I cut an hour off my work time yesterday to help prep food for the community dinner at our church. As I stood cracking 24 dozen eggs, I chatted with an older woman from our congregation who I knew but had never really talked to before. In thirty minutes I learned that her son died of pancreatic cancer at 41; one of her children died at 4 months old; her one granddaughter, now an adult, has been wheelchair bound her whole life with spinal bifida; another granddaughter began life developmentally delayed (sounding much like Elliott) and now in her 20s is still essentially a child; and her husband of more than 60 years died one year ago, also of cancer. Although the stories themselves were depressing, the conversation was warm, heartfelt, even hopeful.
Many days I wish I knew what the future held for Elliott. I wish I knew what he was going to be like as an adult. Will he have the intellectual capacity of an 11 year old when he's 27? Or will other tragedy befall us? After the conversation yesterday, I think it's better not to know.
Visiting with my egg-cracking companion reminded me that life is chock full of sadness and challenge. There is no way to avoid it. We can hover over our children, eat only organics, do everything possible to ensure a safe and healthy life. But on this planet there is no guaranty.
Instead, we hold onto faith, friendship, community. We find ears to listen, shoulders to cry on. We open our hearts and give of ourselves, even when we could be huddled in a corner feeling sorry for ourselves.
May is by far the most glorious month in Chicago. All chance of ice and snow has past. The earth is glowing green. Fragrant lilac boughs drip onto the sidewalks. Yet, in the month of May, I am reminded that right in the midst of beauty is heartbreak.
Three years ago this May our neighbors lost their 2-year-old son to cancer.
Three years ago this May my dear cousin was informed by specialists that her 37-year-old soulmate really had no chance of survival. And four years ago this May a beautiful, blonde-haired boy emerged in a bright, warm hospital room, surrounded by a family ready to shower him with love. We didn't know
the struggles he'd have to walk or talk or understand the difference between big and little, green and blue. It was just a blissful day.
As the story of Elliott's life unfolds, we don't know what will happen next. And that's okay. We choose not to think ahead to the sorrow and struggle that could come. Instead, we find the happiness in today. Because, no matter what, in some form, difficult days will come to us all. Talking to someone schooled in grief reminded me that trying to avoid pain just wastes precious time on this journey. As does complaining, comparing or worrying.
I used to imagine that life would be richest when it was filled with only good and happy things, ideal situations, blessings overflowing. I see differently now. Joy and sadness live together. There is no other way. We can try and fight it. Try to sterilize and insulate our little worlds to know nothing of the grief and sorrow. But that doesn't bring us any closer to what we long for. Because it's from our cracked, imperfect, loss-filled lives that real gratitude, service, joy and big love flow. Every beautiful person I know who has suffered great loss knows this is true. And I thank my lovely new friend, cracking eggs with me on a glorious day in May, for one more reminder.
