Sunrises

When I stepped out the front door this morning, the first thing I noticed was the beautiful sunrise peeking over the tops of the houses across the street. The horizon was blend of pink and orange, bold against the neighboring blue sky. I took a moment to appreciate it, I pointed it out to my wife, and then I continued to my car.

Most of my commute is such that this wonderful scene was over my right shoulder, out of sight. My focus turn to traffic and work and all the mundane elements that make up my commute. The last leg of my drive finally turns back as I wind my way to the parking lot. As I turned, I remembered the sunrise but I knew it was too late. Gone were the pinks and oranges, replaced by brilliant blue, beautiful in its own right. I was glad that I'd taken the time earlier to appreciate the sunrise for what it was.

This morning's sunrise reminds me of my sons and the various stages of childhood. We've watched baby and toddler phases come and go, each much more fleeting than I could have imagined. Sometimes, when you're in the midst of it, you don't notice it slipping away. But then you look away for a moment and it disappears, replaced by something else, also wonderful. To be sure, we've also run into some pretty gray and dreary days but I know there's another sunrise coming soon enough. I just need to remind myself to take the time to appreciate it when it arrives.

Working with young people

I work with a number of younger colleagues. Our interns, in particular, are easily a generation younger than me. You might think this would make me feel old, but around the office, it really doesn't. After all, we are all doing essentially the same type of work. Our office is pretty casual so we're all dressed in jeans. If anything, working with this group makes me feel younger, as if they are my peers. This is true as long as we keep our focus narrowly confined to the job at hand. Sure I may have a bit more experience to draw on, but the challenges of our current development are new for all of us. In this respect, we are peers.

It doesn't take much of a widening of focus for me to be reminded that I am essentially working with children. A passing reference to a bygone operating system by me or, worse yet, a cultural reference by them. One morning, I eavesdropped from my cube as a small group discussed favorite bands. I did not hear a single name I recognized. Another day, they were discussing exercising - one of them had decided to take up running and had gone out for a three mile run the night before. Now, I've been diligently running that distance two or three times a week for almost a year. I strained to hear what sort of pace he managed on his maiden voyage. It was disheartening to learn that, if he and I were running together, he could give me a one mile head start and we'd basically finish three miles at the same time.

My coworkers are friendly and we joke around a bit but I know they don't see me as a peer. I feel it in the words of support when they see me heading off to the gym for a lunch time run. I sense it in their understanding looks when I have to run back to my cube for my reading glasses before I can check the report they've handed me in the hallway. I know how they see me. I remember my first job out of school. I remember the forty-somethings and fifty-somethings that I worked with. I remember how they were fun and smart and we worked well together. I also remember how old I thought they were. They had families and reading glasses and spare tires and all sorts of other symbols of middle age. I still recall being concerned when one guy told me he was planning on taking up running. I was worried the venture would be too much for his heart. He told me this at his fortieth birthday party. I think about it now and I realize he wasn't as old as I thought he was. Today, I'm sure my colleagues view me the same way.

Going to funerals

This past summer and fall, I've found myself at more funerals or visitations than I'd prefer. In truth, I'd prefer to not have any of these to go to. Sometimes it seems like these sorts of things go in cycles - I feel like I'd been death-free for a year or two before this.


For all the death I've experienced in my life, I am woefully inept when dealing with someone who has just lost a loved one. I never know what to say. Maybe my own experience has taught me that almost anything I utter will sound hollow to someone in the early stages of grief. Gratefully, experience has also taught me that, for the most part, what I say isn't all that important. The grieving person has bigger things on their mind than analyzing my words. After the fog of grief has lifted a little and they look back, they'll probably not remember what I said, just that I was there.


That's not to say that I don't remember anything that was said to me in those situations. I remember a few things. I wish I remembered more things that were helpful - that would give me some material to use. Instead, I tend to recall the lines that I heard multiple times - repetition has fixed them in my memory. You would think that if numerous people are saying something, it must have some merit. Yeah, not so much. I kind of think there are lot of people who, like me, are struggling to find the right words and in the end opt for a line they've heard going around the room.


When we lost our son, we heard a lot of comments about God having a new little angel. We received poems about angels and even some little angel figurines. At that moment in my life, I wasn't real happy with God and I frankly didn't get any comfort from the statement. I also heard about God's great tapestry and how some threads are shorter than others. I'm sure someone spent a lot of effort coming up with this metaphor and I'll admit it's kind of cool in a cerebral, logical way but it avoids addressing why my son had to be one of the short threads. It just doesn't help. But then, there aren't really any words that anyone can say that will make everything better so perhaps all attempts are equal as long as they don't offend or cause more pain. In my case, there were some people who tapped into what I needed to hear. Their statements were less along the "he's in a better place" line and more in the "this sucks, it's so unfair" vein. The former comes off as trying to tell you why you should feel okay while the latter assures you that it's okay to feel the way you do. In the early stages of grief I needed to feel the way I felt and I appreciated those who understood that. 


I'm hoping my death cycle has passed and I am funeral-free for awhile.