48 years 68 days

On Christmas Day I outlived my father by one day. He died at 48 years plus 68 days. On Christmas Day I was 48 yrs and 69 days. Don’t do the math…its likely wrong.

Its an odd thing to be on this side of life. 

Things I know now :

48 is young as hell. I knew that then because people told me. Now however, yes. Its young. For most of my friends, children are still elementary school or growing up. Careers are settling in. Life is a blur perhaps. 

He likely didn’t know anything anymore than I do. We all fake it sometimes. I can’t imagine he was any different, even if I did and still do think he knew all. I kinda like to think that now as I sit and wonder at my own still waiting on it wisdom. Makes me laugh really.

I'm told i live with ghosts. I prefer to think of it as a cloud of witnesses. Or better yet I'm an overachiever in the parental death category. (That can be funny. Its ok)  Knowing what I know now about childhood trauma and circumstances that change in families with the death of a parent, I have done pretty well. Yes I worry. More about being left than my own health issues. I'm working on that "left behind" part. Its a lifelong issue complicated by lots of things so…. I’ve got more to go. 

By all I know, Dad was a good guy. Likely with a long fuse, which once it blew, it was gone. I relate to that. I remember having an argument but couldn’t tell you what it was about 10 minutes later. A blessing and curse perhaps.

He played jokes.

He enjoyed his family.

He enjoyed his little girl…even as she called him a “male chauvinist pig” once. (I really did! and meant it and knew what it meant). I think I heard it on Maude. He walked out to the dogwood tree at the back of the yard to apologize to me for whatever he said. The dogwood tree was the “thinking tree” for me. It was my safety so he was most assuredly coming to my place for forgiveness. So there is some humility there. Even in the face of an angry 8 yr old. My mother told that story over and over and how hard he laughed at the “chauvinist” comment. 

Until she told him I was right. 

So today, I wonder what he would have been at 86. But not for long. He remains a 48 yr old bespectacled bearded Dad (who had a goatee long before it was hipster). Who laughed and loved and kissed me goodnight. Whose last words were "Khette, its going to be ok."

Perhaps the adventure continues in a different way. He’s here somewhere.  

Doing Some Jesus Stuff

Last night, I was in Memphis on a “girls weekend” with friends. Friends who work with me and friends who have seen all of us through a world of hurt and wonder. 

We had spent a day with Elvis at Graceland…hilarious in a variety of ways that left us sore from laughter. We had dinner at a spot on Beale and were headed to the Peabody Hotel when the protesters were spotted. 

I shouldn’t say spotted because really they were already there and we were headed toward them. They were on the corner of 4th and Peabody Place. A handful with placards reading #Icantbreathe and #blacklivesmatter. I had to stop at their corner because the light was red. We couldn’t cross yet. 

I felt a little awkward standing there with people behind me, mostly folks of color, with placards pleading for justice and for their lives. My back l was turned to them, literally. 

I am weary from the recent events of Ferguson and New York. Shocked and weary and deeply disappointed.  I really have no idea where or how to help….if there is any. “I look to the hills and from whence does my help come?”…..yeah….its supposed to come but feels like its taunting. I post things to Facebook but  what does that really do other than seem to make my less left leaning friends mad. (which is ok actually but still)

So really, I wanted a 24 hr period of peace, fleeting though it is. 

Did I mention,  my back was turned. 

I didn’t really like that. I didn’t like that I was literally not seeing what was behind me.   I’m the person who sits with her back to a wall so I can see up front and see what’s coming and yes…to people watch. I'm nosey like that. So this was uncomfortable. 

Oh, and I’m a white woman…with my back turned. 

I turned around and looked at who was behind me. 

A bearded white dude put a flyer in my hand. It was for a vigil to be held next weekend. I told him we were from Nashville and thank you for doing this, I said. I noticed a news crew interviewing an African American woman. She had on a pink t shirt and there had been a marathon that day…maybe she was discussing that… and to her left were folks holding the placards. 

My back wasn't turned.  

I looked at my friends and said “I got to do some Jesus”….they knew what I meant and thankfully stood patiently. One said later she knew exactly what I was about to do and whispered to our other friend, “she needs to pray”. I said "do some Jesus" to be funny. I wear the Reverend card irreverently some days. I know the weight it carries and its heavy. 

However, I needed to do some Jesus. For myself, for something bigger than me.  

I looked at one of the folks there…a young woman maybe in her 20s. I said “I'm from Nashville visiting. I am glad you are here doing this…I know this sounds odd, but could I offer a prayer with you all? I really don't know what else to do. If its too weird I won’t….I understand you have no idea who I am.”  (Read "I know you think I'm some crazy red headed white woman")

Unquestioningly, she welcomed the prayer, as did a few of her friends who gathered there with us. We held hands in a circle. I thanked God for the ability to be able to gather like this, to ask for justice and peace and made some lame-ass reference to justice rolling ( I DID get an amen however), and prayed for protection for the folks there and for my black brothers and sisters who live in fear and anxiousness everyday. And I prayed for forgiveness. Forgiveness for perpetuating myths and power structures that keep others from flourishing.  I'm not sure whose forgiveness I was asking. 

I said Amen. Thanked them.

I crossed the street wondering what the hell I'd done. 

I am not an activist. I don’t hold signs. I don’t stand in the line of fire. I'm not made that way. And I have long wondered how I can be supportive of lives I know nothing about besides giving my black friends a hug and a kiss. Sometimes I think that's trite even. Sincere because they are my friends for goodness sake, but trite.  What happened in that moment of “doing some Jesus” was something I CAN do. I can pray. I can witness to folks. 

God blesses drunks and fools and I God knows I can be both. 

Sometimes “doing some Jesus” may be being ourselves.

I am after all, the “never meet a stranger Khette” who makes living praying for dying folks. 

Surely I can pray for other dying folks to LIVE.