I think for the first 20 years of my marriage, I had a great deal of resentment towards my father-in-law. He was by all measures a wonderful man, but I felt in many ways, his grandchildren took a backseat to his happiness. And yet, the irony of it all, I also believe that other than my husband, he understood me the best. I will explain. After his retirement, he devoted most of his days and nights to the local high school and its sports program. It would seem logical since before that he had lived his life through his children's sports. An incredibly attentive parent in that regard, he coached them, encouraged them, and dreamed with them from T-ball through the entirety of high school. His breath was measured by the smell of a fresh cut baseball field. His heart beat to the pounding of shoes racing up and down a basketball court. And his eyes came alive with the lights of a Friday night football game. It was far more than his passion; it was his life. So why would I resent this?
I always become a bit melancholy in the days directly after Christmas. Some might say that isn't unusual most feel an anticlimactic let down. But mine goes much deeper. Of course, I am sad that after months of preparation the day seems to come and go, like a quick summer storm that disappears back into the clouds from which it came. My heart almost aches as I walk through the stores with sale signs cascading the picked over shelves. It's as if December 25th is a distant memory the day after it dawns. Even now driving down the street (December 28th), I have seen any number of Christmas trees cast off to the curb. Why do people insist on erasing any trace of this beautiful day? Theologically the Maji are still tracking their journey to meet the newborn king. Yes, I can still hear the squeal of my youngest granddaughter when she opened the Barbie she wanted. The sparkle in her eyes will light my dreams for months. Or my youngest grandson's smile when he saw the collection of
Sweet Mary I passed the Hospice where I said goodbye to you. It stands stoic and silent against an unlikely back drop. I can still see your face, your beautiful face that very last day. It had a light around it, cloaked in a celestial opus. You looked more beautiful than I had ever seen you. Do you think God gave me that final glimpse so I could see heaven? You were so peaceful, and I knew in my heart that God had already called your name. I stood by your bed in that mere magnificence and cried. I cried for joy that you would finally be at rest. You would bathe in that light. You would see your sister, your mom and Dad and maybe even my parents. You would live where the sky meets the earth and command the sunrise and sunset. And, I cried for myself, how much I miss you. I loved that I was able to spend all of that time with you - driving you, sitting with you and talking to you. You filled a part of my heart I never knew was empty. Such a gift you were. Not just a cousin but a confid
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