an·ni·ver·sa·ry [an-uh-vur-suh-ree] noun: 1. the yearly recurrence of the date of a past event; 2. the celebration or commemoration of such a date.
I don't like to use the word "anniversary" for today, but what else would I call it? The "death day?" Nearly Headless Nick, a ghost in Harry Potter, had a Deathday party. I engage in dark humor from time to time -- and could possibly use this term with a few people -- but most people would probably balk. Today is David's Deathday! Let's celebrate? Well, how 'bout we just commemorate ... It's easier to celebrate the person who has died on their BIRTHday, right? (Honestly, you can do whatever you want to remember one whom is your beloved.) I try to celebrate David's life every day. Today I remember him, yes -- but I mostly remember the day that he died -- and the day before he died. I don't want to spend a lot of time remembering that, but it's important that I do from time to time. Like today.
My daughter wrote a long email to me the other day. She had been journaling and contemplating how she has progressed -- adjusted -- worked through her grief -- these last two years. She wrote that a year ago today was more of a "horrifying benchmark." Her benchmark was a reference point by which she could measure or judge her recovery -- and she was surprised and delighted to realize that she COULD measure it -- that she had experienced healing, calming and acceptance on a few levels. I had never thought of a "death day" serving as a benchmark, but it really does. How many Mother's Days passed until I didn't weep? (My mother died on May 11 -- yeh.) Twenty-eight Mother's Days have passed and still, I weep ... but differently than I did 24 years ago (which was more like bawling). My grandmother wept every single year on Christmas Day as we sat around our tree unwrapping love from each other. I remember the day she told me why. I had always figured they were "general" sentimental tears; I had not known her mother had died on December 25. Now I, too, commemorate the death of my great-grandmother each Christmas Day.
turning point: [noun] 1. a point at which a decisive change takes place; critical point; 2. a point at which something changes direction. This blog was a turning point for me. My daughter's email was a turning point for her. My son's haircut was a turning point for him, at least I think so ... Not all turning points are good, of course, but my little family seems to have pivoted of late in more hopeful directions because of time. Turn, Turn, Turn, by King Solomon and Pete Seeger (Ecclesiastes 3), expounds on this concept of time. 1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; 4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
Dancing ... not so much yet. On rare occasion I can be found dancing in my kitchen with my kids when we're playing some loud, fun music after dinner while doing the dishes or something. That used to be a common occurence for me. I think dancing requires a good degree of joyfulness to make it worth the energy. I see glimpses of joy from time to time these days and, so, can be found dancing for a few minutes here and there. Friends of ours have been holding "dance parties." They're actually fund raisers for a really good cause, but I can't imagine going to one. I get this image of myself boogy'ing with a black veil over my face and that pretty much answers the question of whether or not I'm ready for public dancing. Nope. Not yet. Maybe never, if I'm going to be completely honest. A time to dance -- in my own kitchen. Sure! With a purpose under heaven? Who knows.
Laughing ... has marked progress, adjustment, acceptance for me. I discovered myself having so much fun with some formidable church ladies one night a few weeks ago that I stepped away from myself and looked upon us with near awe. Was that ME laughing with so much freedom? Smiling with a natural happiness that I had not known for years? Yes, I believe that WAS me, putting some space between measured reservedness and joy. A turning point for sure.
I found this definition for joy. It stinks!
joy [joi] noun: 1. the emotion of great delight or happiness caused by something exceptionally good or satisfying; keen pleasure; elation; 2. a source or cause of keen pleasure or delight; something or someone greatly valued or appreciated; 3. the expression or display of glad feeling; festive gaiety; 4. a state of happiness or felicity.
There certainly isn't much depth in any of those! I can achieve that with a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting! I was hoping for something a bit more meaningful -- along the lines of a Fruits of the Spirit kind of joy. Hmmm. I found a more satisfying description at www.bible-knowledge.com: Joy: 1.Great delight; gladness of heart; 2.The happy state that results from knowing and serving God; 3.That deep, abiding, inner rejoicing in the Lord; 4.To rejoice, to be glad; 5.Happy, joyful, cheerful, rejoicing, festive.
Yeh, that's more like it. I'm all for happiness, but joy means something different to me. Isaiah 42:10-11 lays it out pretty well. Interestingly, through song :-) Back in college our touring choir sang this antiphonally from the aisles in the chapel -- it was amazing -- it was joyful. David was singing across the aisle. It made me want to dance.
Sing to the Lord a new song,
his praise from the end of the earth!
Let the sea roar and all that fills it,
the coastlands and their inhabitants.
Let the desert and its towns lift up their voice,
the villages that Kedar inhabits;
Let the inhabitants of Sela sing for joy,
let them shout from the tops of the mountains.
I keep seeting glimpses of potential joy -- the kind that makes you want to shout from the tops of the mountains. It's out there. Little turning points will help me zig-zag my way up there ... in time, when it is time. I'm poised and alert and ready to start. One cupcake at a time ...
I had a wonderful authentic Roman dinner tonight. It made me remember the hours I spent there with you, David -- first as 25 year olds -- then as parents of teens in the throws of chemotherapy. Tonight I had a wonderful meal served by Francesca, who desperately tried to understand pasta a la carretteria, that perfect meal I had in Rome. Instead she brought me a delicious chicken dish. We had a wonderful red wine and I remembered your pouring the balsamic into our glasses -- only to discover that it wasn't our wine! I miss you.
No comments:
Post a Comment