The Passing of a Great Man

Everyone is mourning the loss of Robin Williams. Through his gift of acting, he has inspired, blessed, and cheered us. In Dead Poet's Society he taught us to be more than what we are. In Mrs. Doubtfire and Hook, he taught us to love our families. His smile is iconic. His soft voice makes us feel love.

And yet, he was bipolar. His family life was chaotic, and he may have finally committed suicide.

We all love Robin Williams for what he gave us, but there was a cost. His life was turbulent, his internal emotions intense and swinging. I relate to that somewhat. Though I'm not bipolar, I am very passionate. But it is from that very place of pain that genius is born.

I think, when we tell people they can "choose to be happy" or "positive outcomes only," we invalidate their pain. We medicate sorrow as if it's a disease, and we tell ourselves to avoid people in pain as if it is communicable. We are increasingly unable to deal with sorrow, to mourn with others who mourn and to comfort them. We are unable to reach out to make the very connections that make our burdens light.

Bin Laden Has Died

Since it was announced, I have been thinking about posting my feelings about the death of bin Laden. But someone rather beat me to it.

Strange, perhaps, for a military brat to feel this way. But I don't believe that patriotism is best defined as American supremism. Perhaps because I lived a significant portion of my childhood in Germany, I feel strongly that atrocities are not committed by monsters in human form, but are committed by people much like us for reasons that we just as easily might have.

And we would be better served by looking for our mistakes and mourning the need to commit violence than by rejoicing that we are better than our enemies.

This is not a football game. I am ashamed of my fellow citizens.

"And Moroni was a strong and a mighty man; he was a man of a perfect understanding; yea, a man that did not delight in bloodshed; a man whose soul did joy in the liberty and the freedom of his country, and his brethren from bondage and slavery; yea, a man whose heart did swell with thanksgiving to his God, for the many privileges and blessings which he bestowed upon his people; a man who did labor exceedingly for the welfare and safety of his people. Yea, and he was a man who was firm in the faith of Christ, and he had sworn with an oath to defend his people, his rights, and his country, and his religion, even to the loss of his blood.

"Now the Nephites were taught to defend themselves against their enemies, even to the shedding of blood if it were necessary; yea, and they were also taught never to give an offense, yea, and never to raise the sword except it were against an enemy, except it were to preserve their lives. And this was their faith, that by so doing God would prosper them in the land, or in other words, if they were faithful in keeping the commandments of God that he would prosper them in the land; yea, warn them to flee, or to prepare for war, according to their danger; and also, that God would make it known unto them whither they should go to defend themselves against their enemies, and by so doing, the Lord would deliver them;

"And this was the faith of Moroni, and his heart did glory in it; not in the shedding of blood but in doing good, in preserving his people, yea, in keeping the commandments of God, yea, and resisting iniquity."

Grieving on Presidents' Day

I wrote this on Presidents' Day and decided to post it. Consider it a bit of a tribute to two wonderful people and to the slightly dysfunctional but fiercely loyal family they left behind.

Today, instead of lazing around home or going shopping for Presidents' Day, I packed my daughter and most of my cleaning supplies into my small Honda and drove to my paternal grandparents' home. My grandfather's wife has retrieved all her things and left the home feeling truly empty. My two uncles and two of my aunts were there. Tensions have been high since my grandfather passed away, but the feeling today was one of industry and nostalgia. My throat caught when I first walked into the house. I thought I had anticipated the feeling of realizing yet again that my grandparents were gone, but I hadn't prepared myself enough. The leftover shell that once housed a living, breathing couple lay stripped of most of its character, but whispering stories still lurked in the corners, waiting to be uncovered with brooms and spic-and-span-soaked rags.

Our main goal was to clear out the kitchen. My father and his siblings had decided to rent the house to a friend of my aunt. All of the dishes, utensils and other detritus that can collect in a kitchen was slated to one of three fates: the garbage, the thrift store or to a room to be picked over by family. I was allowed to take anything in the thrift store pile. I didn't take much, mostly a couple of odds and ends: a set of tongs, a garlic press, an old-fashioned ice cream scoop. Nothing that held any real meaning.

As we sorted through things, we came to a hanging sorter with three pockets labeled "Letters". "Bills". "Misc". In the short time I lived with my grandparents, before I went to college, I helped my grandmother sort her coupons, matching them to the things she wanted to buy. My aunt decided to send it to the thrift store. I quickly scooped it up. To me, it was not junk. My grandmother passed away nearly nine years ago. I miss her.

The family - and by that, I mean my grandparents children - decided that the grandchildren would have no claim on the things left behind. Once the children claimed what they wished, the grandchildren could pick over what was left. There is little to no chance I will have anything else to remember my grandmother by, not until my own parents pass on.

I didn't realize how bittersweet helping to clean my grandmother's house would be. I am a child of the military. Places are not meant to have meaning. Yet, in all the places I moved, I always knew my father's and mother's parents were there. Their houses never really changed. They were anchors in an otherwise drifting life. Now, the house remains, but the anchor is gone. It did not break suddenly. It slowly rusted as my grandmother died, replaced by my grandfather's new wife, and then finally gone when my grandfather joined my grandmother.

My mom's mother recently entered a nursing home. I feel that my grandfather will not be far behind. Their farmhouse is now the last of my anchors. It, too, will soon rust through. Then, I shall be left to find new anchors.

We were visited by a cat. I am allergic to cats, but I love them. This one was small, colored a rusty black and had eyes the color of new pine needles. She was dusty, but affectionate, though she was afraid of my exuberant daughter. She was a stray. I told her I would take her home if she stayed until we left. The tiny, superstitious part of my mind wondered at the coincidence of a black cat visiting so insistently at a time like this. I find that animals, particularly cats, tend to come when I need something soft and living to touch. By the time I left the house, she was gone. I wish she had stayed.

I left the house feeling a little more at peace. Death has never been something to ruffle my feathers. I'm not sure if it is because I have never formed strong bonds with someone, or if it is because I have a very unorthodox view of death. It is probably a little of both. Whatever the reason, I always find myself feeling a little awkward when surrounded by the grieving, particularly when I should also be grieving. Today, I mourned my grandfather and my grandmother in truth by sorting through their things and remembering.

What to Say?

I always feel strange when someone I know passes through the veil. I feel even stranger when someone who is a great influence in my life - who even drives it - passes through, especially when that someone doesn't know who I am. It leaves a strange sort of gap that feels as though it shouldn't be there, a gap-within-a-gap so to speak.

I am glad for President Hinckley. His time on earth is done. He has finished his course. I am also glad that the Lord has provided for such a smooth transition through a time that for most religions would be cacophonous.

President Hinckley, thank you for your life.

Farewell to a Muse

I have just learned that Madeleine L'engle passed away on September 6th, 2007. Perhaps I am sadly behind the times. This news hit me like a block. Madeleine L'engle was one of my greatest literary and imaginative influences. Each and every book transported me to a place where good can triumph over evil, where beauty thrives despite ugliness, and where one person can be important. I never knew her personally, yet the passing of her light and genius saddens me. It is a loss from which I'm not sure our world can recover. One more inspiration has moved to the other side. Rejoice, Madeleine. You have left a mark of beauty and light in the minds of millions of children. It is one they will not soon forget.

Thank you for your life.

The Spider Story

I promised I would share my Spider Story at Janet's baby shower last night. (Don't read, Janet, you have been warned!)

I've never been particularly scared of spiders, per se, but I am highly allergic to their bites. One small spider bite on my ankle, for example, can cause it to swell to the size of a softball. Though I've never been afraid of spiders, I've never liked killing them, either. At different times in my life (usually relating to how recently I've been bitten) I have wavered between the catch-and-release-outside methodology and the get-it-before-it-gets-me. Several years ago, I rented a basement room. Unfortunately, spiders and basement rooms are friends. One might even say they are deeply intimate. I became very good at killing spiders without batting an eyelash.

Despite being a very deep sleeper, I awoke in the middle of the night one night with a sharp pain on the back of my knee. I had been bitten by yet another spider. I shook out my sheets and, finding nothing, returned to sleep. The spider bite was a doozy. It ached. The back of my knee swelled enough that it was painful to sit properly on a chair.

A month and a half went by, and still the bite was painful. (If you think watching a dog chase its tail is funny, you should try to look closely at the back of your knee.) Eventually, I was bit again by a very small spider on the finger. Minutes later I began to sting and itch on my lower belly. It hurt badly enough that I went to the restroom to check out the problem. It appeared that I had been bitten by ants. After about ten or fifteen minutes of acute pain, the symptoms vanished.

The next day it happened again, but this time it was over my belly and legs. To make a long story short, it eventually spread down my arms and over my neck and face, appearing as whitish ant bites, fading to red and finally disappearing only to appear again some time later. The problem became frequent and painful enough to begin interfering with my work. I decided it was time to go to the Urgent Care clinic. The symptoms happened again on my way to the clinic, but by the time the doctor saw me, the bite-like marks were almost gone.

The diagnosis was systemic allergies. Apparently, my body had been so overloaded with some allergen that it could no longer handle it with a localized allergic reaction, hence the tiny bite-like marks that some would recognize as hives. Upon examination, it turned out that the spider that had woken me in the middle of the night was a hobo spider. I had been walking around with a bulls-eye bite on the back of my knee for nearly two months. After few test samples of Claritin (which was new at the time) everything was fixed.

Denouement:
It wasn't until a few weeks later that I was sitting on my floor, working on my computer when a thick-legged spider about the size of my thumb scuttled along my wall and behind my computer. I was armed with spider-killer. After a few missed shots (the bugger was fast) I hit it squarely on its furry little head. It was the first and only time I have enjoyed watching one of God's creatures dissolve into a puddle of goo.

Rest in peace, little hobo spider, but I regret not thy passing.

The Pain of Charity

I've stayed away for a couple of days because I've been hurting. I'm still hurting, but I feel ready to write again.

My grandfather passed away June 1st, 2007. He was a pillar of the community, often giving succor to those in need. He was a great man. One of my earliest memories of him was down in his basement. He had a container of black walnuts and taught me how to crack them so I could extract the nut whole. In that same visit, he took me across the street to his neighbor's house and let me help him pick apricots. In an even earlier memory of him, I remember going to his flower shop. I remember little of the sight and sound of that shop, but I remember the sharp tang of moisture, roses and greenery. That smell means beauty to me. I believe it has something to do with my affinity for green, growing things. I remember wanting to design a flower arrangement, though I couldn't have been more than five years old. I remember wanting to emulate his artistry. Perhaps that is what helped me discover my love for color and form. Though my grandfather was a somewhat more distant figure than my grandmother (who passed away in 1999,) his paradigm of service and duty has shaped my life.

I attended the funeral yesterday. Grandpa was surrounded by grieving friends and step-family. It was clear he would be sorely missed in the community. Observing this and listening to the eulogies, I began thinking of myself. I came to some hard realizations. The first was how very selfish I am. Through much of the funeral, I hurt because I wished I had had some part in it, something to give the man who contributed to my life. As I analyzed my own feelings, I realized I had very little place in Grandpa's life, so it was only fitting that I would have no place in his death. Unlike my grandfather, I do not connect with people. At my funeral, there will be many fewer grieving faces.

As I thought about it, I also realized that I do not connect with people by choice. I have actively destroyed any but the most superficial ties to anyone. I'm not sure why I do this. I know I am afraid, but I'm not sure of what I am afraid. I think it may be that I am so afraid of hurting someone - I am so afraid of failing - that I minimize my connections. The ironic aspect of this is that the isolation hurts me. I know that I am hurting myself more than rejection and failure would hurt me, but I don't know how to change. This is what brings me to the topic of this post.

In The Princess Bride, the Man in Black tells Buttercup that "Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something." In my estimation, charity is pain. There are two types of "charity." The first is characterized by "alms to the poor." It is simply giving because you know you should give or, in other words, because you gain something from it. I believe it is this brand of charity to which the world subscribes. It is giving because you feel you will gain a reward, whether heavenly, socially or financially. This sort of charity is not evil per se, but I don't believe it is the sort of charity of which the Lord or His prophets speak in the scriptures. It is not this sort of charity that is the "greatest of all" virtues. It is not this sort of charity which "suffereth long, and is kind, and envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, and rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." It is not this sort of charity which, as the Relief Society motto states, "never faileth."

The type of charity Christianity teaches is much more difficult because it inevitably leads through pain. This charity is the "pure love of Christ" which "caused myself, even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit—and would that I might not drink the bitter cup, and shrink . . . ." It is the charity that enabled Christ to atone for the sins of all mankind. It is the charity that is a cause rather than a symptom. It is love, not for glory, reward or honor, but for the cruel, beautiful, glorious children of God. It is love that gives, knowing that it will be hurt. It is continually building relationships despite the pain, despite the fear, despite the loneliness of rejection.

I know in my heart that God has granted me a great capacity for this kind of charity, but I am too terrified, too bound up in the cords of Satan to utilize it. I feel that this is my purpose on the earth, to love God's children, to be a place where "The beloved of the LORD shall dwell in safety." I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to let go of my fear of pain and give. I don't know how Christ continued ministering, knowing the pain He would suffer at the hands of the ignorant. I know I need to learn.

Perhaps when I do, I will be happy.

Final Farewell

I wrote this poem when my grandmother passed away. Now, her beloved eternal companion has joined her at last. Bis später, Opa.

Think of Me
Dedicated to Ruth & George, who together have gifted us with a legacy of forgiveness and the sacrifice of love.

I sat on my bed and remembered the day
that your soul was bonded to mine.
How the look in your eyes held tenderness
that was matched by the love in your smile.

And then my thoughts drifted away from the now
and to all of the years that we shared.
The good times and bad ones all marched through my mind,
and I realized just how much you cared.

Then he entered, like so many friends that I've known,
without even a knock at the door.
And though he was pale like the legends say,
no golden sickle he bore.

So I rose to greet him, I knew it was time.
And he hugged me close and said,
"There is no need to fear me, your time was well spent."
And the regrets that I had held, fled.

So I stepped forth to enter the passing way
My heart feeling lighter, and free.
But my head turned and saw you alone near my bed,
and again I felt how much you loved me.

So think of me, though my bones are now cold.
I wait for you in mansions above.
Know that not even death, so friendly and pale,
could hope to sever our love.