November 25, 1939-January 16, 2011

Today, we held my grandfather's memorial service. It was a lovely way of remembering him and as part of the service, I offered the following:

When I think of my grandfather, I think of Pops because that’s what I called him. I think of eating cartons of Cookies and Crème ice cream just between the two of us.

I think about how honest he was and how he once made my uncle Brandon drive all the way across town to give money back to someone who had given him incorrect change.

I think about the fact that he was one of the most loving people I have ever known and how he was one of the only constant figures throughout my life. When I was two, he brought my sister, Ashleigh, and I into his house. It wasn’t like he had a lot of room. He had two sons, Brandon and Keith, at home. He’d already been a father to so many, but he was ready to be a grandfather to me.

I think about how stubborn he was and how stubborn I’ve always been. When I lived with him, I was obsessed with the neighbor’s lawn figurine. It was a squirrel and I stole it on a regular basis. Every time It mysteriously made its way to our house, my grandfather made sure it was returned to its rightful owner. And every time it made its way back to its rightful owner, I made sure it found its way back to me. Our game continued while I lived with them. Later when they moved into the house on Berkeley, he made sure their backyard had a little squirrel so that I would never have to return to my days of thievery.

But, above all I think of his change jar. Maybe it seems trite or self-serving, but a glass jar half-filled with coins is my symbol of Pops. Ever since I was a tiny child, Pops would gather his change for me. As he drove across California and the Western United States, he would save his pockets full of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. I imagine his pants hung heavy with the coins jingling. Lugging those little bits of currency and love back home, he would return to the woman he loved most in the world. In the last decade, his return was welcomed by two yapping dogs alongside my grandmother. As he dumped the metal coinage into the jar, he not only saved up money, but also hope.

Until my sister moved to Fresno, we would split the coins from the jar, but once I was the prodigal granddaughter returning from afar, the coins became all mine. When I was fifteen and sixteen, the money was a welcome boost to my spending money for my trips to California. As I’ve aged, the rolling of coins and the clang of the coin counter became vastly more important than the amount of change collected. The time spent in my grandparents’ bedroom—a place that had always held the mystical charm of adulthood—meant so much more than a couple dollars in my pocket.

I know now that every coin was a hope and prayer for me. It was a dream saved that I might one day cash in. Every time he made it safely home, he was storing up safe returns for me. As I traveled around the country and the world, he was bringing little pieces of his travels back for me. No matter how alone or afraid I have felt, I have always known that he was here, saving up good things for me.

The fact that he always saved those coins is a testament to the fact that he believed in me. He believed in all of us. Because we’re a family. We may not all share DNA, or common goals, or communal memories. But we share him. We share Pops and the love he had for all of us. We were so lucky to have him in our lives as long as we did, but it’s our turn now. It’s our turn to collect the coins of our lives, whatever form they may take. It’s our turn to save up hopes and dreams for ourselves and each other because that’s what a family does and Pops would have wanted it that way.

Regret and Forgiveness

I could tell by his tone that my grandfather was annoyed with me. He looked at me and said, "I don't know why you keep crying." As I started to weep, I told him through the tears, "I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry. I can't make anything better.  And, you're gone."

Suddenly, I was choking on air. My chest was heaving and I was in a dark room. I had been dreaming, but the fact that it was a dream didn't stop the tears from streaming down my face. For what seemed like an eternity, I could not stop my chest from heaving lying on my back on an inflatable mattress in San Francisco. I had seen my grandfather and I had had a chance to talk to him.

Over the winter holiday, my grandfather and I had argued about my "theories" and my answers for everything. His attitude had hurt my feelings immensely and felt like such a dismissal of all my hard work. I left California more than a little frustrated with him. The past few weeks this feeling has plagued me. I feel like such a jerk for taking his comments at face value. Instead of understanding that perhaps my grandfather was trying to relate to a whole world he didn't have any conception of, I treated his response as if he were an ignorant simpleton. What a fool I was.

I've been trying to put a word on what I'm feeling and it comes down to disbelief. I can't believe my grandfather is gone and that I'll never see him again. I can't believe one of the last times I ever talked to him was a fight. Above all, I can't believe that for a second I was foolish enough to think he wasn't infinitely proud of me.

My dream may have been just that, a dream, but now it feels like a sort of forgiveness, as if that dream gave me a chance to talk to him. To tell him I'm sorry. It has given me a way to understand my own grief. Maybe it is also a chance to understand that families fight and that for all his frustration with me, that my grandfather was proud. For Christmas, I got him a Harvard t-shirt and he loved it. He wore it the next day and made sure that everyone we were with took note of his shirt and told them about his granddaughter who goes to Harvard.

Unlike the dream, the reason I'm crying now, here in this Starbucks in Fresno, California is because I love my grandfather. I am crying because it is hard to say goodbye. And, I'm crying because my heart hurts.

Silence, Or: it seems like theological school is getting to me...

I'm settling in for an afternoon of reading Simone de Beauvoir with a cup of hot chocolate. I just walked home from Davis Square and there's just enough of a chill in the air for my cheeks to be burning. After a week of spring like weather, it feels like late winter again here in Somerville. I'm grateful for the decline in temperature as it is helping me stay on task with my reading. Don't get me wrong: I love Simone de Beauvoir and everything she writes seems like pure gold to me, but it's just hard to concentrate right now. Above all, it's Saturday and I have never been a productive person on Saturdays. Put on top of that the fact that I leave for California tomorrow to be with my family through my grandfather's funeral on Saturday and you've got a recipe for laziness.  If the weather were nice, too, I would be hopeless.

My hot chocolate, my reading chair, the howling wind, and my handsome dog make it all a little easier, though. There's something comforting about being alone with just the sounds of the world to distract me. It reminds me of the story of Elijah listening for the voice of God (1 Kings 19:11-14). God was not in the wind, nor the earthquake, nor the fire, but instead in the silence. Perhaps I've been studying too much Negative Theology, but there is something deeply confounding, yet peaceful about that idea. After all the years I've spent learning to read, write, and speak, there are things that are best expressed in the silence. For a girl who has spent most of her life talking and trying to express herself adequately, it comes as a great relief to know that with all the power and might that Elijah's God had, he expressed himself in silence. But the silence did not last. After Elijah entered the cave, God spoke. Not only did he speak, he asked Elijah a question.

I think perhaps I am in a phase of silence in some aspects of my life, but I must have faith that as with Elijah, the silence will not last. While I'm not waiting for the voice of God to tell me of the anointing of kings and the destruction of a ton of people, I am waiting for my own still, small voice echoing in the cave.

Or to stick more closely to the story, I guess I'm waiting for the question. And I will wait in the silence as long as it takes.

Taking a cue from Ronnie

I've been under a dark cloud this week (as you can tell from my last post). Most of my time has been spent alone with Ace and countless hours have been consumed with collecting, organizing, and reading materials for my classes. It turns out, there is no space on syllabi for heartbreak. So, basically, I've been one giant ball of stress. The other night, I was trying to open a bag of salad and nearly lost my mind. My dear Hunter came to my rescue, opened it in about 2 seconds without a word of judgement, and handed it back to me. I felt embarrassed at my short temper and frustrated that it was so easy for him to open it. Graciously, we both ignored the situation and discussed our school work.

Yesterday, in the middle of one of my stormy moments staring at the computer, the much beloved Ronnie burst into the Religious and Spiritual Life Office. Ronnie works in the mailroom here at HDS and pops in the office to collect mail on a regular basis. But, he is so much more than that. To me, he feels like the soul of this place. He knows everyone's name (which has got to be a challenge, given how quickly the student body turns over), and if he happens to forget yours for a second, he feels awful. I love seeing Ronnie and dark cloud or no, this time was no different.

"Sierrah!" he said in his Bostonian accent.

"Hey Ronnie!" I said, "how are you?"

"Oh I'm good. It's Friday, you know."

With a deep sigh, I replied, "Well thank God for that. Any weekend plans, Ronnie?"

"You know Sierrah, I'm gonna sleep in tomorrow and then eat some scrambled eggs." And with that he was out the door, calling, "Have a good weekend, Sierrah!"

A simple comment about a simple plan. Ronnie's joy gave me pause.

This morning I slept in. When I woke up, I stayed in bed for another twenty minutes, talking to Ace. When I got out of bed, I rummaged the fridge to find the perfect ingredients for banana pancakes with honey-yogurt. A simple and delicious way to embrace a new day. And as I pull out my reading for today, I can't help but think of Ronnie, off somewhere enjoying his scrambled eggs.

Undertow

I keep hearing that grief comes in waves, as if I am sitting on the beach letting the water rush up around me. Growing up in the mountains of southern Colorado, I don't really know much about the ocean. I can remember clearly though my first grade teacher (or one of those early ones) talking about undertow. The way it was described to me was that you could be close enough to the shore to see people you love and then suddenly, a current could sweep you out and away. Even strong swimmers could be claimed by undertow.

This morning, I awoke to find an ambulance in our cul-de-sac. I didn't think much of it as I was trying to get Ace out for a morning run. After our run, some homework, and a change of clothes, I set out for my day. As I passed the house on the corner by our small park, I looked up. Two men, who I later recognized as part of the coroner's team, were carrying a black bag. I stared for a moment trying to decipher what was happening. I recognized the black shape from television shows like Dexter and CSI. I looked away quickly, shamed by my voyeuristic gaze. I had just seen a dead body, but what right did I have to witness the last time this man would leave his home?

I've been troubled by this event all day. There was something so unsanctified, unholy, irreverent about the whole thing. It seems unfair. A whole life ended today and there was no pomp or pageantry. No one wept in plain view. Just a bag and two profane pallbearers. Perhaps the worst part to me was my own presence. I had the distinct feeling that I should not have been there. Then again, I've been wondering, perhaps that's exactly where I needed to be. To bear witness to the literal passing of a life before my eyes. To be present for the death of a stranger in a way I couldn't be present for my own grandfather's death.

It was only a moment. What could I really have seen or felt in a moment? How could I have been part of something significant in the time it takes to look away? Maybe it's okay not to know exactly what is happening. Maybe instead simple cognizance of change is what matters. And maybe the ways people--those we know and those we do not--touch us is beyond our control.

A package came to my grandmother's house last week. She opened the box to find my grandfather's Valentine's Day gift for her--three rings. As she told me this story, I started to cry. She said to me, "Everyday I got to say, 'I love you.' and 'Come back home safe.' And every night I got to kiss him and tell him I loved him. I knew him better than anyone. I was so lucky to love him." Even after his death, my grandfather is still touching the lives of everyone who knew him. I bought my bike this week and it feels cruel that I won't be able to share that with the man who helped buy it.

So maybe I am being pulled out from shore. Perhaps, though, this is the vantage point I need.

Betwixt and Between Bus Stops

I'm in the process of writing applications, but they aren't quite done. Classes have begun, but two days were canceled because of snow. Ace has started his meds (for an ear infection), but it hasn't really started to make a difference. Everything is just in between.

I think Victor Turner might delight (or despair) in my use of his infamous term to describe my state (and title my entry), but his description of the initiates feels appropriate. As if I were on the edge of a revelation, as if I were to become part of something bigger, as if I were about to emerge as a new member of my "culture-sharing group," as if I were about to embark on a quest alone into the great big world--I must wait. That's not to say that I am idle. I am busy preparing statements, brainstorming, organizing readings, daydreaming about the future, and living here in Boston.

Since it's February and I'm finding Boston's weather to be rather brutal, I decided to buy a monthly bus pass. That's right: unlimited rides on the bus (if you grew up with public transit systems that are reliable--or existent!!--you don't understand the glory that is a Boston public bus). The pass seemed like the right choice given the fact that I start my training routine  in earnest this week (hear more about why I'm training here)and will likely have to spend late nights on campus poring over ancient texts (seriously, I have a class whose texts reach back all the way to Plato. Awesome.). For the most part the bus is relatively on time (in a five to ten minute window either way) and definitely toasty as compared to the whipping wind, biting frost, and sudden onslaught of rain that pervade this Bostonian winter. This evening in such weather, I made my way to the bus stop nearest the Divinity School two minutes before the bus was to arrive to take me home. I stood in the cold, bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten my hat and my gloves as drops of rain ran off my eyebrows.

I looked in the direction of the bus. Nothing. Car, car, bike, man with umbrella, car honking at man, car, car. I checked my watch. Should have been here five minutes ago. A car honked as it drove by. Well, I thought to myself. Perhaps I should wait a bit longer. As I stood there weighing my options, that old familiar feeling came over me. Somewhere between anticipation and indecision, I was perched on the edge of change and movement--the pause before the song, the deep inhale before the dive. I hesitated a moment longer and then, before I could even make my decision conscious I was walking through freezing rain and ice covered bricks back to my home. Slipping the whole way, there were moments of doubt. I would look over my shoulder and think, Man, should I have just waited a while longer? But even as I thought that, I realized that there was something very refreshing about a late night walk through the snow and ice with rain dropping on my head, as if I had really never experienced a moment like this before. Before even realizing that I had beat the bus home, I knew that I'd made the right choice.

The struggle between deciding to take the bus or walk has the same character to it that my life seems to have right now. I'm waiting for a lot to take form, both at Harvard and beyond, and that can be an uncomfortable stage for me. So often in my life, though, I've found that when I feel like I need to take some action, but I don't know what that action might be, that really I just need to wait. Give it a while to rest. Take a deep breath and see what comes of it.

I guess sometimes you have to wait for the bus just long enough to know that you're supposed to walk in the rain.