photo by Collyn Ware
for my children and grandchildren, my family and friends
When things are taking their ordinary course, it is hard to remember what matters. There are so many things you would never think to tell anyone. And I believe they may be the things that mean most to you, and that even your own child would have to know in order to know you well at all.
― Marilynne Robinson, Gilead
Most of my life has taken a rather ordinary course. When I die, a Lifetime movie crew isn’t going to rush to rural Iowa and begin filming my life story. My story just doesn’t have the luster, intrigue, or sensationalism of a Nielsen-rated drama.
And yet, it’s had–and continues to have–luster enough for me. I’ve been blessed with an exceptional family and wonderful friends. I’ve taught and learned from hundreds of special students. I’ve seen and experienced so many things that have moved me, and I have a list of things I’ve yet to see and experience. I’ve felt exquisite joy and profound pain. I’ve loved and lost.
For all the bounty of my outward life, I’ve had an equally bountiful internal life. I’ve tried on and wrestled with new ideas there. I’ve rehearsed things I thought I might say or wished I could say. I’ve held new discoveries up to the light of wisdom and gasped in sore amazement. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how rich this internal life has been for me and how I’d like to share much of it with those I love. Like Marilynne Robinson, I believe that these are the things that truly mean the most to me, the gifts of a life lived and the fruits of many contemplative and imaginative hours. And yet, I realize now, in retrospect, that so many of these things I didn’t think to speak aloud. So, I’d like to share a few of these things.
It doesn’t get much better than this. How many times have I spoken this internally, repeating it to myself as if it were the chorus of a love song or a line from a cherished poem? Feeding one of my children in the middle of the night, the full moon flooding the room, and the sweet baby weight against my chest. Laughing with my grandson whose joy escapes in waves that carry us so far from the shore of ordinary life that we lose sight of it, if only for a moment. Walking to the mail box with my granddaughter as she tells me big things and small things, trusting me as a confidente. Sitting around our big kitchen island as my children and grandchildren scheme to buy up Park Place and Board Walk or gamble one last role of the dice to win a holiday Yahtzee tournament. Driving into town through a tunnel of autumn glory, trees so red and golden that they look photoshopped. The smell of baking bread, the first bite into a slice of watermelon, the scent of fresh-cut lilacs, the warmth of a towel straight out of the dryer. I could go on. I should acknowledge these things more, and I want my children and grandchildren to know this. For moments like these deserve all the verbal accolades that we can give them.
I wish I would have said/written this. Words move me. They always have. Whether spoken or written, the power of a single word or the artistry of a string of words never fails to bring a I wish I would have said/written this to my internal lips. I’ve spent so many hours grading student essays, pouring over their words, my red pen hovering over their papers. And there have been times when I’ve found myself rereading a sentence or paragraph and thinking, Wow! I wish I would have written this. Momentarily, my critical faculties dimmed in the light of insights written so well that I struggled to find suitable words of praise. I’ve also been moved by words spoken with such eloquence, such acuity and wisdom, such humor and playfulness that my initial envy of their speakers was quickly dwarfed by sheer joy. Regrettably, while my inner voice exclaimed I wish I would have said this, my outer voice was reverentially silent. If words–spoken or written–are this wonderful, I should say so. Aloud and with conviction.
I’m struggling right now. Who wants to admit this, let alone say it aloud? Struggle implies weakness, and weakness is best kept inside. It’s acceptable for your inner voice to say I’m struggling right now. But your outer voice, your public this-is-who-I-want-you-to-see voice? Not so much. But these are words I wish I would’ve said when my smile and chipper small talk were just a facade. When I failed to speak these words, I also failed to create a safe space for others to speak their pain. Who wants to share their troubles with someone whose life is perpetually sunny? We want real shoulders to cry on, fellow sufferers with whom to commiserate. Phony, plastic people just don’t fit the bill. I wish I would’ve had the courage and insight to say I’m struggling right now. If I’d spoken my humanness on more occasions, undoubtedly I would’ve found a place in the communion of sufferers.
This is so wrong. I’m ashamed to admit that there have been too many times when my inner voice was filled with righteous anger, but my outer voice was largely silent. I may have voiced my opposition to a few trusted friends in the parking lot or over the phone, but when it mattered in the public arena, I deferred to others. I didn’t want to appear rash or uncooperative. I didn’t want others who held opposing views to think less of me. I didn’t trust my ability to express my anger without losing control. I was embroiled in an internal debate in which I argued both sides of an issue and found myself genuinely conflicted. Regardless of the reason, I didn’t give a public voice to my opposition to ideas and systems that were dangerous and wrong. Clearly, there are times when it’s your moral responsibility to speak up. When I look back on my life, I can see times when I did just this. But there are other cringe-worthy times when my outer voice failed to say This is so wrong. I want my children and grandchildren, my family and friends to know that I regret these times and vow to do better in my remaining years.
His mercies are new every morning. My inner voice has repeated these words so many times, coaching myself to embrace forgiveness, to look forward, not backwards upon my transgressions. But alas, there were too many times that I pushed God aside and stepped in as my own judge and jury. Too many times, I lived as though I were unforgiveable. My inner voice may have been quietly reminding me that His mercies are new every morning, but my life showed far too little evidence of this promise. I need to say it aloud more, sharing this grace with those I love. Above all, I need to live it as though my life depends upon it, for it does.
You make the world a better place. I could never count the number of people whose presence has made the world a better place for me. It goes without saying, though, that my children and grandchildren, my family and friends top this list. So many times as I’ve shared a cup of coffee, cleared the dinner dishes from the table, sat around a campfire, or talked on the phone, I’ve been overcome with a gratitude that defies simple description. My inner voice says Oh, how you make the world a better place! while my outer voice dutifully offers something relevant to the conversation. I should speak up. I should affirm how blessed I am to be a mother, daughter, sister, grandmother and friend. In this lifetime, is there any better refrain than You make the world a better place?
There are so many things you would never think to tell anyone. So many of these things are those that define us and give voice to life’s greatest blessings. I’m putting my inner voice on sabbatical, so my outer voice is going to have to step up. Big time.
