I
remember it like yesterday. Some
moments leave these impressions on us. Leaving us uneasy, out of sorts, but
better for it.
I
was on my way to visit my mom. One of the first visits after the loss of my
dad.
I was sitting
in Dallas, waiting for my next flight, when I spotted him. My eyes were drawn
to him. I stopped reading, slipping my iPad into my bag.
He
sat nearby, yet angled away… having been pushed to a stop and left, alone.
I
tried to make eye contact with him.
I found myself intent on his face, refusing to lift my gaze. I was near enough to reach out and touch him. I waited.
I found myself intent on his face, refusing to lift my gaze. I was near enough to reach out and touch him. I waited.
He
looked my way. I smiled. Watery, gray eyes, tired from travel, or perhaps from
life smiled back. He sat in an airport wheel chair, looking uncomfortable, hands
shaking, alone.
I
don’t like alone, especially when an older person is involved in the alone.
I
can’t remember how the conversation started. I have waited to write this, as my
heart goes raw and emotions rise up that I would rather not feel.
Quickly
we fell into conversation. I let him talk, share, which turned into mourning,
perhaps for both of us. I mourned for him, his loss, his future, my losses….
Seeing life as a fragile mirror, which when broken can cut us to the quick with
its many shards. Often, we never see it coming, the breaking, splintering,
until we are covered in cuts and blood. He didn’t see it coming.
He
told me how he had lost his sweet wife of 59 years. He came home one day and
she was on the floor, paralyzed. Diagnosed with a brain tumor. She didn’t last
but a day. Without a good bye, I love you, a kiss.
He
has not recovered.
He is reeling from grief. He fell sick, in the hospital for 18 days. Still healing, if you can heal from this. He talks about his daughters, their sweet care for him. They do not live nearby. He is blessed he says, but he is overcome with heartache. He cries repeatedly. I find this lump in my throat that I cannot swallow. I listen. I smile. I touch his arm. I am crying.
He is reeling from grief. He fell sick, in the hospital for 18 days. Still healing, if you can heal from this. He talks about his daughters, their sweet care for him. They do not live nearby. He is blessed he says, but he is overcome with heartache. He cries repeatedly. I find this lump in my throat that I cannot swallow. I listen. I smile. I touch his arm. I am crying.
He
offers me a peach to share, then a slice of coffee cake. Both from his daughter
in Michigan, where he has left at 5 am this morning. It is now 10 pm…. Too many
hours for this man to be alone. I question how you could send this man to fly
home alone… I could not. I would not. I stop judging. I have only a glimpse
into this life I am meeting.
He
has spent many weeks with this daughter, recuperating, healing. I am not seeing
evidence of healing, only raw pain.
I
get him napkins for his peach. I offer to get some dinner for us. He declines.
I
throw away tissues from his tears, his peach pit, napkins from wiped hands and
noses. I wish I could throw away his pain.
I
ask his wife’s name, about their life.
He talks about life, as a husband, a dad, a salesman. A good life he has lived. He is grateful, yet undeniably worn out from his loss, and fearful of his future.
He talks about life, as a husband, a dad, a salesman. A good life he has lived. He is grateful, yet undeniably worn out from his loss, and fearful of his future.
I
share some of my life and loss. Will it help him to know that I have felt this
pain.. though I was 28 with a newborn? I want to console and reassure him that
life goes on. But, I struggle here.
We have shared a bit of the same path, but this is his pain, his
journey, his grief. He is not a
young man. I must be gentle. He
will not marry again, have more children, experience joy as he knew it.
Does
he have hope? I don’t see evidence. My heart feels crushed… and I am surprised
by the depth of my sadness.
We
call his daughter to let her know that he has been delayed.
We call the friends picking him up at the airport. We use my phone. His is packed in his suitcase.
We call the friends picking him up at the airport. We use my phone. His is packed in his suitcase.
This
seems too much for a man his age, fragile both in form and soul. I am thinking
if this had been my dad… yet my dad is the one who left us a few months ago.
Hardly time for goodbye, I love you, a kiss. I am mourning.
I
check with the attendants at the desk, making sure they will guide him on to
the plane first. They had forgotten and seem grateful for the reminder. We
prepare him. I tell him I will check on him when I board. Later, I will turn in my seat many
times, smile and then watch his head slump over from exhaustion.
I
gather my thoughts as he thanks me through tears. For what, I ask myself?
Showing a moment of kindness? We part. I stand in line.
A
handsome, well-dressed man comes up beside me and speaks quietly in my ear. He
thanks me. He had been watching and listening. I try and gather myself,
struggling again with raw emotion.
I look at this man with gentle eyes and I mumble some of the man's story
and that I understand a bit of his pain. The man tilts his head and tells me he
also knows this pain.
We
all three have lost mates. Two of us as young lovers and one sweet couple as
soul mates, woven together through years of joy and heartache. I can no longer
speak. We nod our heads, understanding we have shared a similar grief in our
journeys.
I
think of this dear old man… almost daily.
My heart aches for him and
those who mourn loved ones lost. Yet, is that not every one of us?
He
brought me a gift, by opening himself, shedding tears, in front of all to see.
We cared for one another in the two hours we shared. I will forever remember
him. My hope is that it will be a powerful reminder to love better, quicker,
without thought. To love as God calls me. A small moment that left a huge
impression on me. To simply care for another.
I
do not understand why I was drawn to this man, this conversation, this moment.
It was not my choice, that much I know. It was one of the clearest calls I have
experienced from God and I followed it. Most of these opportunities I have
missed. I am selfish by nature, minding my own business, keeping my head down.
Perhaps
we are not called to that kind of life. It’s empty and lonely. One thing that
matters in our lives are the relationships we grow. To invest in one another is
the blessing that lasts.
Rest
easy dear man. May you be comforted in your sorrow today and may we always love
one another.
