Matt's best man at his wedding was Jason. Jason, the Peace Corps volunteer, the artist, and the constant friend. Matt began a friendship with Jason that extended to Jason's family. Jason's Mom and Dad and younger sister, all became a second family to him, a very stable family when he needed it. Jason's parents, Ann and Randy, very graciously and lovingly stepped in and filled a gap that Matthew was experiencing at a very difficult time in his life, and were able to strike the balance between being confidantes, while at the same time not trying to become de facto parents. Jason's family took Matt with them to their lake house, and Randy taught Matt how to water ski - or at least tried to. Jason's parents were also very generous, not only with their time, but with their material resources, and as a high school graduation present, sent the two of them on a trip to Scotland - truly a gift of a lifetime. Jason's parents were always spoken of together - "Randy and Ann," or "Ann and Randy." It is hard to think of one without thinking immediately of the other.
Tragically, Randy died last week. He took a terrible fall down the stairs at their home and died less than 24 hours later as a result of the injuries incurred. We have all been in a state of shock, and trying to take it all in; knowing that as deep as our own grief may be, the lives of Randy's family - including his own wonderful parents - have been dealt an even more serious blow - far beyond our own capability to imagine. Yet this is the first loss of this kind by "The Four Horsemen." They are each trying to deal with it in their own way, and each is experiencing pain and grief that comes out of losing someone who was very special, and so very important in their lives.
Grief is an inevitable part of life. We all face the death of family and/or friends at some point in our lives, but even knowing that it will happen is not a preparation for the enormous sense of loss that is experienced. The long fatal illness of a loved one is supposed to prepare you for the inevitable, but it never really does. Because no matter how prepared you think you are for a loved one's death, you cannot imagine that staggering finality until it actually happens. Tragic, sudden loss takes you completely unaware. The world tips over. Even knowing that life holds no guarantees for tomorrow, most of us exist in our own world of the willful ignorance of our mortality - we act as though there will always be another tomorrow, that we will always have another day in which to love and live. When that rug of confidence is pulled out from beneath us, we fall; because even knowing what we know about the inevitability of death, we are still surprised by it. W. H. Auden, in his poignant poem "Funeral Blues," speaks eloquently of that all-pervasive sense of loss:
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
The sorrow expressed in Auden's poem is a common feeling during the first few weeks and months following the death of a family member or close friend. It seems impossible that the sun could come up in the morning ever again, because your own sun seems to have vanished. There is also denial. After the death of the father of one of my own friends, and also at the death of my own father, I dreamed they were somehow alive again. So real were the dreams, that each morning I had to face and experience anew the reality of their death. Pain attacked again and again. That all-encompassing sense of grief was ever-present, surgically sharp and precisely cutting into every aspect of life. It is unbearable, yet borne: grief simply is.
Offering a word of consolation to anyone experiencing grief is next to impossible, but most of us long to be able to give some comfort, to offer some respite from the heartbreak. Those words, sincerely offered and gratefully received, still do not wield a magic wand of inner peace or a lifting of bereavement. A terrible hole is carved out of a grieving soul's heart, and it is a hole that can never be filled, or gotten over, but it is one that you learn eventually to accommodate into your life. As time passes the joyful remembrances can block out or dull the sharp feelings of loss. Life does go on, and we wonder why it does, yet we wake each morning, and somehow continue to exist, to carry on. Grief is still constant in its attention, it is around and within us, grief simply is.
St. Paul tells us in Philippians 4: "4Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! 5Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. 6Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. 7And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. 8Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things...And the God of peace will be with you." He goes on to say in verse 11: "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. 12I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. 13I can do everything through the One who gives me strength." (Italics are mine)
God does offer us strength for the journey through grief. While grief often simply is, it is God's perfect love that always was, always is, and always will be.
As ever, Gentle Reader, I wish you enough...
that the basement is a penthouse, I went back on the internet, and downloaded Picasa 3. Now there's a program on my level. Any three (or 59) year old could figure this one out. John, I appreciate your confidence in me being able to use the GIMP program (he said "play around with it...you'll catch on!" RIGHT!), but 9 out of 10 lines of the instructions are completely beyond me...I mean, they assume an awful lot...like maybe I know a camera lens from my elbow. Well, sorry! I haven't figured that out yet either. You see I have arrived at the humbling fact of my life: I am never quite so dumb as when I think I'm smart.
. He had seen the movie
, and heard parts of it in that film. From then on, he tried to find the opportunity to sing it with a large choir and orchestra. His freshman year in college, he finally succeeded in talking the local community choir director into presenting the Requiem as the program for the year. He became a member of the chorus because of that. He had the piece fairly well memorized almost before rehearsals began because he had been listening to his cassette recording for so many years. He was ready! Now, the Requiem is in Latin, and although he had taken a year of Latin in high school, he knew that he was not fluent in it. Since he started singing the music before he had the score with him, he sang the words as he heard them, even though he was certain that what he heard could not possibly be correct. For instance, from the movement entitled Domine Jesu: "I don't eat broccoli, I'm only sixty!" Surely the Requiem would be deeper and more meaningful than that. He was relieved to find that the real words are: "Quam olim Abrahae, promisisti..." (which means, "as Abraham promised...").
drive, in particular one manufactured by Memorex (now Imation). The tech at the office supply chain store (you guess which one) said that this indeed would do everything I needed it to and more, so for a fairly reasonable price (under $100), we bought it and took it home. I was anxious to get it hooked up, because I had some music and photo files that I wanted to both upload from and download onto disks. Any excitement I had was soon quashed when I saw that the only instructions that came with the device was one folded piece of glossy paper, written in 4-column fashion, each column in a different language. The print was about 3 or 4 point, which means that unless one has perfect eyesight, there are very few who could read or decipher it, even in perfect light. Not only that, but neither on the box, nor in the box was there a single notation of the model number of this particular recorder. I went online to the Memorex site to try and get some customer support. Alas, they have only 8-hour days, and they don't work weekends! How nice for them. I'm sure all of the families of the workers are thrilled to have them home each night for dinner. Well, I went to the FAQ site to try and get some information. I finally was able to make out the Model and Serials numbers, again in extremely fine print, on the back of the unit. I entered that into the appropriate space on the site, and guess what? There is no such thing as the piece of equipment I was holding in my hand. Poof! It did not exist...even in their list of "retired" products! Feeling very chipper at 2 a.m., I fired off an e-mail to this wonderful customer support team and requested some help. I received a "bounce-back" e-mail informing me that "we really care about our customers' concerns," and to that end they would get back to me within three business days (that means today).
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