“Then you should have let me die”
My father’s words to my mother in a fit of frustrated rage at something so small I hardly remember it now
Ah, I think the conversation went something like this,
She gave him his dosa
“Where’s the chutney to dip?” he asked
“No chutney. The coconut isn’t good for you”.
“Why...don’t you know how hard it is for me? How could you do this?!”
No, that was a different conversation, but they all embody the same thing
My father’s struggle with his tumor after tumor after tumor
And as chemo pelts the tumors like wrecking balls, my father’s spirit is equally as exposed to the onslaught
Like wisps of smoke, fragments of his struggle leak out into our house, our family
My mother carries the weight, coupled with her own baggage
She simply tightens the buckle on herself, almost choking but standing ever more upright, a towering hyperion
While praying
She prays
He prays
They pray
Falling back to childhood, to their hope, their trust in God
The hope that keeps them alive through the sheer force of their will
I’ve noticed that “God”
Is like a medium
A medium of belief in yourself and hope for a better, brighter future
A medium I stubbornly refuse to use, calling myself an atheist, the rebellion within I suppose
“Well it’s all the same” mom says
Maybe so
Maybe I will one day rely upon that medium, deeply, simply to retin the hope that someone is there for me, even if that someone is myself masked as an external “God”
“I knew then that the Lord wanted me to help people”
He said, an old man in his 80’s, clearly displaying signs of the vicissitudes of life
Couldn’t walk, cooped up in a room 24/7
Yet here he was, not blaming, nor resentful
But in tears not because of his own struggles, plight
But because the Lord gave him a chance to “help people”
He had an opportunity to improve diabetes treatment
Efficiently collect blood
“help people”
Because the Lord allowed him to get into college late to “help people”
That was his miracle
Even if no one was in time to help him
Like the teachers in Chennai, India we saw while visiting family three summers ago
Forgoing a well paying job at a government school, money and comfort
To teach somewhere where they believed they’d make an impact on young minds
Little children growing up to become scientists like the women promoting mushroom growth
To increase the village’s protein intake and empower women
Easily grown at home, it’s not meat, it’s a mushroom
The man who forged ahead to build a canal for the village, a pioneer starting a movement of innovation
An old woman in her late 80’s helping a single mother keep her job
No cash at my dad's favorite bagel shop, the owner who allowed me to pay later
Simple little things, it’s the little things that hook you more than any superficial bait
And place you on a cloud of warmth
I belong
People can be so terribly kind
To a stranger, to an acquaintance
to a friend, or even
to a foe
Yes, there are wars being fought, people dying every second
But as I look up at the hazy blue clouds drifting lazily along outlined with flecks of gold almost like a halo
The humming breeze caressing my cheek, the scent of dew drifting by
I couldn’t feel more glad to be alive
So, please don’t say you wish you were dead
Just open the window and gaze at the ever changing sky
Whether temperamentally torrential
Or a lazy, hazy, pink or blue
And relish that single moment you are privileged to be a part of
Shared by countless others around the world
But although the seemingly endless sky may cover everyone
At that moment, at that place, at that time the sky and all its magnificence is
All yours