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Reblog: The Viewing & The Circle of Life

In preparation for tomorrow’s keynote address at the Student Success in Writing Conference here in Savannah, I am reblogging this pertinent and moving post.  We learn, we teach, we learn.  Then we teach, we learn, we teach – indeed a Circle of Life, my readers.

 

As I mentioned in a previous post, my father-in-law passed away earlier this week. Death, of course, is difficult for anyone to cope with, but perhaps especially so for young children. Because they are still so close to birth, little beings of the morning, and because their life experience has been with newness and fresh discovery, with joy and giggles, death must seem unfathomable, foreign, outside of understanding.

But like most kids, my four-year-old grandson Daniel likes to understand: “Abu, why can’t I sit on top of your car? I could see a whole lot better.” “Abu, my teacher won’t let me bring my sword to school and fight like the blue Power Ranger. Why not?” “Why can’t I say potty words?” “Why do we have to wear clothes when it’s hot?” “Why?” “Why?” “Why?”

When his parents arrived at the funeral home north of Atlanta the other evening, they told me that Daniel had, as usual, been plying them with questions about the current subject which went beyond his grasp–his great-grandfather’s death. “But if Papa is in heaven, why will everyone be sad?” “Where IS Papa?”

I played with Daniel and his little brother Gabriel in the large kitchen area of the funeral home, where friends had brought mounds of food. Their mom and dad, Amy and Orte, walked through large white windowed doors and down a narrow hall that eventually led to a sitting room where the family received guests who came to pay their respect and offer condolences. Papa looked pre-cancerous in a striking gray suit, snow-white shirt, and brown and gray tie patterned with tiny crosses. He had been a Methodist minister in the North Georgia Conference. A large United States flag, achingly resplendent in red, white and blue liveliness, lay across the unopened lower half of the coffin. Papa was retired Air Force.

Every few minutes, Daniel ran over to tiptoe and peer through the windows of the white doors, gazing down that long hallway which twisted and turned but allowed no view of Papa. “Where are Mama and Daddy? I want to go too.” A few minutes later: “Why can’t I go in?” “Is Papa in there? Where?” “Let’s go in there, Abu.”

A while later, when we were eating lasagna in the kitchen, Daniel was still asking, asking. I made a decision, a decision you may not have made. I asked Daniel’s mom and dad if I could take him in to see Papa. They agreed, mainly (I think) because they trust me, and they know how much I love D.

I picked Daniel up and asked him if he knew what had happened to Papa. “He died,” came the quick answer. I told him that yes Papa had died. “And he’s in heaven,” Daniel added. His confusion centered on who or what was down that hall that everyone kept traversing. He wanted understanding, answers. He wanted to walk down that hall.

So we did.

The kitchen had been noisy with visitors loudly talking, eating, reminiscing, and occasionally laughing at the past. Its tiled floor amplified the clicks of my boot heels as we walked, Daniel in my arms, toward those doors, dividing doors which in my grandson’s mind led to answers. As we passed through them, my heels, like everything and everyone on that other side, grew quieter on the deep carpet.

We entered the viewing room, and walked past adults talking in hushed tones. Daniel kissed his Nana (Donna is the oldest of the four daughters of Papa), then his Great-Grandma, who sat regally next to the coffin. But his eyes were looking, searching.

Not expecting Papa to be lying down (why didn’t I think to tell him that detail?), Daniel finally found his great-grandfather.

He looked for a while, and finally asked quietly (Daniel doesn’t usually do “quiet” very well), “Is Papa sleeping?”

“No, not really sleeping. He died, remember?”

We stood there for about a minute, Daniel getting heavy in my arms.

“Are you ready to go, baby?”

“No.”

Other folks waited patiently for their turn behind us. Daniel started to lean over toward the coffin, paused and looked at me for permission (and like “quiet,” D doesn’t always do “permission” well). I nodded, and Daniel touched the white satin edges of the liner and then Papa’s right arm.

Giggling just a bit, Daniel said, “It tickles.” I smiled.

“You ready now?”

“Yes.”

We walked back through the hall, toward the kitchen. When we got to the doors, I saw through the windows my daughter Amy and Orte, waiting. I put Daniel down, and he pushed open the door. His dad asked him, “Are you okay, Daniel?”

But he was already off, running on the noisy tile, chasing his little brother. Doing “loud” once again.

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A Dollar Holler

Today I arrived in Statesboro a little early for the first day of Term A Summer classes at Georgia Southern.  Since at the end of the week I’m flying to Manhattan for a long Memorial Day weekend, I decided to run by the grocery store to pick up a few of those travel size products.  (Did you know they sell Gold Bond Powder in teeny tiny containers?!  Remind me to add that to my Five Friday Happy Bringers this week.)

Waiting in a long line (very patiently I might add), I came out of my daydreaming (about, upon my retirement, the possibility at my age of becoming either a tug boat operator on the Savannah River or a Broadway star) when I heard the following exchange between the Friendly Store Clerk and the Girl with the Puppy Tattoo in front of me.

Friendly Store Clerk:  “That’ll be $5.74, ma’am.”

Girl with the Puppy Tattoo:  “Oh gosh.”  (Fumbling frantically in purse.)  “I only have $5.00.”

[Long silence]

Friendly Store Clerk:  “Uh.  Hmm.  Well.”

At this point, it hit me that I could get us all out of this thickening and beginning-to-get embarrassing plot very simply.  But the following thoughts flew through My Mind first:

My Mind:  “If I take out my billfold, open it and don’t have a dollar, will I turn red?”

My Mind:  “What if she thinks I’m a dirty old man?”

My Mind:  “What if Friendly Store Clerk gets unfriendly and belligerent?”

My Mind:  “I’m too shy to do this.”

My Mind:  “Which would bring in more money, Tugboat operator or Broadway star?”

(Okay, kidding about that last one.)

Well, I looked at my shoes, and decided to Just Do It.  I opened my wallet, breathed a sigh of relief that I had a one dollar bill and (feeling like an adult child of Mother Theresa and Donald Trump), handed GWPT the dollar.  Her eyes increased in wattage as she took it and presented it to the SMILING Friendly Store Clerk.

“Have a blessed day, sir,” the Girl with the Puppy Tattoo said.

And that was that.  I walked out with my teensy powder,  having answered a dollar holler.

Posted in Affirmations, Uncategorized

Our Natural State

I LOVE this quote and believe it to be SO true:

“Our natural state of being is joy, and it takes so much energy to think negative thoughts, to speak negative words, and to feel miserable. The easy path is good thoughts, good words, and good deeds.  Take the easy path.”                                              — Rhonda Byrne

Do you accept the premise that our most natural (and most transformationally powerful) way to live our lives is in Joy?  And that it is actually easier to think happy thoughts as opposed to unhappy ones?  And that it FEELS better to be happy than to be sad, or angry, or frustrated?  I do … 92% of the time.