THERE WAS SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

With every fiber of my being I wish I was not going through this walk of grief. I wish I could turn back the pages of the calendar and be anywhere in time but here.

But I can't.

I can only be here. I can only deal with the situation I am in at the moment. And sometimes that is how I go through my days right now - moment by moment.

But God has blessed me over this last week and a half. He has opened my eyes to the beauty of grief. In the midst of this supposedly ugly walk that is mourning, I have been blessed with some beautiful moments. Moments that will not haunt me, but instead actually make my heart ache at their beauty.

There was something beautiful about my first moment with my siblings after our dad died. Dad's house was full when we arrived; but I could not tell you who was at the door to greet me, so desperate was I to find my siblings - even just one. There was something beautiful about embracing each of them and sharing our common grief at the moment we were finally all four together again.

There was something beautiful about standing in front of our dad's casket at the viewing, just us four kids huddled together, circling our wagons against the onslaught of heartbreak. There was something beautiful about the way my one brother put his arms around both my sister and me and whispered "We're going to be OK." As we wept at our father's casket.

There was something beautiful about the way my brother, the retired military policeman, directed us on how to fold the military flag that would later be presented to our dad's widow. The flag had been left with us folded like we would fold a bed sheet. And so it was up to Clint to direct us in folding it the proper way. There was something beautiful about the way all of our hands touched that flag in order to make it proper for its presentation.

There was something beautiful about my oldest brother, such a gentle spirit and a quiet man,
standing at the florist with his sisters and choosing flowers with us for our dad's service. There was something beautiful about the way this man, who never gives his opinion, spoke up and said "well, girls, I don't like that flower, but I like this purple one...."

There was something beautiful about the way everybody, including ourselves, referred to our brothers as "the boys" and my sister and me as "the girls" throughout the week, even though we are all in our forties - "The boys can take care of that, while we girls get this ready...."

There was something beautiful about the four of us lined up in the front row of the "family section" at the funeral. There was something beautiful about the way I grasped my sister's hand and she in turn, grasped our oldest brother's hand, who in turn grasped our younger brother's hand; linking us in grief.

There was something beautiful about the way I had to keep looking down the row of chairs to make sure they were OK, and occasionally seeing one of them looking back at me; all of our eyes brimming with tears.

There was something beautiful about the words written by my sister and read by her husband; and the words written by me and read by Paul. There was something beautiful about the similarity in those words, even though neither of us had read the other's tribute first.

There was something beautiful - beyond beautiful - in my brother's tribute and the way he mentioned each of us by name, incorporating memories of all of our lives into his eulogy.

There was something beautiful in the fact that my brother, being a veteran and a member of the American Legion, presented the flag to our step mother after the military rites at the grave side. I will never forget the moment Marilyn saw him step up to receive that flag and then start walking toward her. I will never forget how she audibly gasped as her hand flew to her heart and she breathlessly said "Oh, Clint...." I will never forget feeling beautifully blessed to be sitting by Marilyn for that moment, because she didn't know Clint would be the one to present that flag to her. There was something beautiful about seeing Clint bend down to her and, inches from her face, say "On behalf of a grateful nation...." and not only hearing, but watching him say those beautiful words to our dad's widow. I know she sees that moment as a beautiful gift. And so
do I.

There was something beautiful about sitting next to my grandmother at the graveside and putting my hand on her leg - and thinking it felt as big around as my forearm - then looking over at her and seeing tears falling down her frail cheeks. There was something beautiful in my thought, at that moment, that she had indeed seen the full circle of life with my dad, her oldest child. She was with him when he died. She was with him for his first breath and she was with him for his last. She held his tiny hand when he entered the world and she held his weakened hand when he left this world. And yes, I choose to see the beauty in that.

There is something beautiful in the memories that distract me each day and keep me awake each night over the past several days.

There is something beautiful about the longing in my heart to be near my brothers and sister, the longing to abandon our responsibilities and just sit together for days and remember. There is something beautiful about the longing in my heart to have just one more day with my dad; and yet feeling somewhat comforted that his suffering has ended and was, afterall, fairly brief.

And there is something beautiful in watching the colors of Spring emerge around me. Spring. The season of life. The season of beginning. The season of remembering that life does indeed go on.

And so must we.
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There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, 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 refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8