I looked up the other day and saw all
these blackbirds (grackles, starlings what have you) in the tree and I was
instantly reminded of our daughter. When
she was young Charlotte developed an aversion to things in large numbers. One fall we had an invasion of ladybugs at
our house, now normally this might seem like some random sign of good luck, but
not for Charlotte. She could not sleep
due to these cute little bugs, "they smell" she would cry, and you
know-she was right. Then there was the
4th of July parade in my hometown, every group imaginable comes to this parade
including the Grey Hound Rescue Society, you can guess what happened next. After
the parade my husband and I were standing in the park when we saw at
least 40 greyhounds come right through the center, we looked at each other and
without thinking we read each other's mind "Charlotte"! Sure enough there she was standing with her
head down and face grimacing as she tried not to have one of them touch
her. She is now a mother of her own children
yet we still will occasionally taunt her with a picture of a grey hound.
When is too much too much? I met a woman in town after I was appointed
to the church I serve. She never
attended church but she took me through the town and showed me where people
lived and described who was who in the zoo.
We both have a passion for writing and reading. I would arrive at her house weekly with a
canvas bag full of books, some to return some to share. I would take my shoes off; we would sip tea
and talk for an hour about life and books, community events and books our
families and books. After a year I began
to realize that she would repeat herself often, but she was in her nineties-who
wouldn't? So what if she tried to give
me the same books each visit? Is there
ever really too much Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Thomas Merton, or Wendell
Berry? Then one day I saw her in a part
of town that made me think she might be lost, soon she moved to a retirement
community. I would visit her there and
she would re-share with me the stories she had written and I would gladly take
them as if they were new to me. Our
conversations still inspired me.
Yesterday I went for a visit and when I got to her door it was bare, no
name tag and sea glass welcoming sign. I
stood with my fist in mid air while my other hand held on to some flowers,
fortunately an aid came to let me know that my friend had been moved into
assisted living. When I arrived at her
door she stood with a bright smile, her arms opening for an embrace. We shared a deep hug and sat across from each
other, she looked at me and said "I know I know you but can you remind me
how?" I smiled as I told her while
my insides wept. It was too much.
This is Holy Week, which is a week full of too much. Too much chaos, too much judgment, too much
fear, too much finger pointing, too much suffering, too much pain. The truth is we will share the same stories
over and over in an attempt to remind ourselves of a love that is so big and so
great that it may seem like too much.
Maybe the reason Charlotte didn't like
things in large number was because it really was too much---too much to make
sense of--to the point that even ladybugs became frightening.
The truth is that if someone told me
that my friendship would take this turn I might have thought it too much to
deal with, once I grew to know her it may have seemed too much to bear, and now
while it is too much to understand-"how and why her?" I love her too
much to walk away.
“So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute...Give your approval to all you cannot understand...Ask the
questions that have no answers. Put your faith in two inches of humus that will
build under the trees every thousand years...Laugh. Be joyful though you have
considered all the facts....Practice resurrection.”
― Wendell Berry, The Country of
Marriage
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