This is an unanticipated post.
Three-and-a-half years ago, I lost my son, Pat. Those of you who are reading Sooner Than Tomorrow - A Mother's Diary, are coming to know Pat in what turned out to be the last year of his life. I'm so grateful to whatever grace it was that allowed me to capture his last year, much of it in his own words.
This evening, the wounds, inflicted three-and-a-half years ago, are open again. My 43-year-old nephew is in the hospital as I write. His doctors give him 24-72 hours to live.
I ask to talk with Michael on the phone. Speaking is difficult for him and he's in a good deal of pain. What do you say to someone who has 72 hours to live?
"I love you, Michael. I will never, ever forget you. I'm so sorry. I love you."
With his humor intact he replies, "Well, the good news is, I won't ever have to eat another one of your omelets."
My omelets? I don't make omelets because I know I don't know how to make omelets. I don't remember but I must have made the only omelet I ever made for Michael. Poor Michael.
Michael's dad, my brother, can hardly speak to me on the phone. He's crying. Michael's mom is crying. Karen, Michael's wife, is crying.
My daughter, Marisa, sends a text. She says, "This was read to me today at the end of my yoga class and I thought it especially timely. "
You've got it all wrong.
You didn't come here to master unconditional love.
This is where you came from and where you'll return.
You came here to learn personal love.
Infused with divinity.
Lived through the grace of stumbling.
Demonstrated through the beauty of... messing up.
You didn't come here to be perfect, you already are.
You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous.
And rising again into remembering.
But unconditional love? Stop telling that story.
Love in truth doesn't need any adjectives.
It doesn't require modifiers.
It doesn't require the condition of perfection.
It only asks you to show up.
And do your best.
That you stay present and feel fully.
That you shine and fly and laugh and cry and hurt and heal and fall
and get back up and play and work and live and die as YOU.
Courtney A. Walsh
One more time, Michael. "I love you. Goodnight. Sleep well."