a season for everything
Dan’s last living grandparent, Jane, died recently. She was 93. I knew her for a relatively short amount of time, but the time I spent with her was filled with baked goods, talking shit about 45, and her adamant refusal to let anyone help her wash the dishes. Jane lost her husband in a construction accident and lived nearly 30 years without him, which is both admirable and sad. I’m grateful to have known her.
On the evening she died, Dan’s family texted us some photos that Jane had kept in a photo album. As we read a diary entry she had written alongside the pictures in 1945, it became increasingly difficult for me to reconcile the Jane I knew with the one pictured in the album: the newly married Jane who captioned a picture of her shirtless husband, “Glamour Boy.” Was this the same woman I knew who loved to lay out in the sun wearing nothing above SPF 5 and always sent Dan back home with a loaf of freshly baked banana bread?
It was a slightly sadder version of the same feeling that washes over me when I see pictures of my parents at my age. I’ve only ever known my mother as my mother. I never knew her in the other seasons of her life that preceded my birth. Rationally, I understand that she somehow existed outside the realm of being my mom for 27 years, but it’s impossible to unite those images with the person I know.
Sometimes I wonder if Dan and I would have been friends in high school had we known each other. He’s sure I wouldn’t have liked him then: a sweet band nerd expending all his energy on being accepted by others. I think his high school self-description sounds like every teenager I’ve ever met. Replace sweet band nerd with brainy perfectionist or easygoing jock or any number of adjectives and you have a teenager: desperate to be seen in the world and loved for who they are. I like to think we could have been friends.
As Dan and I looked at more pictures of his youthful grandparents, I thought of a passage from Ephesians. I knew Jane for a very short season. Five years is not a long time to know someone in the grand scheme of things. I felt guilty for mourning her death as deeply as I did. Why should I be sad when there were others, like Dan, who really knew her? These thoughts were unkind and unfair to myself, but I couldn’t stop them. I took some comfort in this passage, recognizing that I knew her for exactly the length of time I was supposed to.
There is an appointed time for everything,
and a time for every affair under the heavens.
A time to give birth, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to tear down, and a time to build.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them;
a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
My junior year of high school, one of my childhood best friends and I “broke up.” It was prolonged and painful and for about a year of both of us tried to make it work. There were a few factors that lead to it, but ultimately, like most break ups, we realized we were on different paths and wanted different things for our futures. It was traumatic and we don’t talk anymore, although I harbor no ill will toward her and hope she is thriving. We met in kindergarten, had all the same elementary school teachers, and shared most of our formative childhood experiences. I was raised on the American playground narrative that having a best friend is a necessity. It wasn’t something I questioned until our friendship ended.
For years following the dissolution of our friendship, I was terrified of losing friends again. It wasn’t until a few years ago while I was living in Guatemala that I became more comfortable with the idea of having people in my life come in and out throughout its many seasons.
The day after I graduated college, I sobbed until my chest ached like it had been slowly and cruelly opened up by unseen hands. I was leaving people I loved, and I knew it would be a long time before I would see one person in particular, my closest friend and college roommate Kelsey. We call one another “soul friend” because it’s the only phrase that gets close at describing our relationship. On the day I moved out, she and I sat on the steps of our building, holding each other and crying. I remember a small part of me being vaguely aware of and feeling bad for my dad and brother who awkwardly stood outside by the car, helping load my belongings. I don’t think either of them had ever seen me so distressed.
In a few months I would be in a foreign country, and Kelsey would be in the convent. We were both preparing for a radical change of life. Through my tears I managed to choke out the question, “Why does God let us love people if we only end up leaving them?” Anyone who has ever had their heart broken knows that this pain actually manifests itself physically. I was hurt that the inevitable end of four years of intense friendship was ending within my college bubble. I let my grief overwhelm my excitement for the next chapter of our lives. As the Buddhists put it, “All life involves suffering.” As Wesley from The Princess Bride puts it, “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”
Kelsey responded in her beautiful way of bringing joy into the sadness and said, “Yes it’s sad, but aren’t you so glad he put us together at all?”
Links To Click On When You’re Bored At Work
This wonderful obituary for a not-so-nice dog named Sydney.
Here’s a sentence I never imagined writing: Scientists used Pixar Animation’s technology from Frozen to solve the 1959 Dyatlov Pass mystery.
Did you know the founder of 63% of the furniture in my home aka IKEA was a fascist Nazi lover? Me neither. Learn about his Italian counterpart (notably not a Nazi) Enzo Mari.
A wonderful long-form article on the history of veganism in the Black community
Things That Are Bringing Me Joy
The organization I went on mission with, Franciscan Mission Service, added my embroidery to their gallery of creatives. I love seeing what other former missioners and employees are doing with their art!
Dan has taken up “visible mending” to patch his clothes. Aside from being a sustainable way to increase the length of time you own a clothing item, it looks cool.
I organized a faculty and staff (virtual) retreat last month. Usually I lead or co-lead the retreat, but this time I had enough money in my budget to outsource the whole thing and it was lovely. The focus was on an introduction to the enneagram, which I won’t even pretend to be able to explain succinctly, but I very much enjoyed learning about it.
An oral history of A*Teens that gave me some serious nostalgia for creating dance routines with my friends at sleepovers in the early 2000s.
The vulnerability in this piece by one of my favorite Catholic writers/bloggers was so refreshing to read and resonated with me deeply. The brokenness of the US Catholic Church and how it has harmed people is something I could talk all day about so instead I’ll just tell you to read Simcha’s work instead because she gets it.
The tweet below:
I hope you’re taking care of yourself; however that looks. If you feel so inclined, please share this post with your friends!
paz,
Maeve
