Never say goodbye

One of the great lights of my life is Chris.

Chris is my dad's cousin. She is a beautiful fun woman with a head of thick dark hair and rich full laugh. Heavens, what a laugh she has! Her smile and laughter fill every corner of a room. If something tickles her, she just rears back her head and roars, and everyone makes her laugh. She enjoys life and her life is infectious.

When I was a little girl, I remember spending the night with her at her house. She would take me shopping and out to eat, then we would come home and listen to Barry Manilow records. My love for Barry Manilow probably has more to do with Chris than with Barry. Listening to his music was as much about being connected to her as it was enjoying his songs. Before going to bed at night, Chris would ask me what record I wanted to listen to and what side. I would chose very carefully (did I want to hear the live version of "Copacabana" over and over, or was I more interested in the studio recording of "One Voice?"). She would put the vinyl down on the turntable, set the volume low, and soon she would be asleep. I would lay awake, watching the arm reset itself to the beginning of the record over and over, never tiring of hearing the same five songs in succession while Chris snored softly beside me. I was safe and felt loved.

I remember the last time I spent the night at her house when I was seven. She picked me up, her head covered in a scarf tied behind her head, instead of her usual crown of thick dark hair. I noticed but never asked why. We went to eat, then went to her house. She put a copy of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in her BETA player and I silently had an anxiety attack. Omygoodness, this movie has the word "whore" in the title and it has a big red R rating on the front of the box. I protested meekly, telling her that I am not allowed to watch rated R movies. She brushed it off. "Oh, it's not bad. Your dad won't know. It has good music," she said. Oh, the anxiety that rolled through my stomach while that movie was on! I was convinced that, somehow, my father knew - he knew what I was doing! I was watching a rated R movie! - and I could not enjoy it. To this day I cannot remember the plot, the music, or anything besides Dolly Parton's boobs and Burt Reynold's hat, and I've never been able to bring myself to watch it since. I just kept waiting until we went to bed, so that I could listen to Barry Manilow and fall asleep next to Chris.

At bedtime, I climbed into Chris's bed while she got ready in the bathroom. When she came out, the scarf was gone. So was her hair. I couldn't help but stare. She simply smiled and said nothing. I didn't ask. The other thing that was different that night was that Chris didn't ask me what record I wanted to listen to. She didn't put one on, she just turned out the light. I don't know why I didn't ask her if we could put one on except that I was an incredibly meek child and could not reconcile what had happened to her head. The silence kept me awake that night.

The next morning, Chris took me to my grandmother's (her aunt's) house. We went inside, then Chris went to her car. When she came back in the house, her arms were carrying a huge stack of records and four songbooks. All of her Barry Manilow records! Four big books full of Barry Manilow songs lyrics! I couldn't believe it! She was giving them all to me! I was so excited and declared for Chris and Grandma that "Daybreak" was my very favorite song. I immediately began to read the songbooks from cover to cover, not paying any attention to any conversation the women may have been having right beside me.

Not long after, Grandma picked me up from home and said, "We're going to go visit Chris," I was so excited. Chris was my favorite. We didn't go to her house, though. We went to Memorial Medical Center. That anxiety was back, sitting in my stomach like realization, and I remembered Chris's head. I held Grandma's hand as she walked me into the hospital room where Chris was staying. I have absolutely no further recollection of my visit with Chris in the hospital.

One day, my dad picked me up from school. He waited until we were in the car before he quietly said, "Honey, I have something to tell you. Chris died today."

At this moment, I feel like I am back in the front seat of that Chevy Impala wagon, my father next to me, my Chris gone forever. He answered all of my questions as we drove home to my new life without her. Chris had breast cancer, he explained. What is cancer? Cancer is a disease of bad body cells that attack good body cells. Her body fought the cancer as hard as it could, but the cancer had gotten too strong. Her body was too weak from growing the baby within her and fighting the cancer for so long. Is the baby still alive? No, the baby was too little. The baby died too.

I never even knew she was going to have a baby.

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I tell you that to tell you this: if I could have my ideal life, the ONLY thing I would change is that all of my loved ones, past and present, would still be right here with me. No one would ever leave, no one would ever die, and no love discovered would ever go away.

Now, the true art of life is in the acceptance of it. I believe this is true from two perspectives. The first is a vertical perspective. Life, as it is, can either be accepted or changed. If it is not accepted, it must be changed. If it cannot be changed, then it must be accepted. I cannot control uncontrollable cancer. I cannot control other people's choices. I cannot control the passage of time, the realization of truth, the inevitably directions we must all go in to grow. Some of us are blessed to walk together; some roads converge only to reach an inevitable fork where we wish the other well and go on. I accept this wholeheartedly now, but it is not without a touch of grief. I love the people I love, and I want them in my life always. It just is what it is. It's who I am.

In the midst of this acceptance, I acknowledge the grace and strength of this love that spurs me on to change what I can. I learn from mistakes, I embrace my memories, and I never let go of the love that I have. I have changed the way I grieve broken relationships. Now I rejoice for the connections, I recognize how each loved one has positively impacted my life, and I praise God for the chance to love at all. I take Chris with me wherever I go, as I do all of my loved ones. It is as if, in many ways, she is still here. All of that love is still here. That is the definition of a legacy.

The other perspective of the art of life is the horizontal one. Broken relationships serve to remind me, over and over, that this world is fallen and broken. Life will never be without pain; suffering is the singular experience that every human being throughout history has shared. It would take a miracle of seismic historic proportion to ever overcome it.

Thank God for the gospel! Thank Him that this miracle is alive. Christ has conquered death by death and by His resurrection, has restored life to all of us! We need only to accept this for our life to have HOPE, for the purpose of existence to become CLEAR, and for LOVE to be whole and real and life-giving and life-changing.

For I know that all that has been broken in this life will be made right. I know that this power is already at work, redeeming my own self and my short and limited interaction with life, and I do not have to wait for heaven to see His love at work on earth. I accept that this is what Life really is: to love God and cherish others, forever. So I give myself humbly, fully acknowledging how small and imperfect I am, as an agent of this Life-giving love.

And I find, as I consider these things, that I already have the life I have always wanted.