There are no words

Last week in the life of my family the unspeakable happened: we lost a child.

When someone dies in the waning years of a natural life, we mourn and move on. For those who grieve, moving on is the only thing to be done. What can one do otherwise, stand still…?

But we move on to different effect depending on our relationship to the deceased. If it was a close friend or relative, our journey for the rest of our life is forever altered. I’ll always remember talking to my father-in-law Paul after his mother died. Although he had outlived is father and several siblings, for him it was the loss of his last remaining parent that set him temporarily adrift in his world. He told me, eyes brimming with tears, that for the first time in his life he was truly alone in the world.

Of course he was not. He was surrounded by his own children and their children and even great-grandchildren. And he knew that, but in his heart there was a place where life was different now and in that place he was alone.

My Grandad is still with us but when my other grandparents passed away, the family gathered together from all the places we have scattered on this earth and we bid them farewell. If you laid our emotions on a scale, the celebration of their lives would outweigh the tears for their loss. It was at these funerals I learned how amazingly faith bridges the chasm between life and death.

Last week we lost our young teenager in a tragic accident at a snowy recreational park in Montana. The shock and sorrow have been unbearable, but we somehow move numbly through our days and reach out to her family in every way we know or can. And we hold our own children a little too tightly and hug them a little too fiercely and we pray and we pray and we pray.

But there are no words. This conversation I have had with my sisters. Marjie told me of her struggle to find the right card, standing there in the sympathy aisle, getting angry at inscriptions that might have served to soothe in other circumstances but were woefully insufficient for this, and finally settling on the one that said “…there are no words.”

I looked down at the card in my own hands, which I was signing when she called. “There are no words” is what it said.

A week has passed and we have shared phone calls and emails and fears and memories and prayers. We do what we can to cope in our own way with the knowledge of what has happened and the deep sorrow we feel for this precious branch of our family.

So when the weekend came, my daughter and I got in the car and drove four hours north to her favorite city and the one I fear the most: Chicago. I drove through that crazy, intimidating maze of traffic and skyscrapers and lakeshore because on the other side was the newest member of our family, and we were coming to meet him.

He’s perfect. I held him almost every single minute we were there and he laid in my arms completely content, a dream-come-true baby. And as I held him and watched his tiny chest rise and fall I began to feel that amazing flow of emotions babies seem to transmit to us: joy, hope, gratitude, awe, love.

But I didn’t say a word because in times like this, there are no words.

Of this we can be sure...

Really, the very first thing I remember about Judy is the way she said good-bye on the phone. Her sweet, light voice became even sweeter, a lilting “bye-bye!” that was almost as precious as a baby’s cooing tones. When Judy said bye-bye she always left me smiling.

She called the station fairly often to have me “pronounce” a birthday. Judy must have kept her church newsletter each week, and if there was a parishioner celebrating, Judy would be sure to let us know about it. And if it was a name she herself had difficulty pronouncing, she would spell it for me. The conversation would go something like this:

Judy: Oh, h-h-hello Diane. Can you pronounce a birfday for me?

Me: Sure Judy, who’s birthday is it?

Judy: Uh, it’s uh…Ma-ma-mawee Ju-Ju-Ju—I’ll spell the last name okay? It’s uh, uh, J….O…uh, uh, N….E…..S.

Me: Mary Jones, okay. And how old is Mary today?

Judy: She’s uh, 64. Yes. 64. She goes to my church, she does.

Me: Your church is lucky to have you to keep track of all these birthdays, you know! Thank you Judy!

Judy: (giggles self-consciously) Okay Diane. Bye-bye!

And there it was, that innocent, sweet send off.

I remember Judy from high school, actually. She was in the special education classes so our paths only crossed in the hallways, but I remember her. And now somehow, all these years later, we have connected again, more personally these days.

Judy would always call me on her birthday too, to tell me all about the presents she got. New slippers, a little trinket, one year a puppy! Something went wrong there though, and she didn’t get to keep the puppy very long. I remember how sad that made her. I also remember how pleased she was with the very modest gifts she would receive from her caseworker, or her brothers, and the child-like enthusiasm with which she would describe her gifts to me.

She had some kind of problem with her leg and began seeing a new doctor, I’m thinking a kind young doctor, because, oh my, did she get excited about seeing him! She would call and tell me her doctor flirted with her and repeat their conversation word-for-word. His sweetness brought so much joy to this lady. I wonder if he even knows that?

And every once in a while in the ten years we’ve been sharing these calls, Judy would be looking forward to a weekend date. She told me she had a boyfriend a couple of times and excitedly recounted their Saturday night dance or something special he said to her. Those times didn’t last long, but the joy in her voice sure seemed to make it worthwhile when it did.

A few weeks ago, there was some trouble with her leg again and she called to tell me she was having a hard time. She couldn’t quite explain the trouble but assured me she was getting good medical care.

Just days after that chat, her brother Jim called to tell me they’d put Judy in a rehabilitation/nursing care facility. He gave me the name of the place she was now residing and told me hesitantly that she’d sure love to hear from me.

I called her that afternoon but there was some difficulty getting her to the phone or the phone to her. As luck would have it, I'd picked the wrong time to make the call. I would try again later.

Two days later Jim called to tell me Judy had died.

I was stunned. Died? I thought she just had something wrong with her leg! Obviously it had been much more serious than that and I am so sorry I didn’t get to see or talk to her one last time.

Judy Pearman was a very special lady and I’m proud to have called her my friend. The speed with which she departed this earth has left me with my own fragile emotions. Deep regret for not being more persistent the day I wanted to talk to her on the phone, for not taking time to get down there and see her, keep her company, let her know I really did care.

But the nice thing about life is the second chances we DO get. I may have missed my opportunity to say good-bye to Judy, but my Granddad is still here and I bet he’d enjoy a visit from me. I’ve let two weeks slip by since I last visited him. A LOT can happen in two weeks, as I've just learned the hard way.

Oh, and since I believe in angels, this is for you, Judy.

When we come to the edge of the light we know, and are about to step off into the darkness of the unknown, of this we can be sure - Either God will provide something solid to stand on or we will be taught to fly.

Godspeed, sweet girl. Bye-bye.

It had been a long day and she was finally heading home when she realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and if she went straight home, she wouldn’t eat again until tomorrow, so she pulled into the first place she passed on the way, thinking she would just buy a little something to ease her hunger pangs.

She’d learned a lot about hunger in the last few years. She’d learned that water really can fill an empty stomach enough to allow sleep, and that ramen noodles go a long way when you’re down to your last dollar. But eventually a person has to eat and tonight she was hungry.

She was between paydays and as she counted out the remaining change in her purse she slowly realized she didn’t have enough to get anything on the menu. Why didn’t she use a little more precious gas to get herself to a place with a 99-cent menu??

“May I help you?” came the bright voice across the counter. She looked up at the girl and admitted with embarrassment she only had three dollars and fifty-eight cents. Could she get anything with that?

The girl hesitated, glancing over the keys of her cash register, then excused herself and walked to the back. While she was gone, the woman counted out her change again, willing another quarter or two to appear, but the number was still the same: $ 3.58.

When she looked up again, the manager was standing before her with a smile on her face. “What would you like to eat this evening?” she asked. The woman started to explain that she had limited funds but was cut off by the manager, who again smiled, looked into her eyes and asked again, “What would you LIKE to have?”

The woman glanced at the menu for the lowest-priced item and said in a shaky voice, “Fish, please.” The manager smiled broadly and asked, “Would you like some shrimp with that?” The woman shook her head but the manager threw in several hot, fresh shrimp before closing the box and handing it across the counter to the woman, who by now was quietly crying.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and the manager smiled across the counter. The look in her eyes said she’d been there too once. Those moments passed in a blur as she watched the manager pay for her meal, pressing her last few dollars back into her hand.

When she slipped into the driver’s seat, the woman began to cry in earnest, not because she was hungry, but because she had just experienced the touch of human kindness, and the sweetness of it was almost unbearable.

As she headed home with a warm meal on the seat beside her she realized what that manager had really given her. It wasn’t just a meal, it wasn’t just the incredibly kind gesture from a stranger; it was hope.

And with hope, all things are possible.