Holiday Traditions
I've wanted to write this a while. A recent Sunday school meeting with my kids reminded me (we were discussing "family traditions" in relation to the Christmas season). A recent recurring tragedy with a dear friend hastens this expunging of emotion.
Maybe once a year, I have to drive past Brushy Creek Church and I am reminded why the stoplight pole directly in front of the church is concrete/steel. Ronnie took the wooden one with him in the early hours of December 9, 1987.
No one, even when I explain it, understands why my family and I still grieve, so I'll let it be my cross to bear, but I'll share with you some stories:
Mum was in the car waiting on Ronnie to come out. She was taking him to work that day and I sat in her lap while we waited on him (because he always wanted me to ride in his lap, instead of my car seat, when we took him to work). He walked in front of the car and I stuck my arms out, grasping the air separating us. "Onnie! Onnie!" Mum was pleasantly aghast. Ronnie slumps into the passenger seat, wondering why Mum's chin dropped on top of my head.
"...She just said your name."
My brother's name was my first word.
I've heard tale before he would even take off his coat from work, he'd rush to my crib and extract me from the confines for cuddles. Sometimes he'd lie and say 'Oh, I heard her crying' as an excuse to go in there to pick me up from naps. He was enamored with his little sister, obsessive and consumed with what little things she'd do with every tiny breath. Eighteen-year-old rocker punks aren't what you'd consider standard fare to be obsessed with babies, but he was with me. Maybe because, somehow, deep down, he knew he wouldn't have much time with me, so he took in every moment he could to be with me.
Not to say that whenever my diaper needed changing, he didn't extend me toward Mum to the extremes of his reach, but he was in love with his baby sister. Brian liked me well enough; he could take me or leave this amalgamous mass, which is standard fare with a boy of 15. When we lost Ronnie, Brian picked up the slack; he had to be a great older brother, protector, and provider in his stead. There was no other choice.
I've missed him, I've longed to know how we would've gotten along, I've craved to know how I would've been different had he not taken out that pole early that December morning. I know, decidedly and for a fact, that no one, save for one or two people on Facebook, would be my friend. I know for a fact I would not have valued or experienced all the things I have, were he here. I'm certain I would've been naughtier, sillier, and would be able to drive manual. I love Brian so very much, and I always have, but I'm certain our relationship may not have been as close had Ronnie not tasked Brian to take up his slack when he untimely passed.
Lately, lots of people have shrugged me off when I implore them to spend time with me or with others they hold dear. I've wept, shaking and blubbering, how no one understood why I made the concessions or risks that I did to be with them, even if for a few hours or few days. My generation treats moments and opportunities with those they love or enjoy spending time with like they will be as numerous as the stars, even if their lip service would seek to convince us all otherwise. I am only as convicted by my personal negligence because of who I don't have near me to cherish anymore, and I am reminded daily.
But my generation won't change because of what I say, what I value, how I feel. It's their right they aren't changing, but it is frustratingly abominable. As I read Facebook statuses and Twitter messages where people are decorating for the holidays, silently I envy them, but my family's tradition is so far ingrained, it would feel like a great betrayal.
December 9th, I lost who would've been my best friend, my admirer, my handservant (haha), two days before my second birthday. Brian lost his absolute best friend in the world, his komrade, his partner in many crimes, the person he looked up to and always aspired to do great things with. December 11th, Mum knew that she had to go on living, because it was my second birthday and I needed her. No one else had supported the idea of my furthered existence without question (or considered "other" options) when I was in the womb but her and my brothers. Without her, ... I'd be cast adrift. December 12th, Ronnie was buried. To this day, grass over his grave is sparse, at best. The soil rebels at such tragedy; the grass itself wears its own sackcloth and ashes in mourning. December 13th, if we decorate at all, we do it then.
When I go to friends houses, or see pictures of their decorations, my heart twists my stomach in praise, that my friends and families do not have tragedies that affect their holiday season in such as way as mine. All people know all types of tragedies. Maybe we're just more sentimental, and sappy, and lonesome... Maybe that is how my family "celebrates"-with outwardly grieving-instead of falsifying cheer for the sake of others.
Nanny doesn't grieve like we do, even though she lost one of her only two grandsons. Yesterday, we got her tree out and I unstrung and restrung the whole thing for her. She's 92. No need for her to bother with that frustrating mess. I wished it was my tree, or that it was a full-sized tree that Ronnie had called us over to help cart out and decorate, maybe with a bunch of his youngins running around.
Sometimes, I daydream how it would've been if Ronnie took me to my first concert. I wonder what band we would've seen. I have a feeling he would've made a Megadeth concert happen a time or two before now.
I pray for you, that if you have had such a loss, such a tragedy in your life, that when you neglect to spend time with someone you care about because of whatever fanciful or superficial reason you conjure up, I hope something happens to you that reminds you of such callus hubris. That someone shoves you from the saddle to the swirling dust and dirt below with a hard thud to knock some sense into you. That you get out of your own entitlement complex and selfishness before something far worse happens. That you feel conviction by this message that extends longer than fifteen minutes after you read it. I pray not that tragedy visit your home or your heart, but only what God deems necessary in order to clear your vision. I pray this for you because, despite my many failings in this same department, I have only come to learn by these means and if that is the only way you, my dears, can be taught, so be it. If tears and wounds and sorrow are all that can school you past your wearied heart, so be it. Be not stagnant, in stasis, collecting dust.
If I have learned anything in 2010, based upon the tragedy that I have shared with you (and there's much more that has happened in December to steal our joy, but I haven't the desire to share it all with strangers) and tragedy experienced this year, is this:
Do not have the regret of "I wish I had ______ed"; instead, have the regret "I wish I had ______ed longer/harder/better/faster"
Give everything the best of your abilities, because then you can be satisfied better with how you handled and achieved the result.
I take the time to say this out of love, because my love and my time are the only things I can devote to you and that are mine to freely give. I devote them to you, because you are worth my time and my love.
And it took a great tragedy, this year, to teach me that this effort is true love.
Maybe once a year, I have to drive past Brushy Creek Church and I am reminded why the stoplight pole directly in front of the church is concrete/steel. Ronnie took the wooden one with him in the early hours of December 9, 1987.
No one, even when I explain it, understands why my family and I still grieve, so I'll let it be my cross to bear, but I'll share with you some stories:
Mum was in the car waiting on Ronnie to come out. She was taking him to work that day and I sat in her lap while we waited on him (because he always wanted me to ride in his lap, instead of my car seat, when we took him to work). He walked in front of the car and I stuck my arms out, grasping the air separating us. "Onnie! Onnie!" Mum was pleasantly aghast. Ronnie slumps into the passenger seat, wondering why Mum's chin dropped on top of my head.
"...She just said your name."
My brother's name was my first word.
I've heard tale before he would even take off his coat from work, he'd rush to my crib and extract me from the confines for cuddles. Sometimes he'd lie and say 'Oh, I heard her crying' as an excuse to go in there to pick me up from naps. He was enamored with his little sister, obsessive and consumed with what little things she'd do with every tiny breath. Eighteen-year-old rocker punks aren't what you'd consider standard fare to be obsessed with babies, but he was with me. Maybe because, somehow, deep down, he knew he wouldn't have much time with me, so he took in every moment he could to be with me.
Not to say that whenever my diaper needed changing, he didn't extend me toward Mum to the extremes of his reach, but he was in love with his baby sister. Brian liked me well enough; he could take me or leave this amalgamous mass, which is standard fare with a boy of 15. When we lost Ronnie, Brian picked up the slack; he had to be a great older brother, protector, and provider in his stead. There was no other choice.
I've missed him, I've longed to know how we would've gotten along, I've craved to know how I would've been different had he not taken out that pole early that December morning. I know, decidedly and for a fact, that no one, save for one or two people on Facebook, would be my friend. I know for a fact I would not have valued or experienced all the things I have, were he here. I'm certain I would've been naughtier, sillier, and would be able to drive manual. I love Brian so very much, and I always have, but I'm certain our relationship may not have been as close had Ronnie not tasked Brian to take up his slack when he untimely passed.
Lately, lots of people have shrugged me off when I implore them to spend time with me or with others they hold dear. I've wept, shaking and blubbering, how no one understood why I made the concessions or risks that I did to be with them, even if for a few hours or few days. My generation treats moments and opportunities with those they love or enjoy spending time with like they will be as numerous as the stars, even if their lip service would seek to convince us all otherwise. I am only as convicted by my personal negligence because of who I don't have near me to cherish anymore, and I am reminded daily.
But my generation won't change because of what I say, what I value, how I feel. It's their right they aren't changing, but it is frustratingly abominable. As I read Facebook statuses and Twitter messages where people are decorating for the holidays, silently I envy them, but my family's tradition is so far ingrained, it would feel like a great betrayal.
December 9th, I lost who would've been my best friend, my admirer, my handservant (haha), two days before my second birthday. Brian lost his absolute best friend in the world, his komrade, his partner in many crimes, the person he looked up to and always aspired to do great things with. December 11th, Mum knew that she had to go on living, because it was my second birthday and I needed her. No one else had supported the idea of my furthered existence without question (or considered "other" options) when I was in the womb but her and my brothers. Without her, ... I'd be cast adrift. December 12th, Ronnie was buried. To this day, grass over his grave is sparse, at best. The soil rebels at such tragedy; the grass itself wears its own sackcloth and ashes in mourning. December 13th, if we decorate at all, we do it then.
When I go to friends houses, or see pictures of their decorations, my heart twists my stomach in praise, that my friends and families do not have tragedies that affect their holiday season in such as way as mine. All people know all types of tragedies. Maybe we're just more sentimental, and sappy, and lonesome... Maybe that is how my family "celebrates"-with outwardly grieving-instead of falsifying cheer for the sake of others.
Nanny doesn't grieve like we do, even though she lost one of her only two grandsons. Yesterday, we got her tree out and I unstrung and restrung the whole thing for her. She's 92. No need for her to bother with that frustrating mess. I wished it was my tree, or that it was a full-sized tree that Ronnie had called us over to help cart out and decorate, maybe with a bunch of his youngins running around.
Sometimes, I daydream how it would've been if Ronnie took me to my first concert. I wonder what band we would've seen. I have a feeling he would've made a Megadeth concert happen a time or two before now.
I pray for you, that if you have had such a loss, such a tragedy in your life, that when you neglect to spend time with someone you care about because of whatever fanciful or superficial reason you conjure up, I hope something happens to you that reminds you of such callus hubris. That someone shoves you from the saddle to the swirling dust and dirt below with a hard thud to knock some sense into you. That you get out of your own entitlement complex and selfishness before something far worse happens. That you feel conviction by this message that extends longer than fifteen minutes after you read it. I pray not that tragedy visit your home or your heart, but only what God deems necessary in order to clear your vision. I pray this for you because, despite my many failings in this same department, I have only come to learn by these means and if that is the only way you, my dears, can be taught, so be it. If tears and wounds and sorrow are all that can school you past your wearied heart, so be it. Be not stagnant, in stasis, collecting dust.
If I have learned anything in 2010, based upon the tragedy that I have shared with you (and there's much more that has happened in December to steal our joy, but I haven't the desire to share it all with strangers) and tragedy experienced this year, is this:
Do not have the regret of "I wish I had ______ed"; instead, have the regret "I wish I had ______ed longer/harder/better/faster"
Give everything the best of your abilities, because then you can be satisfied better with how you handled and achieved the result.
I take the time to say this out of love, because my love and my time are the only things I can devote to you and that are mine to freely give. I devote them to you, because you are worth my time and my love.
And it took a great tragedy, this year, to teach me that this effort is true love.