Did any of you see the interesting video this week about the “two-legged” fox? If you haven’t watch it here: “two-legged fox”
It’s a story about a woman who looked out her window one morning and saw something so unusual…a fox with just his or her two front legs. And what was so remarkable was to see how agile and “foxlike” this fox was. She was simply brought to a point of wonder by what this two-legged little creature could do!
As I think of that fox, I’m wondering if that fox ever has regrets? How much time does an animal take pondering things we humans ponder all the time? Questions like, “what would life had been if only if…
I must admit that I go there more than I should. What would have happened if I hadn’t said or done this? What would life be like if I had stayed here longer or there longer? Where would I be now if I had decided to be a doctor, or if I had pursued my basketball career (4-8 grades…hah) longer?
A place where regret really tends to sit, is when we are grieving. When we’ve lost a loved one. My mother once told me that after my sister, Rachel, died in her early 20’s, she spent so much time feeling guilt and regret. Right before Rachel died mom had refused to buy Rachel a dress she wanted, and then ended up buying the dress for her funeral. If only she had purchased that earlier… And on and on it goes. Regret can take you on some serious detours. Especially when you are battling through grief and loss.
When Cyndy and I were first married, a beloved cousin of mine, Ann Lori, was brutally raped and murdered in her shower. She was a speech pathologist just starting out, and the news of the violent and tragic end to Ann Lori’s life just ripped the hearts out of our family. We all loved her, and no one loved her more than her mom and dad, Aunt Jo Ann and Uncle Bill. I can only imagine their pain. Their regrets. The thousands of what ifs and if-only’s that must have haunted their mind.
Two years later, while Cyndy and I were visiting Mom and Dad, we were all surprised to see Uncle Bill and Aunt Jo Ann arrive in their Air Stream travel trailer. As we greeted them tears rolled down their eyes. They had not only had a long journey all the way from Kentucky, but they had been on a long and lonely journey…the journey of loss and pain. They hardly said a word at supper, very unlike them. They were usually so talkative, and our family always loved their soft southern accent. It was always so soothing and easy. But that night we only heard the silence of their pain.
After dinner, we sat outside and for some reason, Uncle Bill struck up a conversation with Cyndy. I asked Cyndy about this last night, and she said she hardly knew him. But he talked with her for over an hour! She said maybe it was because she was so shy, she let him talk almost the whole time! I’m guessing it was more that Cyndy has an incredible listening ear. She listens with so much love and concern. People can sense that.
That next afternoon, Dad took us out on a trip to the Missouri River and together we watched the wonderful South Dakota sunset over the river bluffs. And again, silent tears came. This time for all of us. Mom and Dad remembering their daughter Rachel, and Uncle Bill and Aunt Jo Ann remembering their Ann Lori.
Cyndy and I headed home that night, but Uncle Bill and Aunt Jo Ann stayed with Mom and Dad for a couple of weeks. I believe with all my heart that God was amid that relationship, helping both grieve and lean and listen to each other.
A year later, Mom and Dad got a letter from Aunt Jo Ann. She shared that Uncle Bill had started painting again. He said that what did it was those South Dakota sunsets (dad and mom took them to the river almost every evening to watch). At first, he said, he could barely see any color. But by the end of those two weeks, he began to see two or three. He said that he still didn’t see color like he did when Ann Lori was alive, but he saw color enough to start painting again. Just enough to get going again. And it was you that helped me see again, to paint again, to want to try to live again.
I think that that is the journey those of us who grieve go on. And sometimes we make the mistake of waiting too long. We want the colors all to come back just like they were. But that’s not how it works in this life. Sometimes life happens and it takes colors away. Sometimes life happens and it feels like our two hind legs are cut clear off! But in the end, we are called to paint with what we still have, to dance a dance with the legs we still have. And when we do dance and paint, it is my belief that sometimes, though perhaps more muted, it is still beautiful.
Be brave my friends. Start painting again. Start dancing again. And learn the precious act of listening in love.
Your friend and pastor, still learning how to fox trot with my two legs, Brook
I remember those losses in the family but never felt them with the soul wrenching agony they experienced until my own child, Matt Weber, died in Peru. But I now feel the slow path of moving through these last years of my life a very different half-person from who I was. Strangr, actually, looking at my own family and all of those people that I loved so dearly and feeling their grief mixed with my own. Such a deep sea of tears. Thank you Pastor Brook McBride for reminding me that none of us are alone in our lives. We are all connected.