Happy Easter—to all, even those who do not necessarily celebrate it: I wish you the joy of the 50 days of celebration I’m aiming to stay present for—but life certainly has its distractions.
I had a number of interesting observations I wanted to write about, mostly involving my children’s cute way of looking at life that has given me some perspective, sometimes, even when things are at their most chaotic. Thing is, something happened this past weekend as I hurried through grading essays and practiced music for services and met with students and played with my daughters. Something which reminded me of the tenuousness of life, and of the importance of a reflection on what will come beyond this earth on which we stand. I can’t shake the feeling of it, and somehow I want to try and tie it in to these other neat observations during a kind of life-changing Lent for both myself and my husband, one in which we grew exponentially from within.
I learned that a friend named Bill, who was once much a part of the choir I’d sung in these many years, had gone missing, and on Easter afternoon, his body was found.
That fact alone stands solemnly, but what’s attached to it gives me almost more pause. You see, he’d lost his wife in the past months, and he’d long suffered through bipolar disorder, though, until now, he’d found various ways to feel belonging and gain support, among them our little choir, and the power of music. Just a few weeks ago he’d come back to sing, and I watched him from my pew where I was wrangling the little ones to stillness during the service, and thought—O good. He seems happy.
Then this. His choosing to let go.
The various times now I’ve reflected upon the dead has grown, it seems, in just these past years, but this time, I want to say, in a messy way, something that I hope makes modicum of difference or sense. Because while Bill had support—of family and friends and community—he chose to disappear. To run, quite possibly legitimately, from something. And at any time any one of us might feel the pang of despair cut so deep it’s too hard to ignore. There’s only so much that can be done in the face of mental despair, especially when it comes from a place that can’t be be controlled, not easily, anyway. I want to strive to better understand the position of those who struggle with this, and aim to be a companion along the way for anyone who needs an ear. I want someday to be a kind of witness in the ways I have to other’s suffering and to have made a real difference for them—and I want to call on you to do the same, for those you know, those you might not know so well. Pause, say a word or two, be there. Be. The simplest acts of presence for others can have a far-reaching effect. It may not solve the issues bigger than the individual, but it will mean something. And it will be an act of prayer itself, this presence. It is hard to feel helpless in the face of despair, but I know the comfort of a well-placed supportive ear or shoulder.
I can barely tie this to the cute and surprisingly wise ideas from my little ones, but I will say here that Isabella caught me off guard the day she and I went to receive the sacrament of reconciliation as part of our Lenten practice with our community. On the way home she said to me, “Mama, that felt like a wipe off board being cleaned—brand new space for more to come, for something better.” In the driver’s seat and the semi-dark car I could not suppress a smile, knowing she got it at a young age—that sense that sometimes, indeed, we need each other, we need sacrament in its many ways, to get through, to strive, to thrive. This is what I wish for you today, dear ones. Peace and All Good.