Don’t Beat Yourself Up

It’s too easy to feel guilty, to feel defeated, to question how much you invested in time and attention.  When people so close to you are gone, you mindlessly calculate all the time you will live without them in your presence as opposed to the time you spent in life under the same roof engaging with them.  You think about the evenings you were on your phone or watching TV, doing school work or class work, doing absolutely nothing…worrying about things that don’t matter, just being tired and dozing on the couch, replaying a troubling interaction at work over and over in your mind, having a glass of wine and knowing just that one would help you fall asleep, sitting beside the person who is now gone but not talking to him/her as if it was the last day you’d spend together.  Not telling them again and again how much you love them, not planning that last big trip or surprise of a lifetime.  Just sitting in the same room.  Just being together.  Nothing special.  Sharing space in a familiar place…together.

Was it wasted?  On a daily basis, did you not make the most of time…together?

We now have these conversations in our home with our family.  I hear these words spoken.  I hear sadness in the voices of those I love. In these moments, we share our guilt.  We didn’t sit on the couch with her enough.  We didn’t read to her enough.  We didn’t color with her enough.  We did ALL of these things. But…what’s the measure of enough?

“Enough” is searching within for the memories of the moments that mattered that you will remember forever.  At each recollection of a special occasion, a season, a significant event, a particular age during childhood, an evening on the couch, something unexpected, even an illness that spread through the family and how you cared for one another…a memory in life that marked a shared experience.  Anything mentioned with an introduction like, “Remember the day when…?” or “I can’t believe that…” that prompts a shared point of recognition, a mention of people inside and outside the family who were involved in the encounter…neighbors, childhood friends, pets, anything in and out of the ordinary.

Someone mentions it, we remember, it gains significance in the sharing…reminding us there are many unimportant and seemingly insignificant interactions that occurred that now matter more than ever. 

That’s what makes us family.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” I say. You were there.  You drove in the middle of the night to the hospital when we were afraid she would leave us.  You flew across the country.  You held her hand.  You helped her walk and regain strength.   You carried her up the stairs.  You cheered her on in small things knowing she would not be with us much longer.  You found a smile and encouraging word when you were dying inside…

The everydayness of home cannot be replaced by any Disney trip that never happened or any extended goodbye.  It’s the colored pictures to “Amanda” or “Dad” she taped to the wall behind the couch or that are still hanging on the side of the refrigerator that matter.  It’s her picture that we blow a kiss to on the way out of the house on a workday.

It’s how we continue to operate in the Now… It’s the colorful family group text messages during each Hokie football game from different sides of the country. 

It’s the texted picture of grandson, Wyatt, dressed in a hospital gown early in the morning as he goes in for an MRI holding his “lovey” sent to everyone in our family asking for prayer for good news (Wyatt’s OK, by the way), and words of love circulated in “tings” as we all respond immediately. (Such a brave boy! Love you dearly! Praying!)

It’s that we are there for each other from wherever we are at a moment’s notice.  When it counts.  When it’s requested.  When it matters.  Never doubted.  Never did.

Guilt has no place here.  Not in family.