Christianity teaches us that grace is unmerited favor from God. Other religions view grace in slightly different ways. But I'm not interested in preaching or proselytizing.
One of my most favorite books is "The Unmistakable Touch of Grace" by Cheryl Richardson. I haven't read it in a while, but one of the key points I took from the book is that grace is abundant in our lives if only we are open to seeing it. In the darkest, most difficult moments in my life, I make a conscience effort to look for grace in my daily life. Witnessing grace makes me smile, it warms me, it gives me hope. You see, grace is simply unmerited love...regardless from whence it comes.
Grace to me is not a Christian tenet. It's a philosophy. Grace is indeed God speaking to us, teaching us a lesson...though not verbally. Grace avails itself to everyone, whatever their belief system. Does the atheist see the news footage of the dog in New York traffic standing fearlessly beside his canine friend who's been struck by a car and not feel anything? If he does, that's grace. If he doesn't, he's just emotionally stunted.
As I left a client's house today, exiting through the garage, I thought to myself, "Now, that's grace." Carolyn and I worked together two years ago planning and producing her twin boys' bar mitzvahs and became fast friends in the process. I've seen her only occasionally since then, so we had some catching up to do. She is a widow, having lost her husband to cancer when the boys were young. After Jerry's death, she took over his business and it prospered. In August 2008 she sold the business. We all know what happened two months later--the bottom fell out of the market and businesses began to suffer. Her decision to sell the business is grace. Some may be inclined to call it luck, credit it to savvy CPA's, attribute it to coincidence. I call it grace. She then began working as a medical sales rep and has created, through grace, a successful career.
Now, the logical question is...how did I find grace in hearing her story? You see, my business has suffered because of the recession. I filed bankruptcy in August and am in the process of closing the business. It has been a punch to the gut for me...my pride has been wounded...my friendships and my faith have been tested. Carolyn called me yesterday (out of the blue--my translation: grace) and said she needed some help decorating her house for Christmas. Yeah, you caught that earlier reference to her sons' bar mitzvahs, right? Grace.
Hearing Carolyn's journey gave me hope that, through trials, through dark, dark days and nights, I will be fine.
Throughout my ordeal, I have actively sought grace and I have found it in the strangest of places. I found it on Twitter. I could tune out my problems and just be my usual silly self without having to talk about the difficulties I am having to deal with. One of the first people I met on Twitter was Jeff. I don't remember who began following whom. He and his partner and his Lily are a part of my family and I cherish them. (Strange concept for the non-Tweeters, I know, but like I said earlier, grace manifests itself in strange ways.)
Mary is another of my Twitter friends. Mary was in town last summer for a class reunion and we scheduled a Tweet-up. (Again, for you non-Tweeters, that's an in-real-life meeting.) I pulled up to the hotel to pick her up for dinner and was met by a retinue of her former classmates who demanded to know where we were going, when we would be back. Mary made me laugh and continues to be a special part of my life.
There are more Twitter friends...Pam, Ted, Carole, Tony, Stephanie, Chassidy, Susan, Nadia, Laura and more...all of whom are special to me for very specific reasons. I would give anything to be at a cocktail party with all of them.
In-real-life friends are the ones who keep me grounded. Kathie makes me homemade pretzels, shares my love of animals and snarkiness, and inspires me with her faith. Dalton, who invites me over for gin and tonics though she can't imbibe because of the chemo and radiation she's having to endure after her double mastectomy, is worried about me. Grace is Dalton's worrying about ME. Christi is my oldest friend (sadly, her reading this post will be her first knowledge of my business failure) who knows me best. Just knowing her is grace. Sherrye knows all my warts and I hers. Sara Emma and Cathy I love for their gentleness, snarkiness, and unwavering solidarity. My parents are my heroes--their faith, their lives, their support, their unconditional love are grace.
And I'm not so self-absorbed to see grace as a gift TO me. I am aware that I have been the purveyor of grace in other people's lives...and sometimes I don't give myself enough credit. But grace is selfless. It's given without the prospect of acknowledgment. Grace is indeed salvation. It's love. Whatever the source.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
World AIDS Day
It's been 13 years and a day shy of eight months since he died. He would be 69 years old now... But he is still so much a part of my life. The night we met he told me he was HIV+. I didn't care. He was without a doubt the most fascinating person I had ever met. And continues to be. I remember those early months together. The old cold house in Mississippi with the crumbling plaster, the collection of family antiques, the memories. The Eames chair in the living room where we first kissed I still have. The Victorian half-tester bed where we first spent a night together. I still have it too. I remember opening the refrigerator that first night and seeing only Haagen-Dazs, Beefeater (he taught me to love gin) and Vodka. There were stacks of books everywhere. And newspapers. And china. And silver. And art. To say he was a hoarder is an understatement. Ours was a story that could be written only in the South. Country boy comes out. Meets suave New York architect who has returned to his native Mississippi to retire. He 53, I 29. It was the only time I have ever been head-over-heels in love.
He was a curmudgeon. In fact, we named our first Basset Hound "Lord Alfred Bruce Barksdale" in honour of Oscar Wilde...Barksdale? Old family name.
I was a teacher in a middle school smack dab in the middle of a crack neighborhood. He seemed to delight in pushing my racial buttons. At Christmas Eve mass one year, we sat in the family pew and, upon seeing a Black family four rows up, he remarked, loudly, "This place is just crawlin' with Nigras!" I grabbed him by the collar and told him, not too delicately, "If you say one more word, I will pick you up and carry you out of here. Before baby Jesus has even made an appearance!" He piped down.
We had met in December 1993. In May, at a dental appointment, his dentist noticed something unusual in the back of his throat. It turned out to be non-Hodgkins' lymphoma...the first AIDS-related diagnosis. We spent the summer in chemotherapy and radiation. And he packed in ice when sepsis set in. In August, the day after he was released from the hospital pronounced cured, we flew to Boston. He recuperated in the Ritz-Carlton and I drove along the Maine coast alone. Lunch in Newport with friends, a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum, shopping on Newbury. We had survived round one.
The next year remains a blur. I taught school. He waited for me to come home from school. We dined. We drank. We took trips to New Orleans. We went to art openings. We read. We talked. We dreamed. We loved.
In October 1995 we went to visit his friends in Savannah. On the trip home, I decided that the time had come for me to quit my job to stay with him and care for him. He was waning.
The fungal infections, the sleeplessness, the night sweats, the dementia, the neuropathy, the depression, the fear were all compounding daily. His legs were covered with thick scaly masses of fungus. Itching was unbearable. He would soak in a warm Aveeno bath and I would take a comb and slowly, deliberately peel away the skin and then apply ointments to ease the discomfort. Strangely, one of my fondest memories of him is when he was soaking in the bath. I was in the kitchen making boiled custard (had to keep that weight up) when he started singing at the top of his lungs: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog! And a good friend of mine!" I thought he had finally gone over the edge, but he was just making the most of the moment. Three Dog Night still reminds me of him. Gradually, he faded. After Christmas 1995 he wanted to go to a hospice facility. I fought him on this, but he wanted things to be easy for me. My only requirement was that when he was ready to come home to die, he had to tell me. He told me on my 32nd birthday.
I scrambled to have home health bring a hospital bed to the house and to line up nursing staff. I was ready for him. I carried him from the car to the bedroom, undressed him and put him in bed. I was on the front terrace visiting with several neighbors and their children, when, all of a sudden, Charles appeared, fully clothed. He was completely lucid and regaled the kids with stories of what the neighborhood was like when he was a little boy. An hour later, he turned to me and said, "I'm tired."
Every morning, I would walk in his room and he would open his eyes and say, "Mawnin', JonBeahhhr." And that would be all I would get. One time, though, he was talking about having talked to his (deceased) mother that morning. I knew that was a sign of the end, so I said, "What about your Daddy? Have you seen Big Charlie today?" With bright blue eyes and a rather astonished look on his face, he replied, "He's dead, ya know." We had some time left.
I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Charles would die on April Fools' Day. That was just the way he was. He died on April 2nd. Point made.
I guess I will go to my grave missing him, but today, on World AIDS Day, I honour him. For his love, for his bravery, for his memory. I love you, CharlieDog.
He was a curmudgeon. In fact, we named our first Basset Hound "Lord Alfred Bruce Barksdale" in honour of Oscar Wilde...Barksdale? Old family name.
I was a teacher in a middle school smack dab in the middle of a crack neighborhood. He seemed to delight in pushing my racial buttons. At Christmas Eve mass one year, we sat in the family pew and, upon seeing a Black family four rows up, he remarked, loudly, "This place is just crawlin' with Nigras!" I grabbed him by the collar and told him, not too delicately, "If you say one more word, I will pick you up and carry you out of here. Before baby Jesus has even made an appearance!" He piped down.
We had met in December 1993. In May, at a dental appointment, his dentist noticed something unusual in the back of his throat. It turned out to be non-Hodgkins' lymphoma...the first AIDS-related diagnosis. We spent the summer in chemotherapy and radiation. And he packed in ice when sepsis set in. In August, the day after he was released from the hospital pronounced cured, we flew to Boston. He recuperated in the Ritz-Carlton and I drove along the Maine coast alone. Lunch in Newport with friends, a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum, shopping on Newbury. We had survived round one.
The next year remains a blur. I taught school. He waited for me to come home from school. We dined. We drank. We took trips to New Orleans. We went to art openings. We read. We talked. We dreamed. We loved.
In October 1995 we went to visit his friends in Savannah. On the trip home, I decided that the time had come for me to quit my job to stay with him and care for him. He was waning.
The fungal infections, the sleeplessness, the night sweats, the dementia, the neuropathy, the depression, the fear were all compounding daily. His legs were covered with thick scaly masses of fungus. Itching was unbearable. He would soak in a warm Aveeno bath and I would take a comb and slowly, deliberately peel away the skin and then apply ointments to ease the discomfort. Strangely, one of my fondest memories of him is when he was soaking in the bath. I was in the kitchen making boiled custard (had to keep that weight up) when he started singing at the top of his lungs: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog! And a good friend of mine!" I thought he had finally gone over the edge, but he was just making the most of the moment. Three Dog Night still reminds me of him. Gradually, he faded. After Christmas 1995 he wanted to go to a hospice facility. I fought him on this, but he wanted things to be easy for me. My only requirement was that when he was ready to come home to die, he had to tell me. He told me on my 32nd birthday.
I scrambled to have home health bring a hospital bed to the house and to line up nursing staff. I was ready for him. I carried him from the car to the bedroom, undressed him and put him in bed. I was on the front terrace visiting with several neighbors and their children, when, all of a sudden, Charles appeared, fully clothed. He was completely lucid and regaled the kids with stories of what the neighborhood was like when he was a little boy. An hour later, he turned to me and said, "I'm tired."
Every morning, I would walk in his room and he would open his eyes and say, "Mawnin', JonBeahhhr." And that would be all I would get. One time, though, he was talking about having talked to his (deceased) mother that morning. I knew that was a sign of the end, so I said, "What about your Daddy? Have you seen Big Charlie today?" With bright blue eyes and a rather astonished look on his face, he replied, "He's dead, ya know." We had some time left.
I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Charles would die on April Fools' Day. That was just the way he was. He died on April 2nd. Point made.
I guess I will go to my grave missing him, but today, on World AIDS Day, I honour him. For his love, for his bravery, for his memory. I love you, CharlieDog.
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