It’s not unusual at all that a classic Beatles song would show up on a classic rock station in the car. And I could write it off as mere coincidence. But, there was my Dad this afternoon. In the car, with the sun shining. Reminding me…
“Here Comes The Sun”
And I say it’s all rightLittle darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
It’s all right, it’s all right
Dad never worried much. And that had its down sides – I’m not going to lie. But there was this calm about him that I was able to appreciate more as an adult. I would call him all spun around, and somehow without belittling what I was worried about, he was able to help me take a few deep breaths.
Our problems here are real. They are ever-present. They can captivate, and get a downright choke-hold if we let them. The worries are real. The concerns about the future. About mobility. The concerns about the present. About pain. About fatigue. About swelling. And looming surgery. The long-term effects of an AVM that seems to be affecting foot size, knocking a growing girl off-sides. The concerns about the uncertain make it hard sometimes for me to find the sun.
There are normal “issues” too. Ones we don’t write too much about here. Bumps in the preteen world. Learning as we go. Along together. Grateful for what, and who, we have to work with in this house.
Yesterday it was dark. Really, really dark. My gut drew me to the cemetery, where I hadn’t been for a while due to the snow. And as I walked up the hill I saw the white piece of granite. I think I knew it was going to be there. And simultaneously I was glad and sad I was alone. I cried like I haven’t cried in quite some time. There is something about the reality of loss etched in stone. The permanence strikes in a whole new way – and its like being kicked in the teeth all over again.
There’s a certain finality of reality etched in stone…
I sat in the car too shaken to drive. And I called my husband, and then I called Alan. Alan is one of Dad’s Marines who has stepped into my life in such a huge way over the past year. We have yet to meet, but we have spent hours on the phone. He has laughed and cried with me. He has told me stories of things, and people I needed to know. He sent me a book a few months ago called “90 Minutes in Heaven” and simply wrote, “Read this.” I haven’t read a book in quite some time, but I did as I was told… and I was so grateful. My Dad merited a Purple Heart during his service in Vietnam, but technicalities being as they are, it won’t be awarded. Alan’s efforts on Dad’s behalf over this last year and a half were Herculean. Marines never leave a brother behind. So, as I viewed the government issued headstone, without the Purple Heart I had envisioned, and fought for, it stung a little extra. But just when I was about to crumble these two birds flew in low and close. There was a peace about them as they flew past into the park. I understood. It’s about way more than the awards. It’s about the love. And the peace. And the lessons learned. And the heart and eyes open for growth. And “Uncle” Alan made me text him when I got home. Another testament to his love for his “brother” extending right to me.
This morning we all made it to church. It hasn’t been an easy feat these last few months. We three entered Castleton Hill Moravian, and I was struck by the sense of warm familiarity. Next Sunday, Easter Sunday, will mark two years of membership for us. Never did I expect to leave my home church. Never will I quite get over that loss. But, I am amazed, impressed, and inspired by the way my husband and daughter have become motivated members of our new church. Gratitude. Palm Sunday, a day of ‘Hosanna’ and celebration, foreshadowing the lowest days, leading us to Easter Sunday next week, and the promise of the Resurrection.
The winter was too much. In so many more ways than the relentless weather. The worry. The heavy hearts. I missed Valentine’s Day, and St. Patrick’s Day, and never took the eggs out for Easter. I didn’t realize how very much I needed the sun- literally and figuratively.
Today Meghan swam. Another CYO meet. She blew my mind. Again. I can not for the life of me get over her stamina in the water. It’s her “happy place” and she’s most terrified of her upcoming surgery because of the time she will need to be away from the pool.
Her team loses every meet. But the friendships they form, and the positive attitude can not be traded for high scores. She became a swimmer because this team took her in when she had never swam competitively.
The 25 fly… (red cap)
The first leg of the freestyle relay.
We had friends spontaneously show up to cheer her on today. Perhaps they sensed the lowest lows… We spoke of summer, and gathering in the yard – just because.
We drove home with the sun warming the car. The temperature read 50 degrees on the dash-board.
This week we will wait for the results of the blood drawn Saturday. This week will be just 4 days as Easter Vacation approaches.
“Here comes the sun… and I say It’s all right…”
