it isn't," I agreed.
"See? That's why it's stupid," she said.
I had nothing to say to that. It is stupid. It isn't fair. It sucks. And sometimes maybe God is stupid.
She settled into her carseat with MP3 player to gaze out the window. About 15 minutes later I heard her singing to her VBS songs.
"I'm trading my sickness...I'm trading my pain...I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord..."
I guess her faith isn't shattered after all. I wish I could say the same for mine.
As usual, it takes a child to point out the most obvious of life's lessons.
The sole purpose of this visit was to see my oldest, dear friend Holly and her kids. They live all the way on the other coast so a meeting half way in Chicago was convenient. Holly, pictured here because she told me that I could NOT put a picture of her on my blog and I really wanted to show her that just like my grandma taught me I can do anything I set my mind to, is a tall, athletically thin, gorgeous blonde who makes this short, squat, dumpy, old fat housewife look even shorter, squatter, and dumpier. She lives in an insanely huge mansion with her close to perfect husband and three great kids. She's got a fabulous, practically together life and I'd be pea green with envy but for the fact that she lost her mom in April to a brain tumor. To me, after, of course, losing a kid or spouse, losing one's mom has got to be the suckiest shit to swallow down.
Now, most of us, at some point, will have to bury our moms. Tis part of the natural course of life. But Holly's mom was 60 -- too old to be young, but too young to be dead. As we frolicked with our kids at Holly's mom's house in the woods, I was plagued by a melancholy itch that her mom should be there, even if just to remind us to keep the kids' shoes off her sofa. She's missing out on grandkids and gray hair, rocking chairs and wrinkles, highballs and hair appointments. She didn't bury her own mother or see her granddaughters graduate from the kindergarten. She missed out on life, good and bad.
I talked to Holly's much older stepdad about his second wade through grief and realized he's still mired in shock at having to bury the young wife he thought would nurse him in his elderly years. His gut is racked and his hands too idle after years of nursing the wives he has outlived. The whole situation just doesn't seem right or fair.
On the last day of our visit, Holly and I took all the kids up to visit the family of an old high school friend. Bob died in September of last year leaving a huge, gaping hole in the lives of his stunningly beautiful wife and two most awesome boys. Coincidentally, it was a brain tumor that also took Bob. When I found out about Bob's passing through an ailing high school grapevine kept alive by the ever so curious Holly, I was stunned with the sorrow that filled my heart. I hadn't talked to Bob in almost 20 years. We both walked out of high school and never turned back, even for the 10 year reunion. I'm sure he thought about me about as often as I did him -- just about never. If even that often. But something about his death just hit me below the belt and I was left gasping.
Around about Christmas, I contacted Bob's widow, Andrea. Immediately we hit it off. I really liked her and, quite frankly, I don't like most people. Our kids connected, too. In fact, it was their sons' picture that Reilly Kate packed with her when she tried to run away. As we sat in Bob's dream home on the 10th hole of a suburban golf course, perusing his senior year yearbook, chatting about life and kids and death and kids, I was struck by how much I missed Bob. Not for me. For him. For his kids. For his wife. I shouldn't be sitting in that kitchen, I thought. He should be. So much was stolen from them all, I wanted to find the culprit.
Andrea and I have remained friends, exchanging occasional emails and visiting whenever I'm in town. Our kids seem strangely close, without the usual fighting over toys or bickering and teasing that accompanies young children thrust together practically unsupervised while their mothers sit chatting. Many times over the past few months I've thanked Bob for bringing us together while whole heartedly wishing he never had.
On the drive back from our visit, Reilly Kate asked me why Nathan and Wesley's dad had to die. "He had a brain tumor," I told her. "Like GG, he got sick and the doctors couldn't make him well and he died."
"But why?" she asked again.
"I guess that's God's plan, baby," I offered.
"I hate God's plan!" she exclaimed at a volume close to a yell. "It's stupid!" she continued while kicking the seat.
"Reilly Kate!" I was shocked not just at her words but by the very real anger that accompanied them.
"I do! I hate it! I hate it and it's stupid. God's stupid!"
I knew I had to do something to try to explain the unexplainable. Five years old is just too young to lose faith in a just and loving God.
"It isn't stupid, sweetie. There's a reason-" I was cut off.
"Yeah, I know," she interrupted. "People die to make room for new people," she said, dripping with disdain. "But he wasn't even old! It's not fair!"
"No, it isn't," I agreed.
"See? That's why it's stupid," she said.
I had nothing to say to that. It is stupid. It isn't fair. It sucks. And sometimes maybe God is stupid.
She settled into her carseat with MP3 player to gaze out the window. About 15 minutes later I heard her singing to her VBS songs.
"I'm trading my sickness...I'm trading my pain...I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord..."
I guess her faith isn't shattered after all. I wish I could say the same for mine.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 7:55 PM
4 Comments:
hmm did Bob have a little gorgeous sister named Keri? Just curious if you knew/know. Either way it is quite sad and it's leaving me wondering a few things.. I know 1 guy who just got through prostate cancer at 30, another who had a stoke at 26 is now 30 and paralyzed from the waist down, another girl from my class as well that is 30 and has an inoperable brain tumor and has x months to live.. insanity.. there are more stories like that amongst the stories of so many people from my class meeting horrible fates including Browns Chicken, having a heart attack during gym falling off the shelf and showing up to the hospital DOA, murders, drive by shooting victims, suicide.. I'm going with my theory that sucks but more and more people have agreed with that people from Palatine are cursed...
That's sad. We just never know how long we have.
And it IS stupid, but I'm a firm believer that even crap events teach us lessons, even when we're 5. :)
She sounds so wise for 5.
My mom died in 1986 when she was only 31 years old. I am 31 now and I feel the gaping hole she left stronger and stronger everyday as I raise my children and see what all she missed out on and is still missing out on with her grandchildren. I feel what it was like for her as a mom. To give birth. To hold her newborn. To watch her child's personalities develop. I really miss her.
Rena
"Bread and butter."
I am right into the TV show "Monk" these days. In one episode it was explained that Monk's dead wife's last words to him were "Bread and butter." At the end of the episode Monk explained how while she was alive his wife would say this when she had to let go of his hand or unlink arms for a short time during a walk with him. I guess because bread and butter just go together. So she said this to him just before dying because she was only letting go of him for a short time.
So I guess if you really have faith that the "undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns" is a good place, and we can meet our friends and loved ones again, then God's plan doesn't seem quite as stupid.
It still sucks when people go young though.
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