Those of you who have known me for awhile will agree that some of my strangest behaviors stem from not wanting to say goodbye. I'm usually the last to leave any place: home, work, church, parties, hanging out with friends and pretty much anywhere people are gathered. I get nervous and jittery and act like a stand-up comedian. I perpetuate crazy games that take forever like Life and Phase 10. I say stupid things at moments of departure. I give cheesy cards. I choke and tear up. I give really awkward hugs that catch people off balance. I've even been known to mess up a kiss on the cheek by planting my lips on some random place on the other's face, like the corner of their lips, their nose, their forehead or even their eyelid. It's truly a disaster.
Let's be totally honest, though. All of this is another way to say, I'm selfish. In so many ways, I like my life the way it is, status quo. I like to have my friends and loved ones close by, not more than an arms length or a short drive away. Mainly because I need every one of them so much. In my mind, I don't exist in this world without them. My relationships with others are what has brought me here and what will help me tomorrow and in the future. Without my friends and family, I would be nothing. My love for each one of the people in my life is one of the things I treasure most. I feel so blessed to be able to love so many people. Sometimes I think my heart will burst because I love people so much but it never does, it just keeps stretching, making infinite room for as many as will accept my care and concern.
Departures really throw me for a loop. And I mean departures in the general sense, whether someone has moved across the street or the country, or someone has branched out to other relationships that I am not a part of, or even those that die. It's hard for many reasons but one of the main reasons I am saddened by these changes is that I have a hard time showing these people how much I love them. A day or a week or a year goes by, and I haven't called or emailed. I haven't gone to visit. I haven't sent Christmas cards. I haven't sent birthday cards to them or to their kids. I haven't hugged them and said, "I love you." When people are in close proximity, it's easy. I don't love those that go any less, in fact, I think I love them more because our relationship is perpetuated in my memory and usually, those memories are good, whether or not they are completely accurate.
But according to the Counting Crows (one of my favorite bands), "The price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings." I have to agree. Love and all similar connections require a hefty price. M. Scott Peck, in his book, The Road Less traveled, calls these things, "love's risks." He says of these risks:
If you move out to another human being, there is always the risk that that person will move away from you, leaving you more painfully alone than you were before. Love anything that lives and it will die. Trust anybody and you may be hurt; depend on anyone and that one may let you down. The price of (love) is pain. If someone is determined not to risk pain, then such a person must do without many things; having children, getting married, the hope of ambition, friendship - all that makes life alive, meaningful and significant. Move out or grow in any dimension and pain as well as joy will be your reward. A full life will be full of pain. But the only alternative is not to live fully or not to live at all.
During the first week of November, two very important people in my life passed away. On November 5, one of my friends and former college roommate, Shelley Windsor, fell while rock climbing in Arizona and died. Then the next day, Roger Miller, the bishop of my church congregation, passed away after a brief battle with lymphoma. Both lives were vibrant, brilliant and well lived.
Shelley was a loyal friend, a true outdoorswoman, full of energy, never quitting, always frugal, dedicated to the gospel of Jesus Christ, humble, patient and kind. The short year we lived together at BYU was full of college drama and fun times. She was the even keel that many of us, like myself, needed. She was always reasonable, fair, open and honest. Even though that moment in my life is long past, it remains part of my favorite times for many reasons and Shelley was a part of that. I was fortunate enough to know her and I feel very blessed.Her death was sudden and unexpected. Attending her viewing and funeral was painful and surreal but because I know she lived a full and faithful life, the pain is certainly lessened. Yet, I have regrets about the sparse contact I had with Shelley over the past few years. I kept up with her through others and the occasional mass emailing. I am saddened that there are things that I didn't get to share with her or say to her. I hope we can catch up someday.
Bishop Miler has had an awesome impact in my life over the three years I have known him. I remember a certain point in my recent past when I got very caught up in my own inadequacies and heartache. Although I spent many moments in prayer, I felt as if the heavens were shut for some reason and I was left to bear those burdens alone.
One Sunday morning, Bishop Miller shook my hand and asked me how I was doing
. I told him "fine." He then asked if I would come and talk with him some time that week and I agreed. At the appointed time, I went to his office and he invited me in. We began the meeting with a prayer and then he sat back in his chair and asked me how I was doing. In that moment, the doors of my broken heart were thrown opened and I was able to share with him the heavy burdens I had been carrying for so long. He reminded me that any place worth going was always uphill and that I was loved and appreciated by many, including my Heavenly Father. Never once was he too busy to listen or treated my burdens as if they were too small to worry with.
And while I know with all of my heart that I will see both of these dear friends again, their absence makes me sad. I feel like this life will be less enjoyable because they are not here to enjoy it with me. I briefly mention these two loved ones here because their absence has been felt so recently and yet there are others whose absence is just as stark and painful. I ask myself often, "What am I going to do? How will I ever survive? How do I show them that I love them now and always?"
Again from The Road Less traveled:
The essence of life is change, a panoply of growth and decay. Elect life and growth, and you elect change and the prospect of death. If we can live with the knowledge that death is our constant companion, traveling on our "left shoulder," then death can become . . . our "ally," still fearsome but continually a source of wise counsel. With death's counsel, the constant awareness of the limit of our time to live and love, we can always be guided to make the best use of our time and live life to the fullest. But if we are unwilling to fully face the fearsome presence of death on our left shoulder, we deprive ourselves of its counsel and cannot possibly live or love with clarity. When we shy away from death, the ever-changing nature of things, we inevitably shy away from life.
In some ways, words have never rung more true to me. In my aversion to change and goodbyes, I have to ask, am I shying away from life? In all honesty, I have to admit that yes, I am. I have more than once allowed a precious opportunity to show love and grow closer to someone to pass because of my fear of the unknown, but perceived painful, ending.
My resolve is strong today and yet I know that there will be moments in the future when, in the throws of a painful good-bye, I will have my doubts about the prudence of my decision to love so much. But I have to exercise my faith in the eternal beauty and purposes of love. It is worth it, it is.
