Details are the hinges of the universe

Oupa with my newphew,
Christmas day, 2007.

It took me just over 10 months to read The year of living biblically by A.J. Jacobs. A self-confessed agnostic, he spends a year following the bible as literally as possible with some suprising results. Being a usually voracious reader who devours books in single sittings, it is possibly the longest I have ever taken to read a book because this is the kind of book you want to allow your mind to marinate in slowly so you can reach some conclusions of your own.

I've been pondering a lot lately on the 'whys' of life. Perhaps feeling a bit overwhelmed by them is more accurate.
For instance, why is there so much suffering in this world? Why doesn't God intervene? What happened to miracles?

Standing in Woolworths on Wednesday, holding sleep-wear for my 78-year old grandfather who suffered a stroke on Monday night and was being admitted into hospital that afternoon, I was feeling a little more overwhelmed than usual. An older woman dressed stylishly caught my eye and, when our paths crossed at the end of the tills, I complimented her on her clothing and how lovely she looked.

She looked at me with shock on her face and said: "I would never have thought it after the day I've had. You see, I've just found out that my second husband, who has been in and out of work for a few years now, has two policies that will not pay out a cent when he passes away. My son also died and I don't have a pension. I don't know what I am going to do. It's bad to say, but I feel cross with God."
I told her that I thought God is big enought to handle it, then I prayed with her, mostly unsure of what to pray for other than some peace and her own version of a God-sent miracle.
She gave me a hug and said: "Thank you. I feel like our paths were meant to cross today."

It was then that I was struck by a mini-epiphany. 'Mini' because it doesn't really answer any of the 'whys' definitively, or generally make the tough parts of life easier to handle in any way.
Instead, what it offered was a realisation that though your needs may be great, at all times, there are other people in this world whose needs are probably greater, and in that you can give thanks. Not for their suffering, you understand, but rather for your blessings.

It is, I guess, the quintessential metaphor of looking at the glass half-full. Taking notice that for those five minutes, my belief in prayer was the answer to someone else's need. Giving thanks that I didn't ignore that tapping on my shoulder that all was not as it should be with my grandfather's medical treatment. Accepting the quiet, "Thank you and God bless you", from the mother with the baby standing begging at the robot, grateful for the groceries I bought them. Getting up everyday and smiling instead of moaning about the day's work ahead, because many would like to be in my position and aren't. Enjoying tender kisses from my dear husband. Cherishing a laugh with my parents who gave me a good upbringing and excellent education. Giggling at the adorably odd individuals my niece and nephew are becoming. Appreciating the accomplishment of a student thanking me when I've explained something they didn't understand.

In essence, God is in the details, if you choose to see Him there. And most days, those details are what keeps you pushing on.

Growing old disgracefully

Laa-Laa rocking the faux fur
jacket and curly hair, July 2006.

I was sitting around the kitchen table at work the other day, listening to my fellow teachers waxing lyrical about family stories. Particularly those stories that related to their parents and the process of aging. The History teacher said something which caught my attention (which can sometimes be difficult for History teachers the world over, if you catch my drift). She said: "Why isn't it possible for all people to get old with dignity?"

I recall reading Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom a few years back, detailing sociologist Morrie Schwartz's slow and painful delivery into death's hands as a victim of Lou Gehrig's disease. What caught me the most were the parts in which he talked frankly about the humility this disease impressed upon him in the guise of, for instance, having others wipe your derriere because you could no longer do it yourself.

Little did I know that this process would be played out all too soon with my maternal grandmother, nicknamed Laa-Laa, who succumbed to the vicious ravages of cancer with as much spirit as she could muster. I was horrified by the barbarity of the treatments she was encouraged by the medical fraternity to endure, hoping to eke out just a little more time here on earth. However, her frail body and brittle porcelain skin belied the courage which lay within.

She was a fighter. She threw the notion of growing old gracefully to the wind. Before she lost her beautiful, thick hair to chemotherapy; we marvelled at the fact that she no longer even knew what her true hair colour was. Every Saturday was about a visit to the hairdresser for perming and colouring. A ring adorned every finger. Years of wearing only fashionable shoes had left her with bunions the size of small planets, and even then she was remiss in letting go of them to err on the side of practicality and comfort. Yes, she was a spitfire, my Laa-Laa. The type of old gal a song like Mustang Sally should have been written for.

She attended her own funeral before beginning her descent into the stuff medical nightmare's are made of. Indeed, her very own living funeral (an idea borrowed from Albom's book). For one perfect day tinged with a side-order of sadness, songs were sung; past hurts were made right; favourite foods were eaten with true abandon; hugs were freely handed out and lashings of laughter mixed with tears were shared.

She held on almost a year after that day spent celebrating a life rather uniquely lived, passing peacefully in my parents' home in 2007, surrounded by her husband, her children and children-in-law. Everyday, she is missed.

Here's the thing...my maternal great-grandmother, Gaga, lived into her nineties quite sanely (despite her nickname). Now, how the hell did my gran lose almost two decades in the race against time with genes like that on her side? I'll tell you this much, prune juice started looking a lot more appealing as my drink of choice once having done that little sum.

I'm not sure about growing old too disgracefully, especially since I'm not one for the noxious fumes associated with hair dyes. No, I think I'll rather content myself with trying to grow disgracefully old (my husband reckons 120 ought to do just fine, although I still think we're both holding out for some Twilightesque immortality... :-)