Sometimes there aren’t words to express what you want to
say. As someone who loves and writes (not all that eloquently at times) words?
This is hard to accept.
With the recent passing of a certain special little boy,
today is one of those days- where there aren’t enough (or the right) words. My
social media is full of people looking for the proper things to say. Searching
for a way to let the family know they are there. Grabbling with their (and
their children's) sense of mortality.
While I love words and all they can do for people? This is
not my strongest suit. I’m more of a do-er. Do you need a chicken? I’ll make
it. Are you not sure what else to do? Eat a cookie – I’ll bake those, too. It’s
the easiest way for me to tell you I care - and to have something tangible to
show for it.
Words can seem so empty, at times. Mainly because we’re
taught to say things like “It’s okay.” Or the famous “At least they aren’t suffering
anymore.” We give them an “I’m sorry.” These always seemed so empty to me.
Words can’t fill the void that someone leaves in your life or your heart.
Neither can cookies, honestly. But they can fill that gap in your pants pretty
easily, trust me. I can make sure you no longer need a belt to hold those pants
up if something dreadful happens in your life.
This isn’t to say we shouldn’t say these words. People still
find comfort in knowing that there are people there for them and with them. And
that’s the best way most of us know to show that we sympathize with other humans.
But we can’t fully comprehend what another person has lost.
There’s no way. Even my own family doesn’t know what I have lost. Because my
relationship with Dad was different than theirs. Likewise, I have no idea what
my mother has lost. I haven’t been married for 32 years. I haven’t lost a
spouse, a partner in crime, the other parent to my children. I can’t even begin
to wrap my mind around the loss someone experiences when their child passes
away. But I do know it’s special and important and so freaking big to everyone
involved. The loss seems especially heavy when it is a child like this one - one
that has been shared with the entire world.
When you fight for your existence every day, people take
notice. People relish in the hope that you give them. They grasp onto the
strength that a tiny human can show them. And you become a part of their life.
The world was blessed to have such a great family surrounding him –a family
that shared him with so many people. They shared his highs, his lows, his
triumphs, and his final fight with people. I hope that everyone who had the
honor and privilege to meet (even just virtually or briefly) this family and their
amazing little boy takes notice of what he has taught them, how strong his
family has been, how gracious they were to share everything they have with
people. His time was limited here, but they shared him endlessly.
They say it takes a village to raise a child. And sometimes
it takes a child to show a village what courage and strength and honor are really
about.
I know these are just words, and they can’t heal the
friends, family, and loved ones that surrounded a brave little boy. So if
anyone needs tighter pants, let me know. I’ll be in the kitchen, making some
cookies.
Today is “throw back Thursday” and tomorrow is July 4th.
So it seemed a fitting day to pull out this picture of Dad. Facebook tells me it is from 2008. Six years later, a lot of things have changed.
Dad loved the fourth. You got to blow things up. But it
looked pretty, so people didn’t mind. It was also a time that people could
gather and stuff themselves. What? The man liked his food. And it was also
socially acceptable to participate in the gorging of oneself. ..what more could
he ask for?
The parties my parents threw when I was younger were incredible. Table upon
tables of food, coolers of booze, punks lit for all the kids to set off smoke
bombs, drunk people lighting off city firework display grade fireworks. …I’ll
let you take a moment and think about that one. They got drunk, they blew shit
up. And guess what? Everyone survived. I don’t even think we lost any limbs. I
do recall a special aunt of mine being burned by a bumble bee firework. But
nothing that some more booze couldn’t cure. (I’m kidding, I think she used
actual medication. Think so, at least.)
July 4th is one of the days that making noise and
lighting things on fire makes you American. And boy was Dad American. He made
American made steel. He drove American made cars. And he blew shit up like a
good American would. But mainly he enjoyed his friends and family. He took
pleasure in the freedom to do what he wanted. He reveled in the idea that we
could all get together and eat, drink, and be merry. He took that a step further
when he then married my mom on the 5th of July in 1981. So the order
then was eat, drink, be merry, get married.
My parents have always been a testament to the fact that
love is patient and love is kind. It doesn’t mean that YOU are always patient.
It doesn’t mean that the only words that ever leave your mouth are kind. But the
act of loving people the way my parents loved each other is patient and kind. I
saw my father attempt to finish building my mother the house she had always
wanted before he got too sick. I saw my mother be kind enough to take care of
my father when he became too sick to care for himself. Love is patient. Love is
kind. And sometimes love is hell. And sometimes you do things for one another
that you would never have wanted to do. But you do it because you love them.
Because you care for them. And because they
let you blow shit up for years on end before that. (Thanks for letting Dad
always be a big kid, Mom. It worked out for all of us!)
Unless we are under the assumption that I was born extremely
premature, as I came along in December of 1981, I’d like to say I was the best
witness to the marriage vows of my parents. I’m even in the pictures, if you
look hard enough. This means I have spent years reminding my parents that their
anniversary is really just a celebration of me. And that they should make “Thank
you for bringing us together” cards at Hallmark. That way they could have
bestowed upon me gifts and cards. If you’re listening, Hallmark, let me know. I
have a few good ideas. I can be hired to freelance for a nominal fee.
These next few days will be hard. We probably won’t blow
shit up. But we will remember how proud Dad was to fly his flag in this
picture. And how he always made us laugh. Not always AT him, sometimes WITH
him. Promise. Seriously though – how American
is a picture of a man flying a flag out of his truck, a thumbs up, and a
backdrop of fields? You can almost hear the “And I’m proud to be an American,
where at least I know I’m free…” from the radio. (I’m kidding, he had great
taste in music. It was probably something more akin to Crazy Train playing at
the time.)
The most important thing my Dad ever taught me was that
people fought for the freedom I have to be who I am. Unapologetically me. He
would have never wanted anyone to change who I am. Or who you are. That’s why
we have these freedoms. So we can fly our flags as high and as often as we want
to. That was what the Fourth of July meant to Jim. Well, and that he could blow
shit up and people would “ooh” and “ahh” instead of “OH! STOP!” I’m not sure
which was more important to him. Heh.
Until next time – go out. Make memories. Gorge yourself.
Hide behind the smoke bomb. Throw some poppers around. Make a lot of noise.
Blow shit up. Celebrate all the moments. And cherish them all. But most
importantly, don’t forget to fly your flag. Whatever flag that is. Fly it high
and fly it proud. (Extra points if you yell ‘Merica! While doing so.)
