Not Hopelessly Bad

 I keep a little book next to my bed. It's called "Just For Today". It's been there since 1984, when I first received it from my OA sponsor. Most 12-Steppers are familiar with this little book, no bigger than a wallet. I open it most mornings. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I don't open it by design. There are days I don't want to be inspired. I just want to wallow a bit more in the mire. Silly, but that's how it is. Today, after a long, stubborn dry-spell, I opened my eyes, and saw the little book.  I reached over and picked it up and flipped through to today's date:

September 5th - 

"We find that we suffer from a disease, not a moral dilemma. We were critically ill, not hopelessly bad."

We were critically ill, not hopelessly bad. That stung a bit. Actually, it stung a lot. Because it so targeted the major thing that has transpired in our universe this past few weeks, culminating in a heartbreaking result. The end of the journey on this earth for someone very much loved, and far, far too young, who just couldn't see his way out of the mire. 

It's not a new story. It's not one that so many are not familiar with, or one that hasn't touched so many lives leaving a wake of sadness. But we move on from here. The ones who remain. The ones left behind to pick up the pieces. We know the facts, but we will speak of the happy times, the joys, the laughter. The anger may come; the whys, the hows, the questions. But for now, we concentrate on putting a balm of love over the hurts of the questions we cannot find the answers for. We recognize that there is no more pain, no more hurting, no more struggle for the one that went on a different journey. We also recognize that those that had to say goodbye will continue to struggle. Because we love. Not just in the best of times, but ten times more in the worst of times. 

Let's talk about the guy who threw dummies in the street, gave girls dog jerky treats and told them it was beef jerky, slid down roof rafters, defied every hunting safety rule, led snipe hunting expeditions at the river, couldn't really tell a joke to save his life, but laughed at them himself, narked on a closet smoker to her kids, came unannounced through the kitchen back door and got his ass handed back to him by a very protective border collie, sat outside of a family tent while lullabyes were being sung, and then asked for requests every night of the camping trip thereafter, smack talked a good game during annual Turkey Bowl tourneys, drove jetski boats into river weeds, chased girls with frogs. Years and years of joys. Years and years of laughter. Years and years of frustrations of childhood, to adolescence, to adulthood.

                                                                Turkey Bowl - 2012
 

When we all lived under the same roof for a short time after we moved back from South Dakota, I did the cooking and took the kids to their sports practices. Of the four adults under the Smith roof, I was the stay-at-home parent for the six months we lived under their umbrella of grace. Branden was the eldest kid in the house, he was a freshman in high school at the time. Sometimes, while I was prepping lunches, or dinners, Branden would come up behind me and tug on the back of my shirt. He didn't say anything, it was just a kind of "drive by" notification that he was there, home from school, safe.

Last Monday night, I felt him leave for the last time. I was standing outside his hospital room, looking into the window as his mother and cousin sat by his side and his younger brother stood next to his bed. Charlie was sitting behind me, next to his middle brother, his father, and his step-mom. At a moment when the doctor had just told the family that he really wasn't "in there" anymore and they would have to make the decision to let him go, I felt a very distinct tug on the back of my shirt. I turned around because I thought it was Charlie. But he tilted his head and looked at me quizzically. I shook my head and turned back toward the window to his room, and I knew it was him. I knew he came and tugged on the back of my shirt. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe to let me know he was safe now. 

I haven't shared that with anyone but Charlie. But it has been very much on my mind this past week. Mostly because Nancy's best friend Joan, when we all gathered at Nan's house in the following days, brought up the subject of beliefs and "visits" from loved ones who have passed on. I'm not one to believe in a heaven or nirvana. But I do believe that loved ones visit. Yet, I couldn't speak of it just then. I didn't feel it was the time or place to say what I had experienced just a few hours before. I will. In a few days, I think. When my friend and I are alone. I will share with her that I really believed it was that mischievous boy of hers giving me one last shirt tug as he went off to his next journey.

                                                          Branden and Grandpa Ken - 2009

The last things I said to him were that I was sorry that my dog bit his ass (which caused his cousin Scotty to laugh out loud and say' "He deserved it. Dog was doing his job."), and that I hope his Grandpa Ken, his Uncle JoJo, and his best friend Colt were somewhere in the Great Beyond to greet him. I know it was Branden tugging on my shirt. I know he was saying he was finally home, safe.

Rest easy now, Branden.