Passages

It is – as the song goes – the bleak mid-winter. There’s no green, no new life, no rainbows. There’s cold, there’s wind…..and there’s the thousand and one things to do every day so that our lives function. How easy it is to get caught up in the perpetual to-do list, and never stop and reflect on the actual moments that make up our lives.

I’m cold today – it’s cold in my house. I made pea soup and toasted rye bread. And even relaxed with a favorite book and a cup of tea. And then awoke with my thoughts, actually hearing them, welcoming them. My daughters are upstairs, playing – and my son fell asleep in my arms and is now wrapped in an afghan on my chair.

It is the beginning of February. It is three years since I watched my father’s life force fade away to join those that had gone before. He had just turned 90, and had Alzheimer’s disease, as well as other severe health problems. My mother nursed him at home, as she had my grandmother and grandfather before him. And I, as I had done the other two times, returned to join her in the death watch.

It’s what we do. And, difficult as it is, there is a blessing in it. A peace. A comfort.

It was different this time. I had left three young children home with their father, who had been laid off and was having a difficult time finding another position. I had taken a part-time job and was waiting to begin a full-time one, as well. My mind and heart were filled with my dying father, my grieving mother, and my own fears and terrors about the well-being of my family. The edges blurred together, impossible to separate.

My father stopped breathing in the dead of night – and the silence echoed after him. My mother and I began our now-familiar ritual. We called the home-health nurse, and while waiting for her we straightened the room, put away supplies, gathered medicines. The nurse arrived and pronounced, then called the funeral home. We went through medicines and paperwork and drank tea while we waited.

For the third time, Donny Hicks arrived in our home in the dead of night, letting cold air blow in as he wheeled a loved one away. Funny as it sounds – there was comfort in his familiar presence. The hospital bed was stripped, tables were returned to their non-sick duty and we drank coffee as the sun rose.

Calls were made – to family and friends and medical equipment people. I wrote the obituary and accompanied my mother to the funeral home for final arrangements. Two days later I returned alone, and carried my father’s ashes in the car seat next to mine.

And then I returned to my home, to needy children and a to-do list and overdue bills and phone calls. The next day I added a full-time job. The first time I’d worked, full-time, for someone other than myself in fifteen years. For the next year I raced madly from obligation to obligation, never stopping to think, to feel, to dream.

Even when the madness of the two jobs had ended, the neediness of home and family filled my moments and my days. I had been away from my children for so long, missed so much. It took years before my sense of self and my own dreams came back into focus.

And now I realize I’ve never really focused on my father’s life and death – and I need to do so. It’s confusing to talk about my father – he had several distinct personalities – all of them different.

For his public personality: he was a United Methodist Minister for over fifty years – and people loved him. Truly. Everywhere I go folks are getting teary eyed over my father, telling me how much he meant to them, how much he helped them, how much love he gave them. He was well read and knowledgeable, able to converse about politics, history and so on. He was unbeatable at trivia games, scrabble and crossword puzzles. He adored my mother, and hated to be away from her. He would never be out long, unless she was with him. He was a man well-loved by the community.

And then there was me.

He entered my life when I was in second grade, and seemed to like me well enough. I was too little to understand the drama going on behind closed doors. Yet, as the years progressed, it was obvious that my father’s devotion did not extend to me, the step-child. I got in the way. It was more like getting a brother that vied for parental attention, and would stop at nothing to be “in favor” while ensuring I was “in trouble”. His capacity for manipulation was nothing short of incredible. And yet I still turned myself in circles trying to please him, trying to win favor. The funny thing was, he continually spoke about his childhood, about how his parents didn’t want him and didn’t love him. Or maybe it wasn’t funny.

College gave us distance and improved the relationship. Except for the one time I made the mistake of moving back home – after my grandfather died – we enjoyed a light, casual friendship. We joked, we laughed, we talked. He was thrilled when I finally married (probably because it meant I would never return home again) and seemed to really enjoy my children.

It would be so easy to say the problems in our relationship were caused because I was the step-child, not of his blood. Except….he has two children from his first marriage that I finally got to know after I was married. From their stories I realize that I had the better relationship with the man. How sad is that? Did growing up without love make him incapable of giving it? He could be supportive with folks in the church and the community – but not his children. Did he envy us, because we had a better childhood? Did he ever, ever realize what he had thrown away?

Is this our cue to hug our children, love them deeply, honor their strengths and their spirits so that they can better love and guide the generation to come?

And how does this help me sum up the 90 years my father walked the earth?

I know his life made a difference to many, many people. His life had meaning, had purpose. He certainly gave my mother the encompassing love she needed. We had a Life Celebration Party for him and my mother a few months before he died, and over a hundred people arrived to show their love and respect – many driving long distances.

He wasn’t perfect, he was flawed. And yet, once I was grown, his flaws didn’t seem to matter as much. They were to be chuckled over and enjoyed (accompanied by wild eye-rolling on occasion). They were part of him.

He’s been gone three years, yet I still hear his dumb jokes and puns echoing through my mind. My children still talk about missing him – although the youngest was just three when he passed.

And…I’ve become a minister, of sorts. A certified wedding officiant, capable of officiating at marriages, funerals, baby namings, etc. I enjoy it – it completes a part of me. This spring I’ll be officiating at a friend’s wedding, filling in for my father who had performed all of the other weddings in this family for the past thirty-five years.

And so the circle continues, and the flame is passed. And this time, it’s passed with love.