Today
I woke to rain and clouds, the air heavy with that damp feeling that comes
after a few days of slow drizzle; this is day three of this front, and it is
forecast to be set in for at least one more. This weekend our family will
celebrate our oldest daughter, Laura's, graduation. The rain, therefore, does
not seem a welcome thing. However, amidst all the bustle and activity, rain
feels grounding; in some ways, it's good to know that the Earth, that nature,
simply moves through its cycles despite the buzzing around that we humans do.
Family
is coming for Laura's graduation, beginning this evening and continuing through
tomorrow. And while we are glad to see them, there are undercurrents of tension
and unresolved conflict that shadow us. As I write, I worry -- will those
tensions threaten our celebration with a downpour of negativity? For Laura's
sake, I hope not. Both the experience of being the oldest of our children, and
of simply being an adult now, lend her a perception of those tensions that is
more nuanced than her siblings'; will she be worried, as well?
One
family member will not be here in body, although I know that he's always around
in that space just beyond my vision. Nineteen years ago this month, in May,
1993, my dad died of complications from emphysema. I was just three months' pregnant
with Laura. She never met him in person, though I've told all my children
enough stories of their Papa that they have some knowledge of what he is like. And
they all carry pieces of him with them, in their heritage and DNA: Laura particularly carries his intelligence
and his ability to detach from drama. I hope those gifts serve her well as she
moves into the rest of her life.
The
summer after my dad died, I attended a graduate school writing class at the
University of Montana. There, one of the projects I completed was a letter to
my unborn baby about my dad, a beginning of the stories I continued to tell
once Laura and her siblings entered our lives. Instead of saving the letter for her graduation, as intended, I gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday. While I feel bad about not saving that original letter, I also realize
that it isn't the letter I would choose to give to her now. That summer, Laura was
still unknown to me; this summer, her last with us, I know her in ways that
even she doesn't. I've spent over eighteen years watching her grow and change,
and eighteen years loving her even when she's been unloveable.
And
I have changed - immensely - in these last nineteen years as well. Parenting
changed me: both my successes and my
failures have been magnified by seeing their effects on my kids. Working in
different careers changed me: I have learned to adapt to more kinds of people
and more environments than I ever thought I would. Marriage changed me: living
with one person for over 20 years, even through the hard times, has both
humbled me and honored me. And simply growing older has changed me: just as Laura is not entirely the same person
at 18 that she was at 8, neither am I the same on the back side of 40 as I was
when I wrote the original letter at 23.
And
so, for the rest of this post, I am going to write to Laura. The original
letter was full of the same types of platitudes that she'll hear so much of
this weekend: "reach for your
goals;" "rely on your strength;" "never give up." And
while those are certainly lessons her Papa would have taught her, and lessons
that I want her to learn, there are other, simpler things he would have demonstrated
as well:
* Know what you love, and what brings you joy. Find some small way to include those things
in your life. Papa loved the land, and returned from his tour in the Korean
Conflict to work on his parents' farm; after their retirement, he worked it first
with his brother and then alone. He bought that farm, and sometimes it was
truly a monkey on his back. Particularly near the end of his life, the farm
finances were so dire that he perhaps wished it was not his responsibility. But
he still took joy from the small things the farm brought: the call of pheasants in the windbreak, the
sight of the setting sun, the seclusion of our home.
Papa also loved to travel, to
see new places. Ironic, then, that his chosen career and lifestyle kept him
married to one place. Trips were rare for our family, and never did we venture
out of state, unless for medical reasons. Still, he maintained his love of
travel and nurtured it by reading about foreign lands and peoples. It was a
small way to keep his passion alive, but I cannot picture my dad sitting down
to drink his coffee or take a breathing treatment without a book or magazine –
especially the National Geographic –
in front of him. Although he wasn’t able to actively pursue this love, he found
a way to include it; it is the same reason I garden, though I’m not a
horticulturist, or that your dad hunts, though he is not a wildlife manager.
Your music is such a passion for you now, and I hope it becomes your career;
but even if it doesn’t, remember Papa and his magazines – and don’t ever lose
that which makes you feel most alive.
* Choose your battles, but once you’ve chosen one, don’t be afraid to
fight. Papa was not a loud or boastful man, and he put up with a lot. To
some his quiet acceptance came across as weakness; however, I think he simply
knew that not every fight was worth fighting. He saw plenty of violence in
Korea; he had a reputation as a younger man for being “scrappy.” By the time he
was raising our family, he just didn’t waste his energy on conflicts that
didn’t matter. This detachment allowed him to rise above family drama, as well
as many disputes with neighbors. He didn’t have a need to be right about
everything, the way some people do. However, when a fight had meaning to him –
when his family or his land was threatened, for example –then he didn’t back
down. Whether fighting fire that threatened land and crops, or fighting the
emphysema that threatened his life, Papa didn’t give up on the important
battles.
* People are going to disappoint you; love them anyway. Because
Papa was not the oldest in his family, he was not expected to inherit the
family farm. However, his older brothers
did not want to farm; therefore, he and his younger brother first leased the
place from his parents; later, after Fritz moved away, Papa began the process
of buying the farm. Suddenly those brothers who had not wanted the farm wanted
their fair share of income from it. The situation was not fair, for multiple
reasons; still, Papa paid them what they asked, and continued to maintain a
place for them to visit and hunt when they wanted. He loved his brothers despite
what they’d done; there was no sense in holding grudges. When his dad – my
grandpa – died in 1980, after Grandma had been gone three years, the entire
family returned to our farm for the days surrounding the funeral. I remember
our house being filled with laughter and stories as Papa and his brothers
played cards until late into the evenings.
Had he held grudges – which might have been justified – Papa would have
missed out on the good times, the memories, the love of his brothers. In
forgiving them and moving on, he opened himself to the joy and healing that
occurred during that week.
* You are not perfect; nobody is. You therefore have an obligation to
be compassionate and grateful. Because of the hardships he’d faced and
surmounted, many people thought of your Papa as a hero. Particularly when he
died nineteen years ago, the stories told were of his bravery when he lost four
fingers from his right hand in a corn picker accident; his determination when
first buying the family farm and then facing the devastating farm credit crisis
of the 1980s; his quiet courage when he was diagnosed with emphysema. And it’s
true that he did possess those qualities. But he was also a man who was
addicted to tobacco, who sometimes lost his temper, who let work come before
family time. In short, he was human. One of Papa’s favorite songs was an old
gospel hymn, sung by Kris Kristofferson; although Papa was not as musical as
Grandma, he would sing along with the radio when this song came on:
“Why me, Lord? What have I ever done
To
deserve even one
Of
the treasures I’ve known?"
It was a song of great humility,
the confession of a sinner who knows that all he has is not deserved.
It was also, however, a song of
profound faith:
“Lord, help me, Jesus. I’ve wasted it,
So help me Jesus.
I know what I am.
And now that I
know,
That I’ve needed
you so, help me Jesus.
My soul’s in your
hands.
Jesus, my soul’s
in your hands.”
There is great freedom in realizing that one
does not need to be perfect to be loved; I hope you, too, find this freedom. I
think it was this knowledge that gave your Papa the strength to face the trials
in his life; he knew he wouldn’t handle things perfectly, so he just did the
best he could. This absence of ego allowed him to be heroic when it really
mattered.
* Don’t ever, ever cuss the rain. Sometimes rain comes as an easily
recognized blessing; sometimes it’s more difficult to be grateful for. Life’s
trials – the rainy periods – are usually like that last type of rain, the kind
that shows up when you have a graduation party planned, or when the hay crop is
already swathed, or when you’ve been trying for weeks to get muddy fields
seeded. The dark and stormy times of life don’t come conveniently, and they
don’t end when you think they should. But like the rain, they eventually spur
new growth. Growth is messy, painful, and even heart-breaking – but it is still
growth, and it is always a blessing. Papa didn’t know this phrase, but I bet he
would have liked it:
Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to
pass;
It’s about
learning to dance in the rain.
Dance in the rain, dear Laura.
You have a beautiful, strong, wise heritage; keep it close to you.
