It’s been another tough week and I find myself, once again, writing the shallow blog in a sad world. I’m thinking this may be harder for you, my readers, than it is for me since you quite possibly have been using this blog as a bit of a diversion, a little comic relief from things more important and pressing. But, I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden. And tonight there is no joy in Mudville, I’m afraid. This week two families have lost a child, one to a horrendous accident and the other to a devastating disease. I know this happens everyday but this time it hit close to home with one being a good friend of my son and the other a good friend of a friend of his. As they suffer their loses together they find solace in conversation, in joining with others to celebrate the life and mourn the death of their friends. But I think it is too soon, too soon for this much sadness to come into their lives. As a Mother I understand the unbearable pain the death of a child brings to a family and, at the same time I am faced with the stark reality that all of the worrying, cajoling and praying I do to keep my children safe cannot protect them. Because I know that these Mothers worried too, they did everything they could to keep their children safe and yet they are gone. This week my heart breaks for those families.
Sorry but there is more. Last week my gorgeous, bright and vibrant sister-in-law, my youngest Brother’s wife, endured a seven and a half hour operation to remove a tumor from her spine. The good news is that she is going to be ok, the not so good news is that it might take a while. But if there is a heaven, and who am I to say if there is or isn’t, this marriage was made in it. We all know that because we can feel the love they have for each other and for their children whenever we walk into their home, share a meal, or join them in the celebration of a milestone. They have friends and family, lots of them, to help out and I know how important that is. But it is the strength of their love, their joy of life and everything in it, and their undying optimism that will carry them through. Next time I see Ruth she will be better than she is now and the time after that, better yet. I know this to be true because she won’t have it any other way. So here’s my “I know you’ll get well soon” wish ‘cause I know you will.
So there it is. Yep I’m still shallow. It’s just a little hard to talk about it right now.
I write this post while thinking about my dear friends who have recently suffered the loss of a parent. Last week I drove Kevin and Randy to the airport so they could attend Kevin’s Father’s funeral and the other morning I picked them up as they made their way to the funeral of Randy’s Mother. It’s a straight road to the airport with surprisingly little traffic during what would be rush hour in most cities of this size. I like being alone in the car, singing along to my favourite artists, watching the all too familiar landmarks whisk by, cursing just a little as I find myself behind a farmer who thinks it’s ok to use this high speed highway to move his tractor from one corner of his property to another. But on this drive I find myself thinking about the blog, my lighthearted treatise about all things shallow, and I wonder how it is that I can possibly continue amongst all of this sadness. How can I write about being shallow when so many people around me are hurting? I’m not sure I know how to be shallow in a sad world.
There’s not much time at the airport for niceties as we load bags into the car before the parking monitor notices I am stopped in the middle of the lane, but as the door closes and we exchange our signature “Hey Friend” greeting I am comforted in knowing that everything seems to be the way it should be. I’m taking my two friends home. There’s no beating around the bush, no polite banter. In this car we get right to the point.
“How”, I ask, “do you expect me to write the shallow blog amid so much sadness?”
They both laugh and without any hesitation say, “Guess you’ll just have to write about being shallow and sad.”
“Sure, I can do that…Sure”.
Well, I’ve thought about this for a couple of days and have finally come to the conclusion that it’s ok for shallow people to be sad sometimes. The loss of a parent is very sad. All of us who have been there know this to be true. My Father passed away more than 21 years ago and not a day goes by that I don’t think about him, what he might say, advice he might give. There is no doubt that he lives forever in my heart. And that’s the way it should be. As sad as it may be there is an order to life and this is it. At least we hope it is because anything else would be unbearable. We grieve and slowly but surely we return to the normality of our daily lives. We are living proof that life does go on.
And so today it’s too hard to be lighthearted. Today I am sad for my friends who have lost their parents. But before too long I’ll get back to writing the shallow blog in the manner to which you and I have become accustomed. I’m ok with that and I hope you are too.