I imagine all of us, at one time or another, have squinted into kaleidoscopes. They rank right up there with Slinkys and Silly Putty, am I right? Ahh, someone hand me a newspaper, let me recreate a childhood memory.
Back to kaleidoscopes. Simple to operate: we hold the tube in one hand, put our eye to the viewfinder, and twist it with our other hand. First we see one design. We turn the lens slightly and watch as new colors and shapes drop into place and more designs are created. Some combinations take our breath away: “Look!” we tell others, “Look at this!” Other arrangements leave us flat — we give them but a glance before moving on.
This last week was like that. There were breathtakingly wonderful experiences and intensely sad times alike: beauty and laughter and light, followed by depression and sorrow and shadow; the lenses kept turning, the pieces kept shifting, and the view kept changing.
One big reason it’s challenging to talk about How Life Is Going Now, is because the picture keeps changing. If I write about the delight of receiving a big box of perfect Harry&David pears, I should also mention the time I straightened my pantry and burst into tears at handling Jack’s worn red thermos again. If I tell you about the laughter at Game Night with my friends, I should also give voice to the quiet shadow that settles on my soul many evenings, as I realize Jack’s still not here and he’s still not coming back.
It’s cheering to mention the arrival of a new book in the mail and the good-night benediction texted me by my father and the satisfaction of looking into the eyes of family and friends who drop by for a hug and hello. Who can’t picture my delight at finding fresh, crusty bread on my doorstep, or the trash talk of an impromptu “Bananagrams” word game, or the comfort of leisurely conversation over a Mexican meal with old friends? I’d far rather report to you the news that Word In Deed received gift upon gift in Jack’s memory, and that my plants are all thriving, and that the amaryllis bulb planted at Christmas has just burst into resplendent red cheer on my kitchen counter.
But the nature of grief is that the pictures keep changing as different pieces fall in and out of view, which makes it a challenge to write. Some of the arrangements are ones I don’t want to dwell on, but rather want to move beyond. But to be true to telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God, I need to talk about the painful, messy times. It’s just harder to bring myself to do.
How do I tell you about entering Jack’s car for the first time since he drove it home on what turned out to be his last day of stairbuilding? His paycheck in the visor, his music cued up, his sawdusty presence lingering in the air…and the loss hits me again. I hug the steering wheel and wail. How I just — miss — him.
Do I tell you about getting a note in the mail from the Gift of Life people, telling me of the families helped by his organ donation? One’s a single mom of three. Another is a widower with seven children. Both had waited years for healthy organs. I’m truly glad these families get more time with one another. (The death of one meant life for others. That theme sounds familiar! — check out John 3:16 and all of Scripture.) But it also means Jack’s not here for me to hold, and for that I mourn till I can’t see and my mascara runs.
I got a call from the cemetery updating me that Jack’s marker has been inscribed with his name. In the quiet following that conversation, I could hear Steven Curtis Chapman’s song in the background: “I can’t wait to see your face again….I know that day is coming, but for now…I just have to wait.” And I could only sigh in agreement with Steven and all who are groaning as they wait to see the ones they love again.
So there you have it. Kaleidoscope days. The sweet times smooth the way and buoy my hope for the difficult times, which do come, but don’t last. I try to feel each part and acknowledge the sweetness and the bitter alike, but not stay stuck in the lows. I want to be more faithful in telling you about the changing landscape, and will renew my efforts at doing so. I will even tell the hard times, not because I think anyone should try to fix anything, but because it is part of voicing the whole journey as truthfully as I can, and maybe we will all learn how to see — really see — the people around us who are carrying their own burdens and could use a little friendly company along the way.
Maybe even a turn with the Silly Putty.