The Bears ( no not those...)

We were a silly couple.  We had 2 bears that we adopted.  The first one was a little bear named Boo – found in a Montreal drug store – siting on a glass shelf – crying out to be adopted.  And so we did.  She evens has tee-shirt with her name on it.
Boo.

She became our constant companion and avid co-traveler.  She came with us whenever and wherever  we traveled – always in the carryon bag – she had to breathe you know.

Eventually she gained a voice -  sarcastic – caustic at times, always funny and right to the point.  Feed me, she would say – I want what you had for dinner.  And a beer. I’m French Canadian, after all…   FEED ME. 

And she always had something to say, usually in Glenn’s comic voice. Sometimes mine.
Eventually we adopted a Yogi to go with her Boo – I’m sure you get it.

Yogi was always the quieter of the two – never complaining about the lack of beer – or food – or traveling with us – Boo would be the voice for them both – unlike the 2 of us.

She had own style.

 Until 10 months and 2 days ago.

The voice stopped that day.  The day the music died.

She has not spoken since the day I came back from the hospital.   I didn’t have to tell her – she knew – and so did he. 

No voice since that day. Silence. They still sit in the living room in their own respective chairs. Guarding what, I’m not sure.  But silent. And it is eerie to say the least.

And heartbreaking. We were Yogi and Boo, stealing picinic baskets and always on the lookout for Ranger Smith.

 But no more.

Ouch that hurts.
 

The Red Pickup

I’m not sure why this caught my attention – but it did – well, maybe I do.

On my way back and forth between one town and another, I pass by an old farm house.  Often there is a red pickup parked in the lane.  The house is old, decrepit, weathered, paint peeling – you get the picture – like something you would see in old photos of the dust bowl depression. 

And I wonder – who lives there? Do you ever do that? Wonder about houses you past -  maybe on a country road at night – yellow light streaming from old windows - or maybe not so old – but I wonder.  Who lives there – what is their story – what are they doing – are they arguing? Making love with the lights one? Who knows ...

But this house, for some reason, captures my imagination – and I think maybe an old person – or two, but probably one – the son comes to visit once in a while – out of duty perhaps.

 The pickup is not there every day. 

And then I notice the yard – trash everywhere – like a tornado hit – and no red pickup. Stuff strewn everywhere – I can’t tell what it all is – but it is obviously stuff dredged from inside the house – and now the windows are boarded up. 

Someone died.  I’m sure if it.  A parent – Mother? Father?  Maybe an Aunt or Uncle.  That could be me someday – all alone and losing it – out of touch with reality – hoarding – living in my memories - I hope not – but could be.
But anyway - I wonder. 

And then I see the bull dozer in the yard.

It sits there for a few days.

And then the demolition begins. I had noticed the boarded up windows a bit ago.
It didn’t take very long – a couple of days – and leveled – gone – as if it never existed – all the trash – the house – gone. Even the trees that were alongside the house – gone.

A piece of someone’s history – gone.  As if it never existed.

But of course – it did, for someone, exist, that is.  The person in the red pickup -  who was that person? How do they feel about erasing a piece of their history – and that of their (assumed) loved one?

Will that be me?

It happens all too frequently – left over people. Bull dozed out of memory. Whether it is a boarded up old house or a stagnant room in a nursing home - and I’ve seen more than my share of these.

Do unto the least of these and you do it to me.

Is this what we do to Jesus? Because we do it to our left over loved ones.

Left overs – like the overripe bowl of mashed potatoes in the back of the frig. The science experiment in the covered container.

I have to admit – that is my greatest fear – being left over, forgotten, bulldozed out of memory. But even more than that - what will happen to Hunter if this all happens to me before he is gone?


Ouch, that hurts.

tired

I’m tired.  Bone tired. Emotionally drained. Spiritually depleted. Physically tired and hurting. Tired.
This afternoon’s nap only made it worse.  I woke up wanting only to go back to sleep.

I officiated at my first funeral since Glenn died. I was doing ok until today.  Meeting with family, planning liturgy – got it.

The words of the liturgy got stuck in my throat – the sermon? I almost couldn’t do it – but of course I had to.  Words that I know folks want/need to hear – I know what I ‘should’ say. But it was almost like (well it was like) an out of body experience  -  who is this person saying these things? Surely, not I? Says Peter and Judas and the rest............

Given that this is the Easter season -  talk of new life and eternal life and resurrection and all of that. ………..what?  How do you preach what you are not sure you believe?

It’s not that I don’t – I’m just not sure any more. Kinda like Thomas………

And so of course my mind goes off in a thousand thousand different directions.
I was thinking about my mother’s funeral – and the overwhelming sense of peace that I felt that day. I still remember… it was a comfort then – and is now – as least as far as her death is concerned.

 It hasn’t happened since then – not once – not even close.

 That sense of peace is elusive and I wish – just for a moment.

free image 

This is such hard work – no wonder I’m tired.

 And I know that some of what I do is not healthy - I know this - and yet I can’t not.  Heart and brain are on two different planets…. Two different time dimensions…

 So what is one to do?  Not every moment is a train wreck - there are moments - fleeting moments of ‘not sad’ - not exactly joy – but not sad.   Sometimes that’s as good as it gets.  There are moments of laughter – and enjoyment – but not today.

There are moments when friends come out of the woodwork with a word of comfort  - or a glass of Easter champagne… because why not?

Time will heal the wounds of grief ‘they’ say… no it won’t.  Scab over maybe, but not heal.  How do you heal a gash so deep that it cuts through your very core, breaks you into little pieces like Humpty Dumpty?

But today that thin scab got torn away. The memories of the day of his funeral were both in front of and in back of my mind – all day.  I hope I pastored well enough – I think so …

But I will persevere -because I have to – I have work to do – and of course there is Hunter – he’ll let me know if I’m not doing what I should…

 But I’m tired.  Bone tired. Emotionally drained. Spiritually depleted. Physically tired and hurting. Tired.