6 a.m. came way too early for me this morning, perhaps because it was well after 1 a.m. when I fell asleep. Would have been earlier if I had not said my prayers, but I needed to say my prayers. All of them. Scale tipped horribly high this morning, but that's expected. Too many tastes to savor in this season. We don't really celebrate out of abundance so much as extravagance these days, though I suppose both are true. Perhaps a hundred years ago, being fat was a sign of great success. You had not only enough to eat, but so much that you could eat too much if you wanted to. People who survived the wars in Europe still have a bit of greater respect for fat people...they know more about starving than most of here on the other side of the pond. Me, I put on my stretchy clothes and make promises to change my ways. But now, a hundred years later, skinny is a sign of wealth. Skinny is a sign you have money for your hobby to exercise, you have a personal trainer, and a dietitian who plans your meals for you, and it's all grown organically...I wonder what we will be like a hundred years from now.
Mostly over my head were thoughts of my son, looking at him and wondering if he was missing his father. Of course he is, but those conversations are for his wife, not his mother. Still, I wonder. Little grandson crawled into my lap while I was trying to eat a little bit of chocolate pie. A lady at the end of the table was complimenting my diamond ring. She noticed the different one I wore on Thanksgiving. I was kind of surprised that she noticed them, because I have worn them for years. Little grandson crawled into my lap, "Did Grandpa Bob give you that ring, Nana?" "No, my uncle gave it to my aunt and my aunt gave it to me." He is the one who is always asking about my connection with his grandfather. He is always reinforcing for me, which is in many ways comforting, that we were connected. Still, I look across the table at my son and want to know if he is okay...and I want the chance to miss his father, but those things just aren't allowed. I am required to "move on." Society dictates how we are allowed to grieve, and if we are allowed to grieve. Once, it was okay to talk about it...a hundred years ago, we handled it differently.
[I think of the move "Captains Courageous"...1937 movie. Spencer Tracy won his first Oscar when he made this movie. The link I put here earlier was filled with too many errors, so I deleted it. ]
Suddenly, I see Harvey (played by Freddy Bartholomew) kneeling at the communion rail in a Catholic Church, using his money that he earned as part of the crew (after being rescued in the north Atlantic) to light a candle for Manuel (played by Spencer Tracy), his "father/protector", who died in the journey back to the Gloucester.
He lights a candle and prays. I love the movie. A rich little boy with a father too busy to be bothered by childish things finds a father in a poor Portuguese sailor (yes the review claims he is Italian), who speaks about his father, also a fisherman, who died on the sea. Manuel grieves his father by playing a musical instrument (a hurdy gurdy, I think) his father played, making up his own little songs because he has no formal education. Harvey cries, as the priest (a father) allows him space to be sad and his real father (who has distanced himself from his son after his wife died) hides quietly in back of the church and watches and learns what it is to love.
I have tried to get several priests to watch this movie, without success. I wanted for years to give the movie to "Grandpa Bob," hoping it would kind of catalyze him into spending more time with his son...but all those chances are over now...and my getting angry again over all the missed opportunities is just a waste of energy. Yet, it is my grief. And it is very, very real. I am aware that perhaps two men have loved me completely in my life, and I can take that to my grave, grow comfort from it as I let go of this earthly life...and one of the two has gone on to his next thing and I really miss him.
Still, I am so deeply aware of how significant it became for us to not remain together. I look at the little boy on my lap, not able to understand how "some people can love and then leave and go do something else--I have no idea what he thinks and why he keeps asking the questions--perhaps he expects me to have a replacement, I can't be sure. But it is a mystery to be solved. I am taken by his thoughts...and think of who I am now. It all does seem to have greater meaning, when you take the time to reflect. That the passion of one thing evolves into another.
Who I am now, I do like so much better than who I was then. And I see the gifts and blessings brought through that darkness. I always wanted to do "great things" and I am doing them now...in small and often unnoticeable ways...which is better...because I do not like people to expect anything from me. I don't want that kind of pressure. In fact, I simply refuse it.
But I was moved by the story about the child, whose family is fighting to keep on life support. An interesting story because it is very similar to a case in Florida some years back about a husband who wanted to take his wife off the ventilator to let her die, because she was brain dead...and now this child, who has been declared brain dead; a judge has ruled that the hospital can take her off life support...the difference, of course, is about money. The husband's wife still had money to pay for the many years on life support. The child's family obviously does not.
Harvey's father had enough money to buy a fleet of ships, but did not know how to father his own child. The poor man, who had nothing but love, could love the boy, father the boy.The husband in Florida was ready to let his wife go, and get on with his life. Her parents were not. The child here has family not ready to let her go, but no money to pay the bills. And the hospital is losing money every day that child stays on life support.
Who are we...to have the power to choose life or death? Is the bottom line of what we are as human beings totally dependent on money? What do these choices, and stories tell us about who we are?
This new Pope is being criticized by rich people for suggesting that we, as human beings, are responsible for our brothers and sisters. He has chosen to take the opulence of the church down a notch and care for the poor. This has outraged some people who think throwing money at "ungrateful" people is bad business. Not entering into the speculation of whether the little girl is alive or dead, I ask instead, how to we help the living live? Grief is a huge part of our lives. Every time we choose to love, we must accept an eventual goodbye. How do we say good-bye? How do we let go?
The child born in the manger came for one purpose: to set people free to love. That child came so that He could leave...and teach us how to love...and how to leave...and that we had some place to go when our bodies wore out. That our souls are immortal...and they have the potential to know joy. Or hell. It all comes down to that little child, lying in a manger, on what was a dark night, bringing hope to the hungry and the grieving, to the exhausted and the lonely, to the sick and the outcast...reminding every single human being that our lives matter. What we do while we are here matters. And heaven or hell rests completely in the choices we make.
People who have money as their god do not want to be told that money is their god, but if we who know differently do not tell that truth then we are guilty of an even greater evil: pride. It is a fine line, to speak the truth with clarity...and to not let it become a weapon. Only one person did it right...and he did it so well, we cannot stop thinking about him, even if we don't like him.
Love is like that.
It wounds.
It heals.
It redeems.
Think about that child today. Think about the children you know...and the child inside you.
Love them gently. Love them all.
Stranger things have happened...
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