What's missing?

I attended a luau last Friday night, the capstone of which included a bonfire. I love fire. Summer, winter, fall or spring, I love fire. Indoor, outdoor or both; it doesn't matter.

Friday night it had started to turn cool after the sun went down, and I was drawn to the fire like the moth that I am. I could have curled up on my blanket and stayed all night--ignoring everyone and just enjoying its flame, its warmth, and its beauty.

No two fires are ever the same. They are all a beautiful dance of the chemical oxidation of a fuel with an associated flame. But the flames can be blue, orange, red or white. The fuel can be wood, gas, or wax. The only similarity for me is--Bunsen burner or bonfire--I am attracted to the flame.

I spent a lot of time at the bonfire Friday night. As long as I stayed close, it didn't matter that the night was cold. I wondered if I moved twenty feet away would I be as comfortable. What about thirty? or forty? The shorts and t-shirt that were appropriate attire at 5:00 p.m. were now inadequate for the evening chill, but as long as I stayed close to the fire, it didn't matter.

Wednesday night I attended my first Campus Church meeting this semester (The quip "Better late than never" comes to mind.). Most of the songs were new--new at least to me. I enjoy the Campus Praise Band, so it didn't matter; I didn't need to know the words because I was enjoying the lights, music, smoke, and singing. But then the music program changed. The loud and rowdy became a single repetitive chord from the piano, and I knew the song immediately. It was Everything by Tim Hughes.

Not recently, but in the past six months I have used the words from that very song as a prayer for my working, living, laughing, and playing. Not recently, but in the past six months, it would strum in my head throughout the ordinary and mundane day to remind me: God in my thinking . . . There in my breathing . . . God in my hurting . . . God in my healing.

It's like loving the bonfire, seeing the bonfire, and dying from hypothermia fifty feet away. What's missing? Everything.

death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing, save the limit of our sight

How sad it is to celebrate (or endure) the birthdays of those we have lost. We see the dates approaching on the calendar; and, sometimes, don't we wish that we could just skip that day? or sleep through it? When the pain is palpable, it's a day we endure every waking moment rather than celebrate--as in happier times.

That's where I'm at today, September 8, recognizing that it's my Uncle Willie's birthday. He died in May. He had a wife, son, daughters, grandchildren, brothers, and sisters, nieces and nephews. I'm not any of those people. I'm not even his niece. He's just a cousin that I affectionally called "uncle," and his passing has left a hole in my heart that hurts like hell. But, somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear him saying, “I told you that you’d miss me.” That is classic Uncle Willie.

Since he died in May, I have come to realize that Uncle Willie talked a lot about funerals. Everyone’s gonna have one, so there’s no reason in pretending otherwise. Uncle Willie did a good job of letting folks know just what he expected of them should he be the first to go. He said that when he died he wanted the funeral to be so elaborate that his children would have to go into debt to pay for it. He also said he wanted flowers—lots and lots of flowers—at his funeral. And he wanted his funeral to be “inconvenient”; you know, like you have to take off work in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. According to Uncle Willie, that’s how you know if someone really wants to be at your funeral.

I traveled three and a half hours to attend the family visitation. Then I paid my dues in the I-40 parking lot known as “rush hour” before I finally arrived at the funeral home. The whole family was there; and so was Uncle Willie, in his bib overalls. I hadn’t been there when he had his stroke. I hadn’t watched him suffer that week in the hospital. All I saw was him perfectly at rest, almost like he was taking a nap. I truly expected him to open his eyes and say, “It’s about damn time you got here. What in the hell took you so long?” I leaned over and told him, “Congratulations, Uncle Willie. The trip down here was damned inconvenient.” He would’ve liked to have known that.

I think this was the first time in my life that I saw him with his hair combed. A part of me wanted to reach down and mess it up—just to piss him off and hear him cuss at me or threaten to “whup my ass.” I’ve watched him run his hands through that red hair a thousand times. You knew he was thinking of something profound (or sassy) to say when he’d tussle his own hair and remark, “Jackie Sue, let me tell you something . . . “

He left a bag of trash in my front yard one time—just to let me know that he came by when I wasn’t home. He came to my wedding—after repeatedly threatening not to because it was going to interfere with his Sunday nap. He’d graciously laugh when I’d buy him a gag gift, like a doo rag to calm his red mane; and usually he’d say, “You think that’s funny, let me show you this.” And he’d go to his bedroom and come out with a collection of other gag gifts folks had given him.

Invariably he would ask me one of two questions every time I saw him, “What are you going to get me for my birthday?” or “What are you going to get me for Christmas?” The best Christmas gift I ever gave him was a one-year subscription to a magazine that he found distasteful. He called to cancel the subscription only to find out it was a prepaid gift subscription and he couldn't do it. It took him until about April to figure out that I was the culprit. I can hear him now telling the story of the arrival of the first magazine, then the second, and third. That story never got old; and I’d laugh until I'd cry.

Tonight, Uncle Willie, there are more tears than smiles. This wound is tender and raw. So much of me believed you were immortal—larger than life—and that you would be here as long as there were birthdays and Christmas and the need for laughter. We really could use one of your one-liners right about now (“Joyce is getting too old; I’m gonna have to trade her in for two 25 year olds if she doesn't straighten up.”)

Congratulations, you stubborn man. You were right. We’re gonna miss you for a long, long time.

My First 5K

My shoes are wet, and wet shoes are heavy. They are covered in red clay. I don't know how that happened since I have been trying to stay on the road.

My socks are wet. Wet socks make a squishy sound when you walk.

Water is dripping (and sometimes pouring) off the brim of my baseball cap. The cap isn't keeping my hair dry--only keeping the rain out of my eyes.

My shirt and shorts are now matted to the form of my body; soaking wet. Water drips off the end of my shirt and hem of my shorts. Thank God I can't see myself!

Today I participated in my first 5K race. It coincided with the arrival of Tropical Storm Hanna (Go figure...I'm just lucky that way, ya know). Rain or shine, though, the race goes on. It was a 5K walk/5 mile run for the local CASA group. The registration fee was nominal and went to a good cause.

When registering you had to indicate whether you were participating in the 5-mile run or the 5K walk (5K = 3.1 miles). I chose the 5K walk, but had all intentions of running at least half of it. I have been walking/running about four to five miles per day (3-4 times per week), so walking 3.1 miles is not a problem for me. The challenge would have been to run as much of the course as possible. Unfortunately, the race organizers really emphasized that runners should be in the 5-mile race and walkers should be in the 5K, i.e., no runners in the 5K. I was a little disappointed about not being about to challenge myself with a run, but that disappointment quickly subsided as we started the course and walked .6 miles downhill. That would be the last downhill slope we would see; it would be the same slope we would travel to the finish line, uphill, in the rain (Did I mention the rain?). The remainder of the course seemed to be uphill, both ways. I know that's not possible, but just believe me on this one.

TS Hanna arrived around midnight last night. We had drizzle, rain, downpours, repeat. Most of the race we contended with a steady shower of rain. But, once you're wet, you're wet; and you're not going to get any "wetter" or "dryer."

On Friday I went to Blackwater Creek trails (which are awesome). I usually walk these trails or use the track at school to log 4-5 miles on the days that I walk. On Friday my goal was to time myself as I walked the trail to the 3.1 mile mark. The weather was perfect. The trail was dry, and my time was 48 minutes or basically a 16-minute mile. If you can walk a 15-minute mile, you are really walking fast; anything faster than that usually involves some jogging or running. I was content with the 16-minute mile time and only hoped to maintain that today in the "race atmosphere." What I didn't prepare for were the hills.

I knew that the hills were going to slow me down. And I've never walked (or ran) in the rain (on purpose). My goal today was just to do the best that I possibly could, compete with myself, and try to stay near the 48-minute finish that I had yesterday. Long story significantly shortened: I crossed the finish line at 46:20. It was fun. I will do it again, but first I want to dry off and take a nap.