Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future 

The Chasm in Between

Alex and I have a strong desire to help others, especially those who cannot (or maybe will not) help themselves. Whatever the genesis, I can tell you what it is not. It is not a cry for attention, or an urge to look good. It is NOT virtue signaling, or pity, or feeling better than someone else. And we are not trying to singlehandedly save the universe, nor are we naive enough to believe that everyone we try to help will respond positively. The path to helping other human beings is fraught with all kinds of  danger, a veritable minefield of the worst characteristics of human nature: greed, selfishness, pride, envy, shame, and guilt, to name just a few. So missteps are not uncommon and more often than not the proffered help is not even appreciated, let alone accepted.

Through the years we have helped (or attempted to, anyway) our children, our coworkers, our friends, and our parents, our neighbors, and complete strangers. Over the past five or six years, the desire to help seemed to grow more urgent. We are  retired, our children are grown, and we have everything we need; naturally as Christians we want to share what we have and what we have learned with others. Retirement is not the death knell for life as we know it, and we offer our help aligned with God's law. When someone comes into our lives or our path and we "feel" God has placed that person there for a reason, we reflect on that and pray and discuss it with each other before making a big commitment; we have found if we just rashly jump into it without prayerful reflection and talking to each other, the end result has been less than ideal.  

But how do you help someone who doesn’t want the help? How do you help someone who doesn’t know he needs help? Or, how do you help someone who wants the help, knows he needs it, but doesn’t know how to ask or receive it or find it? That seems to be the sticking point for me, anyway, right now...maybe Alex is doing okay, but my heart hurts. And I am confused! Why does God put these people in our lives, ask us to help them, only to allow them to reject our help? Let's face it, it gets very disheartening when your help is not wanted or when your motives are misconstrued. (And I am not just referring to the fiasco with my mom 5 years ago, either.) We may have loads of life experience and education, and yes we have God on our side, but trying to figure out what to say and when to say it and when to shut up and when to press on and when to let go is a Herculean task! The tendency (actually if I am honest with myself, the very strong urge) to push my help, to control the situation, to steer the end result toward my desired conclusion, where everyone lives happily ever after and there is no more pain and suffering, that tendency is overwhelming. 

I really feel as if there is a huge, bottomless chasm between me and the person(s) I am trying to help, and I don't know how to reach them, to make them see how much they matter to me and to God, and to open their eyes to the ugliness of their sin without making them feel any worse. To reach out and take the wonderful bridge that is God's grace. I just do not have the words, and I am at a loss to help them. I guess I will have to let the Holy Spirit take this one.