Rain!

I almost forgot there was such a thing. The crunchy grass seems to be stretching up, drinking deeply. The 100-degree heat has prematurely grilled the grass. We've struggled to keep our precious plants watered. But today, at last, the rain has come, quenching the gasping landscape.

We usually complain about rain. It spoils our picnics, soaks our sports and makes a mess of proms, weddings and Easter Sunday. Yet when the rain tarries, we start to see rain afresh. We pray for it, long for it, sigh for it's absence. We want the rain to come, to satiate the vegetables, placate the pachysandra.

In a similar vein, today Kelly and I went to a friend's funeral. The young husband of a fellow homeschooling mom gave up a valiant battle against cancer. He died on Independence Day, prompting the pastor to remark, accurately, that it was his first Independence Day of true Freedom. The rain that came today is like the rain coming into the life of my friend. It brings the clouds of sorrow, but it brings cleansing tears. This young man doesn't have to fight any more, doesn't have to hurt or struggle. It is a dark cloud for my friend and her daughter, even as it quenches the dessert of the unknown, even as it washes the painful path of loss.

It seems to me that death could have been better designed.

Traces of Traci

My sister, Traci, liked to give gifts. She and my mother are very similar in this way. They love to find little knick-knacks and trinkets to give people. Traci often bought things at yard sales or thrift stores and then gave them to me, my husband or my kids. To be honest, it got on my nerves. I'm a person who likes things uncluttered and it never helped to have someone piling gifts in the front door while I was trying to push the excess out the back door.

But now I realize my attitude was all wrong. Really - should I have been annoyed by someone who was too generous? Whose symbols of love were overly abundant? Considering the amount of selfishness in the world, this is hardly a problem.

Now that Traci is gone, I look around and the traces of her are everywhere. She's left a trail of gifts, some wonderful, some silly, some a little absurd, but at least she left a trail. Her trail of gifts was a trail of love. I went to put a band-aid on Mason's finger yesterday, and even there, in the humble bathroom cabinet, were two boxes of jazzy-looking band-aids given to the kids by Traci. Is there a bathroom cabinet anywhere among my friends or family members that holds something so silly and precious from me? I would have to say not.

I have never read the book The Five Languages of Love, but I know the gist of that book. It's about how different people "speak" and "hear" love different ways. Some feel loved by acts of service. For some, it's physical touch. (That seems to cover most men.) For some, it's words of appreciation. (Hear, here.) Some like an investment of time. And for others, it's giving gifts. I would say that gifts are the least important of those things for me. Which is why all those gifts never really turned me on.

But I sure am glad I have them now. Each little one is like a lasting love-note from Traci. Thanks, Traci, for the ceramic hummingbird, the purple velvet negligee, the Anne Gedes book, the rubber stamp of an angel. For the jazzy band-aids, the fuchsia kitten, the "Sissy and Smooch" set, the dress-up poodle and the soccer-ball gum you gave my kids. And the airplane picture frame, black travel case and Home Depot card you gave my husband. And all the other stuff, too. I probably didn't say it just then. So, thanks. You gave us a lot of stuff and I wasn't always thrilled, but it took losing you to see what you gave. You gave continual reminders that you cared, love-notes that remain even with you gone.

Time

It always seems there will be more time later. Time to hear a loved one's voice again, time to share a meal. Time to paw through a thrift shop together again, time to take another photo. But sometimes, time runs out all of a sudden.

If I had known my sister's last day was rushing towards me, if I had known time was about to run out, how very differently I would have treated the time.

My sister's time ran out on me and who would have ever guessed? On Wednesday morning, she never woke and no one knows yet why. It takes scientists and doctors, clinical and detached, to discover why her time ran out at 42. And I am left with regret. Her voice was only a phone call away; how I wish I had recently heard it. Her zany humor was available to me whenever I would have planned to spend a day with her. Did I think I didn't have time then? I don't have time now.

I found a note she wrote me when Lydia died. She was living in Florida then, but urged me to come see her at a moments notice, if I ever needed time to clear my head. Why didn't I? She told me if I needed anything at all from her, I could have her on the next flight out. I wish I had taken the time.

She told me I was "absolutely precious to [her]". If only the time was not up, that I could experience again her boundless love.

Goodbye, Traci. You are absolutely precious to me, too. I'm sorry I did not take the time to show you.