In a Days Work

I answered the phone on a Monday morning. It was a young one - 20 years old. I hate those. Fell asleep at the wheel at 2 a.m. on the way home and hit a truck head on. “Was he drunk?” I asked.

“Not sure,” replied the pastor who would preside over the service. It really didn’t matter how it happened, only that it had. A young life cut short meant an even tougher assignment than usual for both of us.

I didn’t ask to be the funeral hostess for the community church that my family and I attend. Most would not aspire to such a position. I was a stay-at-home mom and wasn’t planning to juggle an outside job, but I needed to find a way to come up with some extra money to take my husband on a surprise Mexican cruise for his 40th birthday the following Spring. So, on a Sunday morning when one of the church secretaries asked if I’d be interested, I accepted, reassuring myself that it would just be a temporary assignment. Little did I know that my heart would come to permanently wrap itself tightly around each story - each life - in one way or another. I keep every program, read every poem printed, and sign each guest book in my best cursive.

They usually don’t know me, but I want them to know I was there.

On this particular day, I arrived earlier than usual and set about my tasks, purposely avoiding the front of the church until absolutely necessary. It was the first time I had to perform my duties with an open casket nearby and it made me surprisingly uneasy. Other than the sporadic floral arrangement being delivered, I was alone in the vast room and a virtual stranger to death. In my 39 years, the closest thing to me that I’d ever lost was my beautiful Snowshoe Siamese cat Lewis, six months ago. When I was seven, my grandfather died. I didn’t know him well but I do remember parts of his funeral. My mother and aunts fought over whether or not the casket would remain open or be closed. My mom begged them to allow her to remember him as he was in life. It was to be shut. But part of me was disappointed because I was curious to know what death looked like. I remember sitting in the church pew with my cousins, trying to force a tear down my cheek in order to better fit in with the sorrow around me. When it finally came, I tilted my head back slightly and let it sit there, hoping someone would see the gleam of moisture. Testimony to the fact that I cared, or at least that I wanted to.

I made my way upstairs to the control room to adjust the lighting. The set of windows to the North allow for some natural light and a nice view of the foothills. Below them is a big, wooden cross – made of oak, I think. It’s my favorite thing about the sanctuary and when I shine the lights on it just so, it creates a beautiful effect for those who choose to be comforted by it. Once back downstairs, I set the thermostat - more on the cool side - but comfortable, and then gingerly made my way forward to rearrange the many flowers that had already arrived. Making sure there’s a balance of color and scale on either side of the casket is important. At a time such as this, it’s unlikely anyone notices, but I like to pay attention to the details anyway.

I wanted to walk past him quickly but then found myself stopping to pay respect to this young man in dark sunglasses lying so still. He was wearing a blue suit and tie that I recognized from his prom picture in one of the lovingly crafted collages displayed in the foyer. I was surprised at how good he looked, given the violent way in which his life ended. My eyes wandered over the beautifully polished mahogany casket, and then paused to take in the cheesy, tropical beach scene on the lining of the lid. He was an avid surfer, so I got it, but I found myself wondering if his loved ones wanted to ensure that he had something comforting to look at, in the event he somehow woke up...

A woman walking slowly towards me suddenly interrupted these morbid thoughts. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I knew this was his mother. I’d seen her among the many pictures out front. She was young and more beautiful in person but, this day, her enormous loss and palpable sorrow robbed her of any luster.

Questioning her motives for a casket embellishment was instantly irrelevant.

I moved to shake her hand and introduce myself, gently letting her know, as was customary, that I was “here should she need anything at all.” Of course she needed something. And we both knew that it was something that neither I, nor anyone else on earth, could give.

As she turned to gaze upon her son, I became invisible. Stepping away I watched through lowered eyes, as she made sure his tie was straight before bending down to kiss him softly on the forehead. She stayed close as she slowly brushed his dark, wavy hair and then his cheek, with the tips of her fingers before turning to her husband who had come to stand beside her. Suddenly the brevity of the moment took her of strength and she collapsed sobbing into his chest. He led her to the first row of chairs, sat her down and held her tightly as she allowed grief to overcome her.

Through no effort of my own, my tears began to fall and I offered up a prayer that she would somehow be comforted today - and then, selfishly, said one for myself. That I would never know what it felt like to kiss the cold forehead of my son that once was so warm. How often had she checked for a fever that way when he was little, as I have with my own boys? How helpless she must have felt, being unable to make it all better this time.

After the church was filled to overflowing, I shut the doors and the service began. I sat in the back and listened to some wonderful memories shared among those who knew him best. There were stories and testimonies from various family members, his high school track coaches, and from buddies who envied his prowess with numerous female admirers. There was laughter and healing in the room as his life, although seemingly cut short, was celebrated. And I saw his mother smiling weakly through her tears – comforted - as she quietly took all of the love into her broken heart.

I looked up gratefully at the cross.

When the service was over, I signed the guest book and handed it, along with the photos and a basket full of sympathy cards, to his parents before they left to follow the hearse and bury their beloved son. “Thank you for everything,” she said to me. “Of course.” I replied hugging her tightly, “It was a beautiful service. He was so very loved.” I hoped she would feel how much I hurt for her...

After turning everything off and locked the doors, I began the short walk home. There, my own family would be waiting. I believe there was a reason I was asked to be the funeral hostess for our church. And it wasn’t so I could cruise to Mexico with my husband. I knelt down to meet my two boys who ran down the driveway to greet me, the same ones I had taken for granted three hours earlier, and hugged each of them a whole lot longer and tighter than they were used to. Then I let them go. As, eventually all mothers must. I paused to thank God for giving me another day with them…

And for a job He knew I’d need.

He and I

We usually work well together in spite of our different properties, he and I. Like a big chunk of ice in a tepid glass of water, we each take on some of the other’s form when combined, and try to blend our uniqueness into a viable whole.

My husband thinks simply and I tend to complicate things. If he were writing the paragraph above it would read, “We’re just two very different people trying to make it work.” My world is a giant IQ test. A lifelong quest to connect the dots, see the patterns and make connections. His life’s maxim is reflected in the James Taylor song, “The Secret Of Life” (…is enjoying the passage of time).

He’s content. And I’m not.

Ever.

It’s both what I admire and what frustrates me the most about him. I pray everyday to be, more of that which seems to come so easily to him.

He refuses to write unless he has to. When an important correspondence or proposal must be drafted, he’ll sometimes ask me to edit his words before they are sent, because he knows I love to. Write, that is. At times, his assignments make me uneasy because I know that, deep down, he’s really, really hoping I’ll just say, “it’s perfect as is” and we can call it a day. But he knows that that day will probably never come, not because his writing is so bad, but because I will never see anything as perfect.
He sees what’s right and likes it when I do, too. But I tend to see what’s wrong. His cup is half full and mine is half gone. Some psychologists agree that those who see more of what’s wrong usually have the more accurate view. All I know is that being accurate isn’t all it’s cracked up to be so I try to let him influence me more in this area.

He dislikes reading, but he’ll read my work because, one, it’s usually short and, two, it’s important to me and, therefore it is to him. I love to read, but since becoming a mom, I can no longer finish a book in what I would consider a reasonable amount of time. So I resort to magazine articles instead so I can still feed my brain and feel some sense of accomplishment.

I want to fill my mind with information. He wants to empty his mind of information. Unwinding at the end of the day is vital to his existence. He loves to watch TV to turn off and chooses programs that tend to think for him. I usually consider that kind of TV, a turn off, as it does nothing for my mind other than create a void that begs to be filled with something substantial.

Sometimes I wish that I could find stupid things funny. I try, really I do. But laughter doesn’t come as easily for me. He loves to laugh. He says he’s just an “old shoe” because I don’t laugh at him anymore. I guess I must have, early on in our relationship, or he wouldn’t be missing it. Maybe it’s just easier to laugh at life when you are 18.

He avoids conflict. I seem to create it. So we play this game of hide and seek. I seek out the stimulation that healthy debate provides me. And he hides in locations expertly found throughout his childhood that I’ll never hope to find. No “olly olly oxen free” rule for our game. He won’t come out until I walk away, which I usually end up doing. He’s relieved and I’m frustrated.

He goes to bed and wakes up early. I stay up late and never want to get up, but have to anyway. Even as I type, he’s been asleep for 6 hours. He’ll practically bounce out of bed when the alarm goes off at 6 in the morning ready to greet the day. I’ll peer through one sleepy eye at my smiling son, my 7 a.m. wake up call, with an audible groan, then get up to take the boys to school and spend the rest of the day wishing I could somehow just go back to bed. This nocturnal vs. early bird thing has always been a source of contention between us. He wishes I’d come to bed with him early to “bond” (sex) more often, and I wish he’d stay up later to “bond “(talk) with me. We both take our internal clocks being out of sync personally and have yet to find a workable solution to the problem.

He is extremely prompt and yet we are rarely on time. I’m always running behind. However, I’m not worried about being late to my own funeral because he will finally have utter and complete control over what time we get somewhere together. Until that day comes, he tries to be very patient with me as he sits in the car while I go through my various last minute, adrenaline rush rituals, before finally being able to pull the back door closed behind me. I convince him that there are benefits to coming back home to everything done and in its place. Isn’t it worth being a few minutes late? I know the answer to that…

We have danced for 22 years in a tall glass of life and love, he and I. Sometimes dancing with, and at other times around one another. At times we crowd each other out and push against the sides that hold us in. At other times we blend together effortlessly. Water melting ice and ice cooling water in tandem.
Two distinct forms of one love.

Belly Roll

(Recently published in the February issue of "Natural Solutions" magazine.)

“How did I ever talk myself into this?” I mumbled as I pulled into the parking lot of our local high school. Earlier in the day, it would have been bustling with kids parading their first cars - lavished, borrowed or earned - and I never would have found a place to park. But tonight, few were bold enough to go where I dared, and I found a spot right up front. With a sigh, I willed myself out of the car and made my way toward the gymnasium. The familiar music of my Middle Eastern roots, with its exotic, tribal lure, kept me moving bravely in the direction of the door.

I decided to give our community belly dancing class a try largely because of it’s touted potential to unleash the “inner-goddess” in women who may otherwise struggle with a faltering self-image. It occurred to me recently, that my own inner-goddess was stuck somewhere between endless laundry piles and expired grocery coupons.

It was time to try and set her free.

Entering a mirrored room off to the side of the gym, dressed in yoga pants and a baggy white t-shirt, I stood out in a sea of flowing fringed skirts, coin-laden hip scarves and bare bellies. I was quick to notice that only a few of those bellies were “ripped.” I felt better already.

“Let yourself go,” teacher Sarina instructed as she began expertly moving to the music. “Remember that you are creating a piece of art.” I tried to refrain from laughing while awkwardly attempting to follow her lead as she demonstrated a snake-like move called a belly roll. It was unlikely that I’d ever become proficient in something that requires knowing so precisely where your stomach muscles are, but I gave it my best effort anyway. As the hour progressed, my inhibitions began to disappear and we became a collage of color moving to drum beats and Arabic flutes – some of us more “Picasso” than others, but art nonetheless.

After class “Sarina” sold coined hip-scarves and finger symbols called “zils” to add some more jingle to the room. I bought both.

Once home, I made sure no one was looking before standing at the full-length mirror in my bedroom and attempting one of the more simple undulations I had learned.

I had a ways to go.

I lifted up my baggy t-shirt slightly, revealing a belly that had “danced” through two pregnancies and forty years. I cocked my head to the side and gave it a once over.

And with the drop of a hip, the inner goddess in me vowed next week to dare to let some of it show.