Those Tears Sure Do Sting

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As I wrote yesterday, this is a time to forgive.

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In my hometown this afternoon, they will bury Jim Johnson.

If you're a regular reader of this blog — but, for whatever reason, have been away lately — let me quickly bring you up to speed. I have written recently about Mr. Johnson's death over the weekend and then, after seeing the angry and bitter things some people in my home state have been writing about him, I felt moved to write about that, too.

I'm not naive enough to think that burying him will put to rest the pain of the past. But it may be the start of healing for those who loved him. And I am one of those.

When I think of Jim Johnson, I don't think of the segregationist whose rhetoric is still remembered, decades later, by people who were offended by it. I think of the man I knew — the devoted father of my childhood friends.

I don't mind saying that I have shed many tears in recent days. I have shed nearly as many tears as I did in the days following my mother's death. I have probably shed nearly as many tears as I will shed when my own father dies.

And I can tell you that tears really do sting.

I don't know why that is. Perhaps there is a chemical explanation for it.

Maybe there is a difference between tears of joy and tears of sorrow. Maybe tears of sorrow have more salt than tears of joy. Because I have shed tears of joy, and I don't remember those tears stinging my eyes the way tears of sorrow do.

Certainly not the way these tears have stung my eyes.

I know there are people in my home state who are unaffected by Mr. Johnson's death. I know there are some who have welcomed it, who have rejoiced in it. And I guess that is inevitable.

But I think many forget — or conveniently overlook — the fact that, behind the death of a controversial figure, there are people who genuinely mourn. That grief has nothing to do with politics. It has everything to do with human relationships.

Jim Johnson leaves behind three sons. According to the obituary on my hometown newspaper's website, he had eight grandchildren. And he had countless friends, many of whom will almost certainly be at the service this afternoon.

That service is now only a few hours away.

I hope it brings some peace to my friends. I hope the knowledge that the funeral has been held and Mr. Johnson has been buried will bring an end to these tears for me.

But, mostly, I hope those who can't forget the past can at least forgive.

For their sake as well as Mr. Johnson's.

Perhaps tomorrow, I will resume writing about other subjects. But today, my thoughts and my emotions simply won't permit it.

Rest in peace, Mr. Johnson.

The Last Goodbye

Yesterday, I wrote about the tragic death of Los Angeles Angels rookie pitcher Nick Adenhart on my Tomato Cans blog.

I found a video tribute that someone uploaded to youTube. It was a series of pictures of Adenhart with Garth Brooks singing "The Dance." It seemed appropriate so I posted it with the article.

Today, though, I have been reflecting on it. Brooks' message in the song is, essentially, don't dwell on how the story is going to end. Just enjoy the story. "I'm glad I didn't know how it all would end," goes one of the lines in the song.

Now, in general, that is a sentiment I share. I have my preferences about how I would rather die. And there is a certain advantage in not knowing the specifics. I think, perhaps, the most fortunate person I've known was my mother's father. He went to bed one night, planning to get up early and go fishing with a buddy of his the next morning, but he never woke up. We were told that he probably just rolled over and died.

But for those of us who must remain behind, it might help if we could somehow know when we would be seeing friends and relatives for the last time.

Sometimes you have a pretty good idea. In 1991, I was on the verge of finishing work on my master's degree in Texas. A friend of mine back in my home state of Arkansas was dying of cancer. I came to Arkansas to see him during the late spring and again in mid–summer. His physical decline in about six weeks' time was stunning, and I was sure my next visit to Arkansas would be for his funeral — as, indeed, it was.

I was 31 at the time, but I was unable to deal with thoughts of my friend's death. So I never said the things to him that I wanted to say, that I should have said. He died about five weeks later.

Strangely, though, that isn't my greatest regret when the subject is friends and relatives who have died. My greatest regret is the ones who were not obviously dying the last time I saw them.

But I didn't know it would be the last time, you see. I treated those times like all the other times — with the implied expectation that we would see each other again.

Now, in this group, I don't really count my grandparents — or my father's sister, who lived overseas for awhile. I seldom saw her, even after she returned to the States.

But I last saw my mother about three weeks before she was killed in a flash flood. I have often wished I could go back in time and tell her the things I should have told her before she died. When I think back on that afternoon, it almost seems to me, at times, that somehow she sensed it was the last time. It may not have been something that she was aware of, just something that she instinctively understood.

Now, my mother was a loving woman. But, in hindsight, it's hard not to interpret some of her gestures — touching my hand or my shoulder, the way she hugged me when we parted — as having special significance.

And I've been thinking today of "absent friends." I've been communicating by e–mail today with an old friend. I met him and his ex–wife in college nearly 30 years ago. His ex–wife died of cancer a few years ago, and I asked him if he could tell me anything about it. He couldn't fill in many of the gaps for me; by the time his ex–wife died, he had "moved on" in his life and met and married his current wife.

He says she is his soulmate, and he doesn't want to speak ill of his ex–wife. I understand that, and I wasn't trying to open old wounds. I'm happy for him. I just wanted to know more than I know. I think I've gone past the point in my life where I believe in soulmates, but if he believes he found his, I'm not going to dispute it.

I guess it's like the existence of God. Some people believe God exists. Others aren't so sure, but the ones who aren't sure don't necessarily believe they have to reinforce their doubts by tearing down someone else's faith.

It seems like there have been a lot of people in my life who are gone now — and I wish I had known ahead of time so I could have said my final goodbyes. Perhaps that is the point. We should appreciate the people in our lives — parents, siblings, friends — and make sure they know how we feel about them. Even if they're going to be around for another 50 years.

Because our lives truly are left to chance. To randomness. And, as Brooks suggested in his song, it's probably for the best that many of us don't get any advance warning.

But, sometimes, I guess, you can't help regretting the opportunity that got away.

A Tough Question

As I mentioned yesterday, an old friend of the family has died.

This morning, after being unsuccessful in my attempt to call the home last night, my call went through and I reached the son of our friend, who is a couple of years older than I am.

I identified myself.

He was the only one there, he told me. His mother and his sister were out. Neither of us had mentioned his father's death, although he knew that was the reason for my call.

Then he asked me, "When does it stop hurting?"

The question caught me by surprise. I had to stop and think before I could answer.

This man remembers what our family went through when my mother died in a flash flood 13 years ago. He was there through all of it. So he knows I can speak from experience.

I wanted to give him some practical advice. I know he and the rest of his family are in pain right now.

And I know some of my readers have been through this kind of thing themselves. And others are going through it right now.

One of the things I took from the experience of losing my mother was that a lot of people spoke to me about closure, as if the death of a loved one was something you could come to terms with and then put behind you forever.

It's not that simple. At least, it wasn't that simple for me.

Now, I'll grant you, everyone has a different relationship with their parents. Not everyone is as fortunate as I was.

For some people, it may be possible to achieve closure, if their relationship with their mother and/or father left something to be desired.

But, in my case, I reached the conclusion that there really was no such thing as closure.

It's been more than 13 years now, and it still hurts, from time to time.

It hurts on the anniversary of my mother's death. It hurts on her birthday. It hurts on Christmas. And sometimes it hurts for seemingly no reason at all — except that something sparked a memory.

But it isn't the constant, aching kind of hurt that it was in the beginning.

It does get better over time. Without a doubt, the first year is the toughest. In that first year, you must go through all the milestones — the first birthday without that parent, the first Christmas without that parent, etc. It gets easier after that.

But, to answer my friend's question, I really don't believe the pain ever completely goes away. I believe you adjust and learn to live with the new reality.

I also learned that everyone has his or her own way of dealing with grief. The best thing anyone can do is let a grieving person grieve.

A good friend of mine lost his mother a few years ago. He told me in an e-mail that his significant other felt compelled to be around him more to help him deal with his grief. But she didn't understand, he told me, that he wanted to be left alone at times, to listen to his music and think about happy times with his mother.

Have you lost a parent?

What are your thoughts on closure?