For better and for worse

Two years ago yesterday morning, I came to see Red in her hospice room and the nurse in charge stopped me to explain that my beloved had begun “transitioning.” I went in and watched as she ate a little bit of yogurt for breakfast, and then she fell asleep. Less than 24 hours later, she was gone.

I was reading to her from the book of Matthew with my right hand and stroking her hair with my left when I realized she had not taken a breath for a while. I have never felt so helpless.

I have always been good with remembering significant dates. And so June 27 is etched in my mind forever as the day death did part Cj and me. Is it really only two years?

A few months ago I made a connection with a beautiful widow named Mary, and though we behave like lovesick teenagers sometimes, we also have conversations about our lost loved ones, and it’s a comfort to have someone who’s been there and understands. We like to think Gene and Carol Jean have met wherever they are now, and that they smile together at how their spouses have connected.

Because I am compelled to write, that day two years ago I composed a blog post titled “She made the world more beautiful,” including words I will believe until I die:

“I had the privilege of spending nearly 26 years with the most beautiful woman I have ever known, and of course I’m wrecked. But I’m mostly grateful that she entered my life when she did and stayed as long as that. I feel like the most blessed of men to have been part of the life of such a special person.”

As I’ve written many times since, I believe the last thing I read to her was Jesus’ answer to the question of what is the greatest commandment in the Law, when he said, “ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

That has become my mission statement, along with keeping her memory alive. I will always treasure those years and thank God for them every day.

Summer is intoxicating

It’s time like this that I tap into my inner Bradbury, as in Ray. We need dinosaurs and magic and circus tents and running like the wind. No sad stories today, no tales of grief and loss.

The sun rises shortly after 5 a.m. right on time in early summer, and kids are fixing to run across fields chasing rabbits. The poor rabbits are scared because it’s their destiny to be chased; that’s why God made them so fleet. Kids just know they are soft and warm and gentle, so they run hoping to hold them and cuddle them.

If I had to choose among the thousands of stories I’ve read in my lifetime to date, I think Dandelion Wine is my favorite, because it’s about being a child and loving to be alive and right here and on the spot. It’s based on Bradbury’s memories of being 8 years old.

That’s too young to have known much pain and what the heck is grief anyway? No, when you’re 8 all you can see is the horizon and racing to get there and what miracles are waiting just beyond.

When you’re 8 the world is a magic place with only wizards and good witches and for the love of God Montresor nothing bad is going to happen, not now or ever again.

Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure — that’s what I’m chasing, that’s what I’m thinking about, that’s what all the world is all about.

Summertime is light and warm, and darkness may come but not for long. I may hear thunder in the distance, but even the rain is warm this time of year, and the sun will be back before I wake up in the morning.

I remember all the reasons I have to be glad and grateful, and I push away any melancholy and clings to these reasons with an almost fierce passion.

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Every so often I accidentally take a brilliant photo, if I say so myself. As I was walking Summer the other morning, we bumped into a young rabbit just a few yards away. I pulled out my phone and took the picture, which I put on Facebook with the caption, “No, Summer, we leave those alone.”

I love how it turned out — the leash stretched to the limit, Summer at high alert, the rabbit frozen in that “Oh no, if I don’t move maybe they won’t see me” position that rabbits get into. And the beautiful green of early summer framing it all.

It’s pretty simple, actually

“Love God, and love your neighbor. P.S. Even your enemy is a neighbor.”

Asked about it, Jesus said those are the two greatest laws. So, one might ask, how do you do that?

Hard as some people may be to love, it’s easy to figure out how to show love to a neighbor.

What about loving God? How do you show God that you love him? I’m thinking it requires a little more than coming to church every Sunday, or whatever day of the week your congregation might meet.

Actually, at the end of the gospel of John is a pretty good indication. The third time John writes about an appearance by the resurrected Christ, he helps Peter and his fishermen buddies with a miraculous catch, and then asks Peter, also known as Simon, the same question three times.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

“Yes Lord, you know that I love you,” Peter responds three times.

Jesus answers in three slightly different ways as if to say, “If you love me, then …”

“Feed my lambs.”

“Tend my sheep.”

“Feed my sheep.”

In other words, to show your love for God …

Love your neighbor.

Wait — “Love God” and “Love your neighbor” are the same thing?

Yeah, pretty much, I think so.