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What you've been missing.
Jul. 23rd, 2009 06:57 amThe days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
-Psalm 90:10
From King David's time to the recent reaches of our own, that was what was on the warranty: 70 years. "Threescore and ten" sounded more poetic. More than that and you were doin' great. But certainly, you'd expect to have at least that much time to cast off your foolishness, build your relationships and see the makings of your family and your legacy.
Unless you didn't.
Our older sister would have turned 70 today. She didn't live even to the age of 50, that much less monumental monument which I'll be hitting in about fourscore and ten days. Disease, and decisions, took her from us at least 20 years too soon- at least the part of her that we could see, and feel, and laugh with.
So since I know she's reading this (as virtually all my family does now), I just wanted to fill her in on how we've done since she flew away.
You're still part of our worlds, and our lives, and our consciousness. Each and every day. When I pet a preening cat, or shoo a dog out the back door to the words "go play in traffic," or hear any number of songs or singers from some special years, you are with me. When I see how conflicted, and yet caring, a certain televised nurse is in her life, you are in that room. When I ask what someone else would need, I think of what you would do about it, and whenever I can I do it. That's continued for all the 20-plus years since you left us, and will go on as long as I'm not inhabiting a dirt bed.
The little sister you left behind has her own life, and her own challenges, yet she shares that same sense of caring in so much of what she does. She was our mother's salvation in those final years when she needed it so much, and has done so much in the years beyond for us, and your kids, and pretty much anyone else close to her who needs it.
Our home here doesn't look like your home there, but it is a lot like it. The one piece of furniture of yours that we used for years was a small dining room table which I think came with your last house in Seaford. Mom and Dad used it for years, then it became mine, and eventually ours, until Eleanor's mom died and we moved her table into the dining room. A few years ago, when Eleanor was selling furniture, customers came in who'd just suffered a devestating house fire. They couldn't afford the dinette set on the selling floor, but that night, that table- your table- went into the back of Eleanor's truck and was delivered to their house. That's the spirit of the woman I married- your spirit. Who you loved at first sight, as she loved you back, but who never got to know you nearly well enough in the short time we had.
Still better than all that, though? You will live on in this world even after the rest of us from this generation join you at the celestial bar in the years to come. Your daughters have grown into beautiful, talented and caring young women who we think the world of. You missed the pomp of their graduations, the ceremony of their weddings (although, as you'd be saying right now, not so much in the one case), and the miracles of their own children. And they've missed you- terribly- but they know how important it is to keep you in this world, and so they do. Each and every day.
Closer to this home is a young woman who never met you, but who I know you love just as much. She's kind, and thoughtful, and far more artistically talented than I would ever have been. I know you're proud of her, and of your baby brother for helping her become all those things.
Look around on the blog and the hard drive for all the pictures. I'll leave the top open for you. And as with with every day, but especially this day, I love you, Sandy.
Happy birthday.
yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
-Psalm 90:10
From King David's time to the recent reaches of our own, that was what was on the warranty: 70 years. "Threescore and ten" sounded more poetic. More than that and you were doin' great. But certainly, you'd expect to have at least that much time to cast off your foolishness, build your relationships and see the makings of your family and your legacy.
Unless you didn't.
Our older sister would have turned 70 today. She didn't live even to the age of 50, that much less monumental monument which I'll be hitting in about fourscore and ten days. Disease, and decisions, took her from us at least 20 years too soon- at least the part of her that we could see, and feel, and laugh with.
So since I know she's reading this (as virtually all my family does now), I just wanted to fill her in on how we've done since she flew away.
You're still part of our worlds, and our lives, and our consciousness. Each and every day. When I pet a preening cat, or shoo a dog out the back door to the words "go play in traffic," or hear any number of songs or singers from some special years, you are with me. When I see how conflicted, and yet caring, a certain televised nurse is in her life, you are in that room. When I ask what someone else would need, I think of what you would do about it, and whenever I can I do it. That's continued for all the 20-plus years since you left us, and will go on as long as I'm not inhabiting a dirt bed.
The little sister you left behind has her own life, and her own challenges, yet she shares that same sense of caring in so much of what she does. She was our mother's salvation in those final years when she needed it so much, and has done so much in the years beyond for us, and your kids, and pretty much anyone else close to her who needs it.
Our home here doesn't look like your home there, but it is a lot like it. The one piece of furniture of yours that we used for years was a small dining room table which I think came with your last house in Seaford. Mom and Dad used it for years, then it became mine, and eventually ours, until Eleanor's mom died and we moved her table into the dining room. A few years ago, when Eleanor was selling furniture, customers came in who'd just suffered a devestating house fire. They couldn't afford the dinette set on the selling floor, but that night, that table- your table- went into the back of Eleanor's truck and was delivered to their house. That's the spirit of the woman I married- your spirit. Who you loved at first sight, as she loved you back, but who never got to know you nearly well enough in the short time we had.
Still better than all that, though? You will live on in this world even after the rest of us from this generation join you at the celestial bar in the years to come. Your daughters have grown into beautiful, talented and caring young women who we think the world of. You missed the pomp of their graduations, the ceremony of their weddings (although, as you'd be saying right now, not so much in the one case), and the miracles of their own children. And they've missed you- terribly- but they know how important it is to keep you in this world, and so they do. Each and every day.
Closer to this home is a young woman who never met you, but who I know you love just as much. She's kind, and thoughtful, and far more artistically talented than I would ever have been. I know you're proud of her, and of your baby brother for helping her become all those things.
Look around on the blog and the hard drive for all the pictures. I'll leave the top open for you. And as with with every day, but especially this day, I love you, Sandy.
Happy birthday.