In Hong Kong there are thunderstorms and it is 79 degrees.
In Moscow, it is cloudy and 81. Addis Ababa is cloudy and 75. Sydney has patchy
clouds, 54 degrees. Los Angeles, 75 and sunny. Milwaukee thunderstorms and 91.
And in Jesse’s grandmother’s back yard, it is a bright sunny 81 degrees.
Jesse and his grandmother are wearing ample sunscreen and
drinking plenty of water because water, she says, is the best and cheapest way
to hydrate. They will spend most of the day “futzing” in the garden, she will
tell her best friend Claudia later that evening when they talk on the phone, a
weekly ritual for the 40 years since Claudia moved to Texas with her husband
and their three kids.
The wind is keeping the bugs away, the sounds of Sunday
provide the score and Jesse and Mary are talking. They are talking about
plants, soil, seasons, poetry, music, cars and tennis, among other things.
Mary quotes poems, songs and great orators. Jesse laughs,
argues and occasionally roles his eyes, as any self-respecting teenager should.
But mostly Jesse listens to her as he has done for as long as anyone can
remember. He listens to her in the way only a boy who truly loves someone can.
Because as far as he knows, there has never been anyone as smart, as funny or
as interesting as this small sturdy woman with cheeks as pink as the cookies
she makes for every special occasion.
Jesse is arranging stones along the border of the
flowerbeds, stones he and his grandmother collected over the last year on their hiking excursions. They have spent the last year planning a
native flower garden and are now tending to it anxiously as they await the
first bloom.
Mary is seated on a chair leaning over her knees, using her
bare thumb and forefinger to pull the weeds growing in her flowerbed. She is
smiling as she recalls the morning sermon in which Father Peters used a lovely Miles
Davis quote that she wrote down on her program so she wouldn’t forget it,
“Sometimes you have to play a long long time to play like yourself.”
“I don’t even know how you can believe in a God who killed
your only son,” Jesse responds provocatively.
Not a muscle on her face moves, her smile frozen in place.
But the spirit behind the smile empties into the dirt she continues to weed.
She is not angry or even sad, because she knows that her son is dead every
minute of the day and she knows that her grandson is angry about it. In that
moment the image of her teenage son challenging her and questioning her is as
clear as though they were standing in the kitchen right now arguing about
whether marriage is a meaningless piece of paper. She would give anything to
go back and enjoy that argument rather than take it so personally. To enjoy
every single moment and love every instinct in her son that drove him to rail
against his parents and everything they stood for.
She picks and pulls, smile still frozen, determined to love
the conversation that is about to happen, “When your father was born, when he
cried for the first time, it was like I had known him forever. Like I had heard
that voice every day for my whole life. If they had taken him out of the room
and put him in a room with a thousand crying babies, I would have been able to
walk right up to him.”
“And now you will never hear that voice again.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Jesse, then are
dreamt of in your philosophies,” Mary smiles to herself remembering how her
father used to say this to her when she was home from college “educating” the family,
none of whom had attended college. She promised herself she would never say
this to her children and was amused that she had finally found a loophole with
her grandchildren.
Jesse is beginning to get agitated, “Just because I don’t
know everything in the universe doesn’t mean that there’s a God. Besides, I’d
rather not believe in God than believe in one that would kill my dad and
Alexia.”
Mary calmly continues weeding, “Who said anything about
there being a God?”
“You just said that there are more things in heaven and
earth blah blah blah…”
“Than are dreamt of in your philosophies. What I am saying,
is don’t get too smart to learn. Knowing stuff is overrated.”
“So you are afraid that if I think too much I won’t believe
in God?”
“Not God, Jesse. What is possible. You won’t be able to see
what is possible. For years, decades, who knows how long, they said we couldn’t
fly. That is was mathematically impossible. So we didn’t. Fortunately for us,
the Wright brothers were not too educated to try anyway. And now we can’t keep
our feet on the earth.”
“I just don’t see how you can go to church every Sunday and
pray to a God that killed your only son.”
“Because I don’t believe in a God that killed my son just
like I don’t believe in a God that gave me my son,” Mary takes a deep breath in
and brings herself to standing. She moves her chair to the next section of the
flowerbed, sits down and continues as Jesse watches her, “Do you think God
killed them?”
Jesse looks across the yard to the dog barking in the
distance. Mary watches him out of the corner of her eye. As he stares into the
distance it reminds her of the look her father used to get whenever she asked
him a question that hinted at a discussion that would require more than an
encyclopedic knowledge of soil and farm animal lore.
Finally he wipes his upper lip with his dirty hands creating
a dirt mustache and says, “I don’t think I believe in God, grandma.”
“Can I ask you, then, why you are concerned about me
praying to a God that killed my son?”
“Well, I guess if I did believe in God, then it would be
this all powerful being that could have saved them that day and chose not to.
And I don’t see how you could forgive a God that did that, let along go to
church every Sunday and praise him.”
“Life happens, Jesse. People are born. People die. Don’t
misunderstand me. My soul aches every day for him. For Alexia. But I don’t
believe in a God that killed them. I believe in a God that comforts me when
they die. I believe in a God that connects me to them long before they are born
and long after we are all gone.”
“Well God hasn’t comforted me,” Jesse looks down at the pile
of rocks of all colors and sizes he is ignoring and pretends to be done with
the whole discussion.
“What does that mean to you? Comforted. What do you imagine
when you think of being comforted?”
Running his hands over the tops of the rocks looking for the
next piece in the puzzle he is creating, he responds, “I don’t know. I guess
like, everything is ok. That there is nothing to be afraid of or nothing to
worry about. To be relaxed.’
“And to have a God that can kill someone you love at any
moment is not very relaxing, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“But the absence of God still doesn’t take away the fact
that someone you love can die at any moment, right?”
“No. I guess not. But at least I don’t have to pray or thank
some God that isn’t going to help me when I need it.”
“I can understand that. I would feel the same way if that
was how I saw God.”
“How do you see God?”
“It changes. I go through different phases with it. When my
mom died I was pretty mad at God. I remember I was home from school shortly after
she died and I was picking on everyone so my dad finally yelled at me to. I ran
to my bedroom and sobbed. He was such a gentle man and to have him be so
sharp with me, it was devastating.”
“What did you do? Why was he so mad?”
“I was being a brat. My mother had just died and I was mad and
I was taking it out on my sisters and brothers. He came and sat on the edge of
my bed. Just sat there and let me cry. When I calmed down I asked the question
we all ask at some point. “Why me?” “Why her?” “Why did he have to take her
from me?” And he responded with the most shocking question, “Who should it have
been?”
“What did he mean, who should it have been?”
“Like, “Is there a young woman out there who deserves to
lose her mother more than I did?” Honestly, there were a few people I wasn’t
too fond of but I couldn’t think of anyone that I thought deserved to lose
their mother instead of me.”
“I guess I can’t say that I think that someone else deserved
this more than me but why did it have to happen at all.”
Mary stands up and walks in circles to stretch her back and
legs. With each step her rubber sandals make a sound that reminds her of the
squeaking sound her father’s work boots made when he walked around the house.
The week after her mother died it was unusually quiet in the house and she
would listen to his shoes as she pretended to eat breakfast. The sound of his
shoes made him seem so frail and unprepared to face the world without his wife.
She couldn’t decide if she was more devastated for herself or for him.
“When you were out there helping Mrs. Olson trim her weird
little thorny bushes yesterday and she was following you around talking to you,
what was she saying?” Mary asks.
“She was showing me the best way to trim them so that the
most amount of flowers would grow.”
“She followed you the whole time. Was she talking to you
about that the whole time?”
“Yeah. They are really complicated bushes. I guess they are
really “sensitive” she says and you can only get them to bloom if you do
certain things at certain times. So she had to watch me the whole time to make
sure I didn’t do something wrong.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah. She is cool. She knows a lot of things about a lot of
things. And I feel sorry for her. Being alone and being so smart and having no
one to talk to. I know she likes to talk.”
Mary makes a short “hm” sound as she sits down and resumes weeding. It is the same sound that
drove her son crazy when he was a teenager because he knew that the wheels were
turning and a long instructive lecture would soon follow. Something that was
supposed to transform they way he thought about the world but always felt more like
she just wanted to convince him he was wrong.
“Did God comfort you when your mom died,” Jesse tries to bring
the conversation back.
“Truthfully. I wasn’t really interested in being comforted
at first. I just wanted her back. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“After a while though, I started to make peace with the fact
that people die. All over the world people die. Sometimes in horrible ways. I
don’t need a God to understand life and death. And at a certain point I decided
I really wanted a God that would help me make peace with it all.”
“I don’t see how I am supposed to make peace with this. How
some God can comfort me.”
“Every time I look into your eyes, I see your dad. I can
feel him in the room. And when you laugh. Oh my goodness, you and Alexia are
indistinguishable. It sends shivers of joy up my spine every time. You have a
brain as big as Toledo and so kind. A kinder sweeter boy, I have never known. I
watched you out there yesterday with Mrs. Olson as she critiqued your every
move. Not a word. Not a muscle on your face indicated that you thought she was
anything but full of grace and wisdom. Sure, you’ve had some rough times. You
have struggled to find friends. Of course you have! Why wouldn’t you? But look
at you. You are fine. If what you are looking for in being comforted is the
absence of pain, you are right. You won’t find that on your knees.”
“Well then what do you mean? How has God comforted you?”
“The morning after your father died, I woke up – well I got
out of bed because I didn’t actually sleep – made a pot of coffee and came out
and sat in this garden. I had cried all I could for the moment. I sat perfectly
still and the whole world was silent. Like it was holding its breath for me. I
hadn’t even realized how quiet it was until I heard a bird. One bird singing…”
she trails off looking up to the trees where there are birds singing.
“And? … What happened?” Jesse coaxes her toward the
momentous revelation.
“Nothing. I just heard the bird.”
“So … what?” Jesse begs for the answer.
“So, I knew I wasn’t alone. The story wasn’t over. I am
human. Of course I am devastated. But the birds still sing and I am ok. My son
is still my son. There is still a whole lot of loving I need to get done before
I leave. There are still thousands of faces I need to kiss, victories I need to
celebrate and losses I need to cry over. And God is going to hold me upright
through it all.”
“I don’t want to go on without them, grandma,” Jesse looks
down at the rocks and organizes them as he tries not to cry.
“I know you don’t, Jesse,” she pleads softly to the top of
his head. “But you are. You are moving on, aren’t you? And you will keep moving
on. The force is strong in this one.”
“Oh God. Are you seriously quoting Star Wars?” he drops his
head between his arms in mock exasperation.
She smiles and starts weeding again, “Jesse, you are the
coolest kid I know. And I am not just saying that because you are my grandson.
I have a few grandchildren and as much as I love them (and I do love them all
as much as I love you) you are by far the coolest kid I know. I am not worried
about you. My heart is broken for you that you have to do this without Randy.
Lord have mercy, you two would have had so much fun. But I am not worried about
you. I can see him all over your life. You do and will always have strength
beyond what you should. Just promise me you won’t get too smart.”
“Grandma!” he pleads looking up at her. “I don’t even know
what that means.”
“I know you don’t and I couldn’t be happier about that,” she
looks up at him and gives him a wink.
“Why won’t you tell me what it means?”
“This is one of those annoying moments where an adult tells
you something that they won’t explain because it is something you have to learn
for yourself,” she concentrates on the weeds.
“Awesome.”
“I promise when you have a 14-year old grandchild, you will
know exactly what I mean.”
“Even better.”
She weeds and Jesse begins clearing dirt for the rocks. For several minutes they work in silence.
“Jesse?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t care if you believe in God or not. But I do want
you to know that you are the most graceful person I know. I just couldn’t be
more proud of the man you are becoming.”
Jesse looks at the dirt and pushes it around in figure
eights and breathes slowly and quietly for several minutes, “Ok.”
