Two Days Before Thanksgiving

It’s two days before Thanksgiving, that time of year where we’re reminded to count the many blessings that we’ve received throughout the year, even our lifetime. I’m feeling a bit like an emotional wreck, yet I persevere.

It has felt like a tough few days of taking care of my parents and packing to move out of my home of 20 years. And today, I attended the funeral service of my sister-in-law’s brother. He wasn’t much older than me, which I hadn’t realized, although I’ve known him since I was about 9 or 10 years old. I always liked him a lot. He was genuinely kind and generous, and rather funny. He seemed to enjoy taking care of people. I learned today he was a Virgo, so that makes sense.

My sister-in-law and he were deeply devoted to each other. In fact, she spent the last few weeks of his life driving about 30 miles back and forth to his home to help care for him and was at his side when he died.

Sitting in the very large and elaborately decorated sanctuary of the Catholic church where his services were held this morning, I was reminded of how quickly our reality can change, sometimes in ways we don’t want. It was just a few months ago, my sister-in-law was sharing with me her brother’s excitement about meeting Pope Francis this year when he visited the city and the church where he worked. With only 38 days remaining in this year, I spent my morning sitting in the same church with her brother's family, co-workers, and friends celebrating his life and saying our final “good-byes.”

I was not only struck by the beauty and elegance of the church with its high cathedral ceilings and stained glass, statues and pictures of Jesus and the saints everywhere—as a graduate of Catholic high school and having a great appreciation for Renaissance art, I’m always impressed by the architecture and décor of Catholic churches—I was also struck by the majesty and beauty of the funeral mass, and the warm, loving, and encouraging words spoken by the priest who knew him well. He spoke of his great love for his family and friends and of his commitment to serving the parishioners of his church, always with a smile. He told of how her brother always went out of his way to encourage and help someone because he believed in uplifting people.

As I looked at my sister-in-law, I could see and feel the sorrow in her heart. I wanted to do something for her, but what is there really to do or say at such a moment? Today, she was burying her brother whom she loved deeply and had cared for and he had cared for her. They expected to grow old together, to share many more laughs at cookouts and family dinners, and have more time to talk trash to each other while playing cards. What could one possibly say or do other than be present? There really are no words that provide comfort. No words that stop the "why's," "what if's," and "if only's" from flooding your mind. Having twice experienced a similar loss—the deaths of both my youngest and oldest brother—I could say that I understand her grief, but it isn't true, not really. Feelings of grief and sorrow are very personal. Yet remembering what I felt when my brothers died, my heart felt broken for my sister-in-law going through it now.

My heart felt broken also for his wife who was willing to do whatever it took, pay any amount of money, to spend another Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and all the days in between and thereafter with the man she loved. I can relate to this, yet cannot claim to understand her grief either. I do know that feeling of being willing to do whatever it takes, pay whatever it costs to be with the one you love. Love can be that powerful you want it to last forever, or as long as you can make it last, and are willing to sacrifice all for it, if necessary.

Seated with my sister and grand-niece, my mind wandered to the last time I was in a church with my sister-in-law for a funeral service. Eleven years ago, we sat in a different church to say “good-bye” to her son, my nephew. My grand-niece now seated next to me was seated next to her then to say “good-bye” to a father she had barely had the opportunity to know. More heartbreak that no words could ease. Only time, perhaps, and the joy of caring for the now nearly adult daughter he gifted her with.

It's two days before Thanksgiving, and I know there’s much for me to be grateful for. I know this. In spite of how I'm feeling right now and all the challenges I’ve faced this year—the setbacks and disappointments—I am alive and, at least until the end of the month, have a roof over my head and a comfortable, warm bed to sleep in. I have a family who loves me and helpful neighbors. I’m able to hear and see and walk without assistance. I have money in the bank, clothes, food, and my funky purple laptop to post my thoughts to this blog. Tomorrow I’m going to spend part of my day packing and part of my day with my grand-niece and grand-nephew, both of whom are home from their respective colleges. I am grateful to be able to do that.

I am also grateful for the courage, humor, and hope that my sister-in-law’s brother showed me is possible, during even the most dire and frightening of circumstances. No one may ever know or understand why he succumbed to the disease that he’d been fighting so hard for several months to overcome, but fight he did for his life, for his sake and the sake of those he loved. I believe he had much he was grateful for and wanted to live for—his family, his friends, his work/calling—and more dreams yet to fulfill, more lives to impact. He fought as best he could for another day, and another, and another to be with those he loved and see more of his dreams realized. We who still live should do likewise.

"Don't count the days; make the days count." - Muhammad Ali