Life is a funny thing. A few years ago, I thought my life was the most important thing I had. I was convinced that living my life meant doing more, being more, seeing more. Then I found myself disappointed because there were too many constraints on my resources -- time and money, mostly -- to get out and do. Trying to convince myself that the free stuff would do, I would still get mired in the time part. Nothing could make it all make sense. Somewhere in that time, I did manage to have some sanity and finish my degree -- a time and money commitment that made sense for lots of reasons. Still, I thought there should be more for me to do and see. Time marching on made the whole time kind of frantic. The darktime of winter doesn't help.
At one time, there was no such thing. Growing up, I loved winter. I loved the sun and the moon on the snow. I loved the silence that snow brought to the air; the stillness that only came on a winter evening. The sparkle of individual snowflakes in the air and in a snowbank. True, I loved it all from a window most of the time, but fall and winter were my favorites. An outdoorsy girl I never was, and these were the inside seasons; more time indoors, and more time allowed to sit and read or daydream. The darktime crept in later, living on a busier street, young kids, and staying at home with them was the beginning, but ...
The other day I stopped to visit a friend at work. I see him often, but we rarely get to talk much. In fact, I really only get to talk with him when he's at work and I visit. It seems to be the only time no one else is around to interrupt. We talked shop a little, and then got to talking about some health problems another friend is having. He's often told me about praying for his friends, and how he wishes he could do more for them. As we talked, he said he often asks the Lord before closing his eyes for the night that it be the last time; that he might just be invited to be with Him. As tears sprung to my eyes, I looked at him and made a promise. "When that happens, I promise I will rejoice." I watched as tears welled up in his eyes, and continued, "I will be sad for me, but I promise that for you I will rejoice." And I meant it. I don't know anyone else I could say that to, and mean it as much as I do. He hugged me close, thanked me, and I headed home, grateful to have him as both a friend and an example of faith.
During that frantic time -- which sometimes tries to steal my peace -- I never could have said, or even thought, such a thing. During that frantic time, I was not looking for peace, as I thought I was. I was looking for fullness, for something to fill what was missing in my heart. What I've learned, slowly and late, is that when Augustine talked about the God-shaped hole in our hearts, he nailed it. It didn't matter how many places I went, or how much stuff I had or did, if I couldn't share it with Someone who was right beside me the entire time, there was no point. My friend has shown me that in small things that he does, that he says, in the way he sees each person he talks to as the only person in the world in that brief moment. There will be a day when I miss him, the touch of his hand at Mass in the morning, his smile crinkling his eyes to slits, but in the meantime, I will continue to pray for him. He reminds me of Dad; his arms always open for a hug when I need one, and his attention focused when he questions me.
My birthday is next week; another reason I loved winter. February is nice for a lot of reasons: it's a short month, it's full of birthdays (me, Dad, Uncle Flash, Washington, Lincoln, just to name a few), and it's pretty quiet, other than a groundhog frenzy at the beginning and hearts and flowers in the middle. When Dad died in February a few years ago, I thought that affinity was going to be gone. There are times when there is still a sharp pain in my very being when I think of him, and I have to admit, he's the first one I thought of as I left my friend's shop. but I'm beginning to find joy even in that pain. My heart has him to miss, and that's a great gift. I've been able to picture him welcoming so many others to heaven. And I've begun to learn to let him go so that I can become the woman I am.
There are people who come into our lives, and we learn from them, we lean on them, we grow because of them. I blessed to have so many.
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