In Memory of Bea

This afternoon at 1:00 a crowd gathered at Marietta First Baptist church to remember and honor the life of a little lady who left a big mark on her world.  I first met her a little over a year ago when I showed up at Senior Action to be interviewed by a panel of seniors.  She was the first person who spoke to me, and the first thing she asked me was if I was wearing perfume.  She informed me curtly that if I wore perfume she couldn't sit near me, then proceeded to share a story of sitting behind a perfumed Sunday School mate who left her gasping for breath.  I found her funny and somehow endearing but never in all the time I knew her did I categorize her as a "Sweet Little Old Lady."

She was a lot of really awesome things rolled up into one little fireball of a woman.  She was outspoken, friendly, kind, energetic and enthusiastic.  She loved with a kind of fierceness that drew people to  her.  Sometimes she caught you off-guard with her humor or her candor.  If she told you that you did a good job, you knew you did a good job.  If she called you out about something, she was usually right.  I suppose her ability to hone in to the motives and behaviors of others didn't always sit well with some but she was who she was, and for that she made no apologies.

Her feelings were never worn on her sleeve.  She could take a ribbing with the best of them, shirking off even jokes made at her expense, sometimes to an almost too-personal degree.  Only once can I recall that she sat across from me after everyone left and told me about someone who had inadvertently hurt her feelings.  She agonized over what to do about it and eventually decided she would call that person up and talk it out.  The next day she came in looking as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders.  She had gone home the day before and called her friend.  She let that person know that her feelings were hurt, and as she suspected, her friend felt terrible for the oversight and apologized profusely.

Bea Cawley was not a woman who left people wondering what she thought or how she felt.  We were always aware of where we stood with her and I found a warm comfort in that.  Even on days when she didn't feel her best, she would show up at Senior Action in that little burgundy Saturn, pitter patter her way in the door and muster up a smile for everyone. She loved life like no one else I've ever known.  She didn't sit around and feel lonely, she called friends to come over and eat, or play games or go to dinner somewhere.  She invited people to come to Senior Action as though she were our appointed Welcoming Committee.  She made sure everyone knew about Keenagers dinners and game days at church.  The more people in her life, the merrier she was.  What is life after all, if we don't share it with other people? It was easy to love her, even if you didn't always agree with her.  She embraced us all for who we were regardless of whether we always held the same beliefs about everything.  She let us be who we were and she took comfort in being herself.  Of course, that didn't mean she wouldn't try to convince anyone to change their ways...but she loved you, regardless.

Bea faithfully visited her friends when they were sick or down.  She made a point to call and check on them, bring them food or ask what they needed.  Her joy was in feeding others--Frogmore Stew was her specialty.  I regret that I never got to share it with her.

As I listened to her family talk about her today, I could hear hints of what seemed like hurt in their
voices.  Maybe a little lingering bitterness of the flavor that exists in all families to some degree.  I could sense that her opinions and ideas weren't always welcomed or met with approval.  I remembered, as they spoke, stories that she had shared with me about each one of them.  I wondered if they knew, as I did, that her fervent love for them fueled that mouth of hers.  I almost wanted to hang around to tell them that, not as an admonition, but as an attempt at comforting them.  I wanted them to know that she tried to direct their lives, not out of judgment or a selfish need to control them, but because she earnestly worried about their well-being and happiness.  She wanted them to live fulfilled, happy, joyous lives.  She wanted what all mothers and grandmothers want for their children and their children's children.  Whether or not they followed her advice,  or direction, as the case may be, she was proud of them.

Her pride showed in the way she spoke of them every day.  It showed in the way she'd pass their photos around the room and in the way she would brag about their accomplishments.  Her love for them was enduring and strong. Even when she disapproved of something they were doing or had done, her love for them never wavered.

One of her grandsons talked about how imperfect she was.  She was as imperfect as we all are.  Sometimes she said too much, sometimes she let her temper get the better of her.  Sometimes she tried too hard to help and ended up taking over.  However, in the end, she left a legacy of love and friendship, of a zeal for life that we can only hope to achieve in our own lifetimes.  She lived life to its fullest up to her last day on Earth.

The last Friday that she was at Senior Action; the last day I saw her, we sat and talked for a while after everyone else had gone home.  I noticed a difference in her.  Perhaps it was that she couldn't quite remember things as well as she usually did, or perhaps it was that she seemed extra tired that day.  She said she was going to go home and take a nap--not something I recall her saying often.  I encouraged her to get some rest and feel better.  As she walked out the door, something told me to tell her I loved her.  "Bye," She said.  "I'll see you Monday, I hope."
"Okay," I answered.  "Have a good weekend.  Love you!"
"Love you too." She said as she went out the door.  I watched her as she walked to her car, her tiny steps slow and measured.  Her big purse hung off her arm, her key, attached to the strap, already in her hand.  I watched her get in and slowly back up and drive away, never imagining that I wouldn't see her walk in that door again.

Life is like a vapor, the Bible says.  It is only a moment in the vast continuum of time.  I met Bea on a February afternoon, during one of the most trying periods of my own life.  Her kindness and encouragement came to mean the world to me.  It gave me strength to keep rising in the mornings and to keep showing up for life, day after day.  She shared her dreams and desires with me and made me realize something I desperately needed to learn:  That no matter how old we get or how sick we are, life always has something new and wonderful to give us.

In all my years of working with seniors I've only met a hand full that left their mark on me.  Bea Cawley's life was no different than yours or mine--it was but a vapor.  I'm just so grateful that in her last years, I was around to catch her steam.

She will be greatly missed, as she was greatly loved.  Her memory will be cherished and her laughter will always fill our hearts with joy.  Even in our sadness and grief, we find hope and encouragement in the way she lived and in the way she died.  Her steadfast faith and undying love remain with us, and will endure far beyond her years on Earth.

For Emily

A friend of mine posted this thought on Facebook today:

"You know...I still feel like a little girl inside...so unaware of my age. But today I feel rather old and stiff. Skin is itchy. Barometric pressure is changing. Feeling my age on the outside. Trapped little girl on the inside."

I identified with it more than I wanted to admit.  Time has a way of weathering the outsides of us.  The knees grind like rusty gears when we stand, the back creaks like an old stairway, long worn with time.  Our bones ache and our skin feels dry, our wrinkles mock us from the mirror every morning.  These bodies are unworthy vessels of such wonder and light as lives within us.

We are trapped, for a while, in these failing vehicles that carry us from place to place.  We must surrender to them when they tell us we must slow down, have a rest, take something for that headache.  We are bound by fate, it seems, to care for these hulls of humanity, lest they fail us long before our spirits are ready to flee.

I believe there is a little girl inside us all.  In every 90 year old woman who smiles at me from behind her wrinkles, I see the twinkle of a girl in her eyes.  I know that at night when she dreams, she's lost in her girlhood fancies; she's falling in love, swinging from a tire, playing in the creek with her brothers.  I too know the girl inside me is still there.  She comes out to play now and then when I'm giggling with my boy or swinging my granddaughter in the hammock.  She's there in the songs and memories, her love for ice cream and chocolate milk all but forcing me to scarf both of them down, despite the extra pounds on my hips.  Little girls do not worry about such things.   They are about the business of living, of playing and learning all about everything.  Little girls try to find the beauty in all, in everyone, and they try to hang onto their ideals, long past girlhood.

That little girl in there, she gets us in trouble sometimes with her idealism.  She's had to learn the hard way about a lot of things.  She has seen disappointment and grief.  She has seen ugliness and fear.  She has been a winner and a loser, but she has tenaciously held fast to her girlhood all the while.

So even when the creaky bones and achy joints of these human-encasements try to trap her spirit, she shines strong.  Oh, she feels the aches and pains, but they are a small price to pay for one more day to laugh and play; one more day to walk among the living and find love shining back from the weathered faces of their dearest friends.  Little girls, all of them, no matter their age.  The flutter of youth still beats inside their chests--the hope of every girl, enduring and free, even if only on the inside.

Summer Twilight

It's a hot summer evening, the kind that comes as a welcome reprieve after a long sweltering day.  The shadows fall long and fast over these foothills, casting a transparent kind of darkness upon all they touch.  They make the yellowing grass look greener, for everything over which their merciful shade is cast takes on a posture of humble gratitude.  It's the kind of evening we greet with gladness, because even when we woke in the morning, we felt the heat's strangle-hold on our lungs.

A cloud or two has popped up along the horizon, just where our bluish mountains touch the sky.  It's probably raining over there, but the showers will wear themselves out before they reach us down here on the little hills that roll on forever, between us and that great blue wall.  A few claps of thunder try to threaten us, but they're too far away to even get our attention.

It's the perfect time for porch sitting.  With our feet propped up just so, we lean back and listen as the day melts into summer night.  A far off bird's frantic holler gives way to the rhythmic song of a Whippoorwill, crickets start to chime in, then the tree frogs and katydids.  By the time night falls and the grass is soaked with big heavy drops of dew, there's a virtual orchestra of night-sounds filling the air.

There's nothing quite so comforting as an evening breeze, still laden with the humid heat of the day.  It blows across your sweaty skin like a whisper, inviting you to relax, take a load off, maybe hum a little tune.  Even dogs know the sacredness of Southern summer twilight.  They lie at our feet like little furry footstools, hoping we'll  run our bare toes along their backs, rub their bellies and tell them what good boys they are.  Of course, they've done nothing for such praise; nothing more than walk beside us all through the day, tongues lopping out of their mouths, their tails fanning frantically as if to cool the air around them.

Eventually, we'll settle in for the night, but not until we've watched the color-show over the mountains, the clouds rolling by, the sky changing from blue to azure, to violet.  Somewhere in there, we'll see a pink streak or an orange glow before the sun finally falls behind the Earth.  It is Westward bound, and we are nearly ready to turn on the porch light so we can sit awhile longer with the world transforming all around us.

Have you ever walked barefoot in the grass after dark on a summer night?  It's so cool you almost forget that just a few hours ago, it would have burned your feet in the summer sun.  It's about that time, when the grass is cool and damp, that the fireflies start to blink.  It's a whole other spectacle, one that's reserved for those who persevere past sunset just to catch a glimpse of the blinking, glowing, buzzing little show-offs.  You can try to catch them but they don't blink nearly so much at your bedside in a Mason jar as they do in the cool evening air.  It's better, indeed, to watch them perform upon their stage and stare in awe from your front porch chair.

The petunias give off an especially sweet smell at night.  The darkest, most velvety purple they are, so dark they disappear under the night sky, but they remind us of their presence.  There's nothing that smells quite the same.  They mingle with the smells of damp earth and sweaty skin, the smell of a citronella candle that just nearly keeps the mosquitos at bay.  We slap ourselves on our legs and shoulders and curse at the pests, but we do not let them chase us away.  We know that tomorrow it's  going to itch like hell, but this night is something to see, despite a little bit of pain.

Out in the woods, we can hear sticks cracking underfoot.  We spin great tales of bears and deer, of coons and possums tromping across the forest floor in search of some treasure only to be had when all the humans are fast asleep.  An owl hoots at us from somewhere up in the trees, a warning for some small creature to run and hide.

Oh, of course there's the rumble of a distant car, someone driving home past dark.  We always wonder, but never aloud, why anyone would be out past nightfall.  We all live such different lives.  We sit at different dinner tables, eat different kinds of home-cooked meals.  We all talk about our lives as if they are the only lives being lived; but the soft swoosh of a car driving by, windows down at night, reminds us that the world reaches far past our front porch steps.  We know that out there in that same night, there is sorrow and suffering, need and want.  We know there is joy and peace where we are, and we will that same peace to fall upon the porches of our neighbors and friends as well.

We turn our thoughts from turmoil and strife and save those things for tomorrow.  Then, as the sun rises over our houses and we wake up, rubbing our sleepy eyes into the day, we will be on our way; back out there in that world that tries to melt us down to nothing.  We'll lend a hand or offer an ear.   We'll share a smile, a peck of beans or a pint of berries.  We'll cut our cantaloupe at dinner time, and eat it with biscuits and fried chicken, just after we fold our hands and declare our gratefulness for what the Earth has provided. Mamas will hang their linens on the line and younguns will squeal with delight, splashing in their wading pools or chasing one another with the hose-pipe.  Tomorrow, the heat and the sun will wring us out again, but we can make it through another day.  As long as we know the front porch sits and waits for our return, and the long tall shadows fall once again over the parched ground at our feet, we can make it through anything.

Precious People

Back in 2003 I took a job at a hospice organization.  When you work in hospice care, your life becomes one huge metaphor.  There's always talk of death and dying, talk of quality of life, pain, family dynamics, cultural norms.  In the days before Facebook memes with beautiful pictures of waterfalls,  spiritual and philosophical quotes were words we lived and witnessed in some way every single day.

Over the last few days one of those metaphors has come back to me in a most profound way.   It's about the ripple effect, when you throw a stone into a lake and watch as the water ripples around the point of impact.  A couple of mornings ago, I followed those ripples backwards in my own life, to the point of impact.  Ever since then, I am overcome with, I don't know what, perhaps awe, at the simple, yet intricate ways all of  us touch the lives of each other.

One night about ten years ago I went out to dinner with a close friend.  We sat in a booth at a local restaurant and talked, ate, drank wine for hours.  At one point later in the evening when things had slowed down, our server came over at sat at the table with us.  We were already acquainted, since this was our usual hang-out, but until that evening we had never had a real conversation with him.  His name tag said "Joe"  but I came to know him as Joey.  He was tall and lanky, had a goofy laugh and an even goofier sense of humor.  He told me that he had a son on the way and I could literally feel the excitement radiating off of him. My friend and I told him we worked for hospice and he told us his story of loss.  His mother had died a few years prior, and coincidentally had been cared for by the same hospice organization.   The more we talked the more common ground we found between us.   It was easy to feel comfortable around him, and I could see us being friends.  It was a cold November night, and although he lived close by, he asked me for a ride home so he wouldn't have to walk in the cold.

When I dropped him off, he thanked me for the ride and wondered aloud if we'd ever run into each other again.  I told him, "I'm sure you will if you're still working at our hang out."  I drove away, not thinking for a moment that what transpired that evening would send ripples through my life, in both good and bad ways, for years to come.

In the end we did become dear friends.  He was troubled at times, he struggled.  I struggled.  At times, we struggled together.  We were protective of each other but also tough on each other.  I didn't let him get away with much, and he was quick to call me out whenever I needed a reality check of my own. He often referred to me as his "best friend" and I loved that role, even though I knew he had a ton of "best friends" in his world.

Through him I met new people. We would go out together on weekends with a whole gang of crazy, fun folks.  They were kind and accepting, the kind of people who took chances on others.   Those people became my friends eventually as well. They've been a source of strength and encouragement to me more times than I could count.  I would never have known them, had I not known Joey.

Joey died in 2009.  He was 27 years old.  His death was tragic and avoidable, and it traumatized so many people who loved him.  After his death I met his son's mother and his brother, James.  James was wrestling with grief over the loss of his little brother.  He was tall, like Joey, and sometimes I swear I could hear Joey's voice when he would talk.  We spent time together, we talked about the pain we shared.  James and I ended up knowing each other longer than Joey and I had.  We bonded over a loss, and that bond of friendship carried us both through some rough times.  He always had an encouraging word for me, even if his own life seemed to be falling apart.  He offered me hope and reassurance and I tried to do the same for him.

James was different.  He was serious about life much of the time, but had the wit and timing of a comedian.  He had dreams and goals that he strove to reach, but somehow he always managed to sabotage himself.  It was painful to watch and difficult to accept at times, but I knew from experience that every person has to find his own way.

About 2 years ago I went to his wedding and teared up as he said his vows.  I felt such joy for him and the new life that lay before him.

Two days ago I got a phone call from Joeys son's mother early in the morning.  I could hear in her voice that something wasn't right.  When she finally told me James was gone I thought I wasn't hearing her correctly.  Even now, as I think back over our friendship and recall our last conversation, I can hardly believe I'll never see him again.  It's hard to accept that there will be no more funny voice mails left on my phone, no more surprise calls at work just so he can tell me he loves me.  I'll never get to try to outwit him in conversations where he is ragging me about my age.  How can all of that be gone in just an instant?

I didn't know, way back on that November night when I got to know Joey that I was taking a risk, but that's exactly what I did.  We risk something every time we open our lives up to someone new, whether it's a friend, a lover or even a new job.  If you truly want to live, risk is inevitable.  I put my heart into friendships and those friendships tore my heart into pieces.  They are pieces I try desperately to keep together, at least all in one place, though I know I'll never get them all to fit perfectly together again. These two brothers have sent ripples through the little world I live in. Ripples of pain, ripples of regret, ripples of sorrow.  Those ripples  just keep coming as I try to wrap my head around yet another loss and try to hold close all the ripples of joy, friendship and wisdom they've left behind.

There are people in this life who are precious to me.  Some of them are my own flesh and blood; others are my kin in spirit only.  A few of those precious people are grieving with me now.  They are the ones who share these losses with me.  They're the ones who, like me, took a chance on loving two brothers who weren't long for this world.  In all of us, they live on.  They are in the laughter we share and the memories we recall together.  They live on in the lessons they taught us about humanity and in the simplest of moments when the thought of them scurries through our minds.  They live on in the eyes of their sons and in the hearts of all who loved them.  For me, they live on in the friends I've made because I took a chance when I allowed them into my life.

It's so easy to get comfortable with where you are.  I haven't taken many risks in life lately.  I've been all too consumed with finding people and situations that were a sure thing, and while we all need stability in our lives, we cannot afford to stop taking chances on new people, new places, new ideas.  Some of those risks will end in pain, and some will lead us to bliss, but we never know the true merit of our human-ness if we never open ourselves up to the experiences that make us human.

My friend James was convinced I didn't believe in Heaven.  He tried to talk me into believing it many a time.  I'm not saying I don't believe, but I struggle to believe consistently.  Right now I am hopeful that there is another life after this one, where we can be reunited with the people we love.  Right now, I want to say I love them, not that I loved.  My faith is weak, but I know his was strong and if there is a paradise somewhere, I know he's there, kicking back with his brother, maybe even looking down at me saying, "I told you so!"  This is one time when I really hope James gets to be right.