Sympathy Cards

Who writes these things? Have you ever thought about how dreadful and inappropriate most sympathy card sentiments are? I ran into the grocery store this evening for five items and came out with fifteen instead. As usual. But one of the things I realized I needed was a sympathy card. We have a new and amazing grocery store in town with a huge card section, so it's not actually lame of me to look for one there.

Anyway.

It's always hard to find any kind of card with just the right sentiment, but a sympathy card is a particular challenge. Tonight I decided to reject all the God cards. They all seemed insensitive. Ironic, right? One of the cards I picked up said something like "Praying for you as God heals your heart." What? Their loved one has just died. Can't they grieve? Can't we acknowledge the black hole of their pain and loss rather than rushing them toward "healing"?

On Monday evening, my friend called me. Her seventeen-year-old stepson had had an aneurysm that morning. He was not expected to make it. This boy was a gifted athlete who had just graduated from high school. He had a full scholarship to play baseball at a college in Pennsylvania. He was in apparent perfect health. He died yesterday. Are there words for these circumstances? None could be found in the sympathy card section, but W.H. Auden struck just the right note in his poem "Funeral Blues."

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Superpowers

I can honestly tell you that when I was a kid I never once considered what superpowers I might or might not want to have. I never gave them a second thought. Or a first.

But the boys, at least the younger two, still talk about "powers," and which ones they'd like to have.

A few months ago, I told Son2 that if I could have any superpower, it would be the power to suck the migraines right out of his head. Hands down. This is the superpower I'm looking for.

I'd like to use it tonight, for the migraine that reared up 45 minutes ago. I would have liked to have it Saturday at 4 a.m. when he woke me to tell me he had a terrible migraine. Please. Oh please. This is the superpower I want. We have two weeks of Oliver craziness ahead of us. Late rehearsals all week. And then the performances. Then a few days off before rehearsals and more performances. It seems like a time that this superpower could come in handy. I'm just praying that God will choose to use his superpowers to keep the migraines from even being a factor in all of this.

This leaves me wondering what superpowers you would like to have. It doesn't have to be as serious as mine. In fact, I hope it's not. It could be silly. It could be completely self-serving. Whatever it is, I'm curious. If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

I Move Things

Years ago I was talking to one of my friends -- also the mother of three boys. She told me that she'd come up with an accurate description for her responsibilities as a mother. She said, "I move things. That's all I do." It feels like all I do too. I move...

Dirty dishes into the dishwasher and out again when they're clean.
Dirty clothes into the washer. Later I move the wet clothes into the dryer and then the dry clothes out to be folded.
Food from refrigerator to countertop to oven to plate to table.
Soap and toothpaste to another surface before I scrub the sink.
Boys to school, to practice, to games, to rehearsals, to friends' houses, to church events -- and back home, of course.
Trash to the trashcan.
Clothes to the foot of the stairs for boys to move upstairs to their rooms or to the laundry room.
Mail and papers to their appropriate homes...though not always immediately.
Dust and pet hair with the help of a broom, a vacuum, and a rag.

My work as an editor can be described in the same way. I move words, commas, and periods for a living.

I find comfort in the rhythm of moving things and putting them away. The repetition of mindless tasks and the temporary achievement of everything in its place soothes me. The predictability of routine is, I suspect, my attempt to placate that little girl inside who was always having the rug pulled out from under her. The unpredictability of those episodes left their mark, and this is one way that it shows.

There are two kinds of people in the world, I think. Those who like routine and repetition and those who prefer variety and spontaneity. I am the former, my husband is the latter. Poor him.

Well, time to go move some kids to the places they need to be.