I am devastated to hear about the loss of a friend today. This person touched many lives with comments of hope and love. This post is to let her know that she was loved–her soul is now loved–along with her daughter and family.
In blogging, many of us write as catharsis–we celebrate joys, hold hands through sorrows and laugh in between. We form connections–at best, we make friendships and, at the least, try to bare honest souls on computer screens. We try to communicate that, while despair sometimes flirts, there is always hope . . . .
Then there are these unexplained tragedies we can’t wrap our heads around and leave large holes in their wake. These tragedies make us look at our own lives, our relationships, our selves. We hope that, despite misunderstandings, the people we hold within our hearts know how much we love them. That way, if the unforseeable happens, our loved ones who remain have our love to hold onto.
Sancheeta, you are missed. I hope this post honors a fraction of what you meant to those of us blessed to know you. Safe, peaceful travels.
For those of you who need to hear this, don’t ever g i v e up.
A friend of mine asked me something today in the midst of conversation.
How are you? I continued on with small talk not fully answering the question.
How are you? A second time. More small talk.
How are you? Yes, a third time and quite the persistent friend.
I had to respond. Honestly. Without a smile to hide behind or chattering about my children or exchanging information about the weather. With three words asked three times, this person intuitively reached through space and forced me to turn the flashlight on myself My Self. Yes, the misspelling was intentional (I know there’s grammar police watching). There’s something about shoving together my and self that can, at times, lead to overlooking our cores, our inner beings, ourselves Our Selves. When my and self are married, the word can be said too quickly. It can slip too easily off the tongue. When I dissected it and separated the word, I had to stop and think. How was My Self? My response necessitated an I. I was forced to define myself as I was. Not as how my hair was fixed or what color shirt I was wearing or if I had make-up on. I had to glance inwardly, look through my lens of awareness, and speak the truth.
How are you? Yes, it’s great that you are happily married or contentedly single or that you just got a new puppy or that your boss acknowledged your hard work with a raise.
How are you? Aside from having to shuffle your children to basketball or throw together a meal in thirty minutes or grade a stack of papers.
It is with great sadness that I write this afternoon. A special man and friend of my dad, Dave Rossow, was tragically killed today. His name was John Wilson. He was a wonderful man, father, husband, firefighter, chef, and friend. The entire Boca Raton Fire Department family grieves and we extend our condolences to John’s wife and sons. Readers, please be reminded when hearing about such sad news, to appreciate who is in your life at this moment. We never know when an ordinary day can turn extra-ordinary for all of the wrong reasons. Our time on this planet is finite. When we have people, like “John Wilsons” in our lives, we need to appreciate them and let them know how much we love them. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. If we are cognizant of this reality, although some people might find it morbid, it may help us to live with love and forgiveness. RIP John. You were and are loved. God bless you.
This picture was taken at my dad, Dave Rossow’s, retirement party.
I’m supposed to be resting. Of course, being on a computer isn’t really resting. And writing isn’t resting. I never said I was a compliant patient. However, I am in bed (that must count for something). With my laptop. Writing. “Stunada” as my Nonnie would have said. Not in the “out there” sense but in the stubborn, sorta stupid sense (sorry Nonnie). I was recently talking to a good friend late one night. We’ve both been on this crazy rollercoaster called “Life.” We’ve had similar experiences, felt the same at times, and, at other moments, diverged. Our relationship, though, no matter what we are thinking, feeling, or hoping, remains granite solid. I mentioned a song (by The Fray) on my daughter’s iPod (yes, I borrowed it for a few minutes while outside getting a little vitamin D). This song asks a lot of questions (yeah, yeah, I know, I can relate), is kinda dark, and, although I’ve heard it at least thirty times, it was the first time I really listened to the words. I asked my friend if she heard it before (nearly everyone has) and if she knew what the lyrics meant. I couldn’t identify exactly what touched me about it but I felt it draw me in, put a warm blanket around my shoulders, and nestle a steaming cup of tea in my hands. I didn’t feel alone. I felt . . . comforted. Music, as an art form, has that capability (one of the reasons I appreciate it so much). My friend sent me an email with a link to the lyrics as explained by the lead singer and pianist. I didn’t care that the song was so popular it made it onto various countries’ billboard charts or what TV show used clips of it (even though it’s all true). It spoke to me where I was (where I am). In a place I’ve never been before. Where, depending on the day, I question God’s existence. Many before me have been here, many are here now, and many more will visit in the future. I’m not sure of what my future holds. It’s okay. Even in this space, I’m banking that He hasn’t abandoned me. That He still loves me perfectly (like no other can). That His silence is because, when He does speak again, I will not question that it’s Him. I will be certain.