The Beefy Blogs

No one outside of close family, has asked us about how we navigated the water’s of our lifelong friendship with the Jackson family after the accident.  Once in a while, being in a small town, we would hear rumor’s of things that we had supposedly said, none of which were true.  We really didn’t pay any attention to it or make public comments, gossip seems to feed off that.  What I hope we did is show, every chance we got, that there was no lasting blame, malice or anger towards anyone.  We loved them before and boy, we sure do love them now.

But I don’t want to present this as a pollyanna experience, because there were dark, tough times.  Grief is not a linear process, where you pass something one time, never to return.  Often times you return over and over and over, and have to work through it each time.  Dad and Tom weren’t just neighbor’s, they were the best of friends.  Very often on a warm summer night,  they could be found sitting on the porch talking until it got dark.  Sometimes as I sit on my back porch, I think of Tom sitting on his porch with an empty chair, missing his best friend Mr. Terry.  It brings to mind a quote from Jane Austen in Sense and Sensibility.  Do I compare my suffering to other’s who have lost loved ones? No, I compare my suffering to what it might have been.  I compare it to Tom’s.

I KNOW the true depth of pain that we humans can experience and endure, because I have watched him endure it.

I KNOW what it means to stand in the gap and hold the line against evil forces for your friends and family without being asked, while you yourself are weak, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW the stigma of publicly feeling responsible for someone’s heart breaking and yet walking with dignity and humbleness because I saw him do it.

I KNOW the feeling of inadequacy as you allow other people to care for you when you are used to always doing for yourself, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW the strength of character it takes to focus your time and energy on the pain and suffering of other’s, forgetting your own pain, and trying to help those around you because I saw him do it.

I KNOW the power in not being made into a victim of circumstances, whether they be good or bad, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW the pressure of scaling the insurmountable task of rebuilding a life, as everything around you lies in ruin, including your own body, and not complaining, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW the power of words and telling someone, “I don’t blame you for what happened” because I saw a light come into your eyes when I said it to you.

I KNOW the patience that a person is capable of because while we will never know the answer’s we seek on this side of the veil, yet I saw you practice it.

I KNOW when the gospel says, “I am the least of these” it isn’t referring to a person’s worth but their willingness to have a servant’s heart, because I saw him have one.

I KNOW that people show love to other’s by doing, providing and working hard and maybe not by going around saying it all the time, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW not to try to avoid things that are hard, but you must face them head on, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW that you can walk through life’s very deepest and profoundly weary times and truly face the reality of it without the use of drugs, alcohol or any other sedative to dull the edges of pain, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW what anguish means, like in the Bible when Jesus ask his Father, “if it be possible, let this cup pass from me” because He can’t imagine enduring what is being asked of him. The reality of it will be worse than the imagining of it. The anticipation of the aftermath of a tragedy is always worse than we think it can be.  It can be lived through because I saw him do it.

I KNOW what it is to be a vessel totally used by God, with no thought to self or self image, because I saw him do it.

I KNOW what love is because I love him.

Even still.

I am not a huge Harry Potter fan but I love one chapter in particular in the final book. Chapter 34 entitled, “The Forest Again” where Harry has read the the inscription on the snitch which reads, “I open at the end.”  He kisses it and finds the resurrection stone, which enables him to see his loved ones who have passed away before him.  He gets to see and have a conversation with his parents, James and Lily, who died when he was very young.  Every person who has ever lost a loved one has imagined the scenario where they get to have a final conversation with that person.  Here’s how it goes in the book.

Lily’s smile was widest of all. She pushed her long hair back as she drew closer to him, and her green eyes, so like his, searched his face hungrily, as though she would never be able to look at him enough.

“You’ve been so brave.”

He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her, and he thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, and that would be enough.

“You are nearly there,” said James. “Very close. We are . . . so proud of you.”

“Does it hurt?” The childish question had fallen from Harry’s lips before he could stop it.

“Dying? Not at all,” said Sirius. “Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

“You’ll stay with me?”
“Until the very end,” said James.
“They won’t be able to see you?” asked Harry.
“We are part of you,” said Sirius. “Invisible to anyone else.”
Harry looked at his mother.
“Stay close to me,” he said quietly.

“Always” she said.

When you come to the end of yourself, the end of your life as you have always known it, you have a choice to make.  You can open up or you can close.  But how do you open?  How do you stay open?  You want to close.  You want to hide. You want it all to just go away.  You get tired of your own thoughts.  So very tired. And please no one touch me.  Touching my skin was like touching a sunburn. It was too raw. I didn’t want contact of any kind.  And the maddening irony in this all is that the one person I needed to talk to about dealing with him not being here, was Dad.  He would know just what to say, because he knew me better than anyone. I don’t say that lightly or dreamingly.  He understood me better than I knew myself.

I relayed the following story in the eulogy I gave at Dad’s funeral, but I have to repeat it for the sake of continuity.  In the day’s after he died, I couldn’t hear him.  I just needed to know what he wanted me to do.  I went around asking people this question, “What would Dad tell me to do?” Right now.  In this moment of loss and pain and agony, what would he tell me?  I was truly lost.  Most people told me very nice things and I appreciate all of them.  But none of them struck me.  I knew it wouldn’t be sentimental.  I knew it would have a ring of toughness to it.  I decided to call one of Dad’s very good friends and one who had known him a long time.  Mr. Dirtbag Mike Peppo.

I look back now and I know that God gave Mike the words to tell me.  God used him and his life experiences to tell me just the right thing.  I asked him ‘What would Dad tell me Mike?  What would you want your kids to know, once your gone?”  Mike proceeded to tell me a story from when I was much younger.  We went to Community Grace Brethren Church in Union, when I was little and Mom and Dad were Sunday School teachers for young kids.  Many of the kids loved them.  When we decided to leave for another church, on our last Sunday, there was a little boy crying and he told Dad he was going to really miss him.  Dad kneeled down to this little boy and said, “I am leaving but you’ll be all right without me.”  I know Mike said other things, but this is all I remember.  As soon as he said it I was like, “Yes, that is exactly what he would tell me.”  I’ll be all right.  I’ll be all right.  I’ll be all right.  I know.  It sounds like nothing to you, but those little words were my lifeline. You mean I wasn’t going to end up in a mental hospital?   You mean I wasn’t going to commit suicide?  You mean I wasn’t going to explode into a million pieces?   I repeated them to myself all the that week.  They have since become like a mantra to me.  I’ve said it over 40 zillion times in the past three years and I say it to myself several times everyday.

Here is my challenge to you, on this, Dad’s birthday.  I don’t say this with sentimentality or romanticism.  This very well could save the sanity of your loved ones after you’re gone.  Consider taking the time to write a note or letter to your spouse, your kids, your loved ones or friend on the event of your death.  It doesn’t have to be long or profound.  It could be just a line or two.  Of course, you’ll probably write I love you, but go beyond that.  Assure them that they will be fine.  Tell them that you have taught them everything they need to know to live without you.  Tell them of your faith in their ability to gather their courage and grace and keep going.  Tell them there is a difference between depression, which is a heart full of emptiness, and grief, which is a heart full of love.  Tell them to love again.

You have no idea what an incredible gift that would be to them, when you’re no longer here.  Everyone pictures their death being on a bed at an advanced age with everything said and done.  But that doesn’t always happen.  Here is a note I have from my Dad, that I keep in a plastic baggy, along with his hankie from that night, and it goes with me everywhere.  It’s my only note from him.  It’s from when I was about 16 and Pop’s was working late one night and I wasn’t going to get to see him that night.  I left a note on his pillow.  The next night when I went to bed, he had written a reply and put it on my pillow.  It’s invaluable to me.  So leave a note if you can, and let them know, that they will be all right.

And you’ll stay with me?

Until the very end. We are part of you.

Stay close to me Papa.

Always. 

One of the things I have appreciated on this journey through loss is the way in which your mind opens up and you see things, as you’ve never seen them before.  I imagine that if we could use our whole mind, like maybe when we have our perfect bodies, we will see everything. By that I mean we will understand everything. Not saying we will be God ourselves, but we will be able to understand all the things that puzzle us now.  Even the things that we don’t even know, we don’t know. I have had small revelations these past couple years and it feels to me like a veil or curtain is being pulled back just a little bit at a time.  I can’t even yet see what is behind the small part of the curtain that is held back, I may not in this life.  But we are not meant to solve all the riddles and questions that come to our mind.  We have to be ok with not knowing.

It is ironic that when you are younger, you have this cockiness and assuredness that you know everything and have things figured out.  I am not sure where this confidence comes from.  Perhaps when we are young, we believe the world is run and governed by rules and if you follow those rules, things will be right and fall into place.  Depending on your culture, religion or socio-economic upbringing, your rules for how the world works will be different.  But you believe them nonetheless, and you are sure of their steadfastness.  It doesn’t really matter how many times you’ve read Great Expectations, you don’t know what it’s like to be in a truly mean world.  It isn’t really until you begin to experience disappointment, loss and injustice yourself that you just begin to realize you don’t know everything and you don’t have it all figured out.  And it kinda just rocks you a little bit.

I have been reading Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet” and I have gathered some very profound things from it.  I do not know his background, religion or life story and I don’t really need to know it.  The book was recommended to me, so I am reading it.  He does something I like to do and I call it flipping things around.  I am sure there are much more sophisticated things to call it, but that’s what I call it.  When I say things to myself in my head, the narrative, if you will, of what has happened, I take what I thought and flip it around.  For instance, “I don’t have a father anymore.” I flip it.  Not only do I have a father (his soul is not dead), but I have a Father and I have many people who have stepped up to fill in that father role for me.  I have developed relationships with people I would not have.  I share things with them and they with me, that would not have been shared. I call it flipping, but you can call it what you want.

In this book, Gibran takes a trait like joy and examines the opposite of it which is suffering.  He pairs things together.  So something that we might look at as suffering, (having a terminal disease) he puts with joy and intertwines them.  I love this sentence: “The deeper sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain.”  Picture a canyon being carved into your body. Now imagine the pain that canyon causes your body.  After a while, imagine that canyon being filled with joy.  Before the sorrow, your body had no reservoir in which to hold joy.  The sorrow HAD to create it.  The deeper the sorrow the deeper the reservoir. In the length of a person’s life, a deep sorrow will open whole new things to them that they otherwise would not know.  You would feel things, you would not otherwise feel.

It is so ironic to me that he uses the visual of something being carved into the body.  When dad died, the best way I can describe it, is to say that you feel there is no way of getting the pain out of your body, so you explode.  I literally felt like I had a huge gaping wound through my abdomen, which you could see through and I was oozing and leaking the pain out of my body. It is a jagged, rugged hole that has given no thought to the care required to mend it.  In the first throes of grief, you are at your most authentic self.  By that I mean that there is no thought of self. There is no pretense. You are not thinking at all about how you look, how people are perceiving you or if what you are saying and doing are “the right things.”  You are just oozing pain in every way possible.  It seeps out of every opening.  I felt as if I was a vessel in which pain was coming through. All I could do was sit and breathe and ooze pain. And at that time, that was all that God required of me.

Let’s imagine for a minute that my father could have known he was going to die and was given time to come to terms with it.  There was no bargaining out of it, just coming to a peace with it.  Might he have looked ahead, after the initial years of anger, hurt and grief, to see the time when we would begin to fill that carved flesh of pain with love, grace, courage and humility which we otherwise would never have gotten?  Would he see how tender our hearts are for others in pain?  How we can share in the loss and broken hearts of others not just through reading about it in a book, but having walked that unwanted path?  Being able to share in just how dark that blackness can be, and coming to be once again in the light.  Knowing that tender heartedness would wash over everything in our lives and leave nothing untouched by it.  Not through our doing, mind you. But by being that vessel through which God and His light can just pass through.  Because you see, you come to the end of yourself.  Would he have known, that we would use even his death to build on all the lessons he had taught us?Would he have seen that without his death, we could not go to those places?  And once again, I say, not to justify his death or leaving, but to redeem it? I think so.

Bilbo: “I want to go on an adventure.”

Gandalf: “You’ll have a tale or two to tell when you come back.”

Bilbo: “Can you promise that I will come back?”

Gandalf: “No. And if you do, you will not be the same.

The Hobbit -An Unexpected Journey

Be it my love of tall tales, but I have always loved the phrase, “going on an Adventure” for all the potential that it holds.  You might think that the word adventure implies going about all over with no real plan and just following any old path.  But I think an adventure can have meaning and purpose, with just a vague outline of a plan.  Maybe you want to explore never before seen territory, maybe you want to find beauty in the ordinary, maybe you want to go where few humans have gone.  The goal can be lofty or small.  You have to be open to twist and turns, even the ones you don’t want to happen.  Some people are just born to go on adventures and they find them in everyday life.  My dad was an adventurer.  My stepson Josh is definitely one.  Josh wants to be a pilot.  Of course he does.  When your father dies in a plane accident, your only child will want to fly airplanes. Josh has wanted to fly planes since, like, forever.  Here it is now, and there is no reason not to move forward on it.  Except that I’m scared.  Is that a good enough reason to not let someone go on their adventure?

I could blame this all on Dad and say that he started it by taking Josh up in the paraplane when he was about 8 years old.  But probably having a father in the Air Force since his birth, might have had something to do with it.  There are all types of people on this planet. But I have found that there are some, who are not meant to be bound by this thing we call gravity, and who have a compulsion to defy it.  They want to be going fast, jumping off high places, gliding through the air, diving into the deep ocean or hurling themselves down a mountain.  They want to go on adventures.

We’ve all heard that saying that all men die, but not all men really live.  At the end of our lives, we have a number indicating how many years we lived.  But how many of those years were really spent living?  I know that number would be much smaller than the years spent alive and breathing.  You see, really the number at the end doesn’t matter.  It’s what you were able to cram into those years, be they little or great.  My dad really lived.  That makes seeing his number, even though I think it little, to be really great.

So Dad, do I just let him go? Yes, Beef, let him go. So Dad, do I just act like I am ok with this? No, Beef, please don’t act.  Get to the place where you are actually ok with it. But Dad, what about the bad things that happen?  They happen.  To us.  And you can’t undo them. All those trite sayings like, “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you” are just that.  Sayings.  In the end, bad things happen and no matter the love we feel, we cannot stop them.  Beef, it’s ok.  You will be all right.  Now you know you can survive them.  So all that passion and adventure in his little soul, I need to push and encourage?  Even though I don’t want to?  Yes, Beef.  You’re starting to get it now.  

So I will let him go in that plane.  I will watch him take his feet off the ground and step into that plane.  I will watch him be so happy and full of passion for getting to do what he truly loves.  I will watch him take off and climb up towards those clouds.  Knowing that what he is seeing and experiencing up there, is exactly the reason Dad was compelled to fly.  He’s one of those people who don’t seem to be able to stay out of the sky.  They are more at home and feel more peace up in the clouds, above even the birds and being where a person isn’t supposed to be.  I know that flying will not be his only adventure.  He will go on many, to far away places and see things I have never seen.  And there are no guarantees of returning.  But he will not be the same. And neither will any of those who love him.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr

There are certain times when I walk into the yard around the cabin very quietly. I don’t want to disturb any ghost that may be lurking about. Sometimes I think if I’m quiet enough, one day, I may just happen upon them. They don’t frighten me. These are ghost I would welcome. At other times, the ghosts make themselves known indirectly. The fishing hat on the hook, the melamine plates from the 60′s in the cupboard, the worn but cared for tools in the shed and the flannel shirts hanging in the closet. I couldn’t begin to list or tell you the stories that have happened at this little place in the woods.  There aren’t too many magical places in the world, and to simply look at it, you would say it’s no more than a glorified shack. But that is part of it’s glory. It’s simplicity.

For Christmas one year when I was ten, I wanted a real leather, hand stitched football. My dad didn’t tell me that girls can’t play football.  I think that he knew the world would inform me of such in due time.  I got that football and he taught me how to throw it and the rules of the game.  He never once told me how silly or pointless it was for a girl to want a football. As parents, I think we do that a lot.  We can see a loss or disappointment up ahead for our child, but we let them continue on. We know how it will end, but they don’t.  We don’t want to squash their spirit that makes them want to try to change the outcome.  Sometimes we can invent our own ending, but usually we are not granted that luxury.

On one of our last night’s at the cabin this past year, it was getting chilly for my walk down to the lake. I grabbed one of Pop’s flannel shirts out of the closet and ran outside. I felt something in the pocket and reached in and found a handful of acorns. I just smiled, because I can imagine how they got there. Probably Emaline and Grandpa were walking the lane down to the lake.  Emaline would find too many to hold in her hand and ask Grandpa to hold them. I wonder if he told her the story he told me, of how an acorn can become a tree.  Or maybe he put them in his pocket for “later” except it never came.  You see he knew how it was all going to end.  A truthful parent will tell you that the goal and point of their life is to ensure you raise your child so that they can live without you in the world.  I know he would tell Emmy Sue to plant that acorn, knowing everything that would be working against it to grow into a big, strong, beautiful tree and do it anyways. He would admire the spirit in her to start from the seed and say it is worth the risk. He wouldn’t tell her what could happen, knowing the world would take care of that in due time.