Permission to Just Be

I will not apologize for taking it easy this weekend.

But I was very thankful for a vacant schedule. An impromptu pizza party was just what a friendship needed. Because this morning's sermon was written for both of us. And sometimes I just need a face-to-face heart-to-heart over a slice of pepperoni. (No offence to the Fido and Google Chat folks who also contribute to the health of our relationship.)

In some ways, we find ourselves at identical crossroads. In others, we're in opposite worlds. It's what makes us work. And we're comfy. The sort of friends who can hang out in slippers. Who can doze while watching a movie. Who can be real and say embarrassing things and be shockingly honest about the desires of our hearts. Non-bloggable stuff.

Not long after I left her place, my friend's life changed with one phone call from Italy. And I was so glad I was there this afternoon. Because we knew this day was coming. Not necessarily this soon, but it was inevitable. Life is short, no matter how long and full it may seem. And saying goodbye is never easy. But somehow the grief face-plant is softened knowing that there are folks taking ownership of your pain. We're all in this together.

I wish I could turn a blog entry into a hug. Because I would.

YouTube Tuesday: Swayze

Yesterday was a sad day. Patrick Swayze died. And while I've never been a real Swayze-swooner, I will always have a soft spot for Johnny Castle.

(He was married to his wife Lisa for 34 years. He was only 57. That's some crazy/awesome life math. Here's the couple dancing together. Sexy.)

The Dirty Dancing soundtrack is a classic. Did you know that Swayze WROTE "She's Like the Wind"? Take it away, Pat....

Somewhat related: I don't understand why weddings seem to dictate the playing of "(I've Had) The Time of My Life." It sounds more like an anniversary song to me.

I'd rather play Dirty Dancing's "Yes" at my wedding. Lyrically it seems far more appropriate. Even though such appropriateness might be slightly inappropriate. But not really. Because I know what you'll all be thinking. Creepy friends. Stop thinking about my wedding night.

David Carradine: 1936-2009

'Tis a sad day. Even for those of us not typically inspired by kung fu. Or by Tarantino.

Once upon a time, I sent an email to my boss voicing some serious concerns I had about my job. His response?

"Patience, grasshopper, patience."

I was not amused. Not long after, said boss disappeared into the resignation abyss. No one misuses Carradine references and gets away with it.

A Christmas and a Funeral

This is my first blog post from the MacBook. I'm typing by the glow of twinkle lights and the glorious backlit keys my brother convinced me to splurge on. Thank you, Joel.

Christmas treats are cooling in the fridge. Bing Crosby is serenading me with seasonal nostalgia. Two small trees illuminate my small apartment.

Tomorrow is Christmas for my extended family.

Monday is a funeral.

I've always loved Christmas. Any hint of city girl in me vanishes at this time of year, and I revert to the traditional small-town girl with a love of gingerbread, fireplaces and carols. I watch George Bailey want to live again. And then I watch him again, just to make sure he's okay. He usually is.

When I was young, the extended family on my mother's side (the same group that meets tomorrow) would gather in a church basement and exchange gifts. This was before our numbers grew to a more outrageous number and we had to scale back on the gift-giving.  And one year, Santa showed up. Unexpectedly. To this day, it is the only time in my short life I can recall meeting the jolly old fellow. Or at least meeting one who brought gifts specifically for me. Who called me by name without prompting.

Not for a minute of my childhood did I believe in Santa. Yet the surprise visit was still magical. Sure, his chuckle was remarkably identical to that of my Uncle Jack's, but I didn't care. Sometimes childhood delight trumps all.

Last night, my dear Santa died.

Tomorrow, as we gather to feast, there will be two empty chairs at the table. Two laughs not heard. Two hugs desperately missed. My grandma will not be there. We were already anticipating the sadness of our first Christmas without her.  But neither will her sister's husband. And in our holiday joy, we will grieve.

Since saying goodbye to my grandmother, my life has changed. There is no fear. When you look death in the eye, you can't help but anticipate something greater. So when I shed tears on Monday, they will be for my lovely great aunt. For those left behind. And for the memory of Santa Claus.

Merry Christmas, all.

The Bridge

I saw a man die today.

I was smart. I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed." What the f*** happened?!!

~a suicide note, "The Bridge"

I don't know how I feel about this documentary.

Probably because I struggle with empathizing with hopelessness. Because my lowest low has never taken me there.

More people have chosen to end their lives at the Golden Gate Bridge than anywhere else in the world.

It's fascinating, looking at that line between standing on the bridge and jumping off it. Or choosing between looking at life through a lens and putting the camera down to pull a stranger back to life.

I can't imagine...

• ...realizing I don't want to die after taking that step off the ledge.
• ...being so disillusioned after looking for love in every place but the right one that I just give up on love altogether.
• ...finding a miracle in a shattered body rather than a lifeless one.
• ...seeing no other option.
• ...getting that phone call.
• ...watching the fall.
• ...choosing the fall.
  

I don't think suicide's an unforgivable sin. I think it's a tragedy. And that God's heart breaks for those who don't trust Him to pull them through. But God is bigger than life. He's not limited by one painful choice. Nor can human despair severe something God put in place. No, it's not His will. But condemning those who struggle with depression isn't His will either.

Why do we never talk about mental illness until it's too late? And why do we choose to ignore the cries for help?

"I will never again not intrude. I won't respect their privacy. And I will not ever again not do something because I'm afraid they might be embarrassed."

And what would I do if I saw you on that precipice?

How to Fight Like Butch Cassidy

Indulge me a little. I'm in Newman mode.
Paul Newman and Robert Redford: Best. Duo. Ever.

Oh, and William Goldman's pretty good at telling a story too. By "pretty good," I mean "awesome." The Princess Bride doesn't get enough love. I know it gets a lot, but it's still not enough.

Paul Newman: 1925 - 2008

"If my eyes should ever turn brown, my career is shot to hell."

~ Paul Newman

Goodbye, Butch Cassidy. You're already missed.

Don LaFontaine: 1940-2008

The world just got a little quieter.

LaFontaine, known as the "King of Voiceovers," died Monday afternoon at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. LaFontaine's agent, Vanessa Gilbert, tells ET that he passed away following complications from Pneumothorax, the presence of air or gas in the pleural cavity, the result of a collapsed lung. The official cause of death has not yet been released.

Over the past 25 years, LaFontaine cemented his position as the "King of Voiceovers." Aside from being the preeminent voice in the movie trailer industry, Don also worked as the voice of Entertainment Tonight and The Insider, as well as for CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox and UPN, in addition to TNT, TBS and the Cartoon Network. By conservative estimates, he voiced hundreds of thousands of television and radio spots, including commercials for Chevrolet, Pontiac, Ford, Budweiser, McDonalds, Coke, and many other corporate sponsors.

He recently parodied himself on a series of national television commercials for Geico. At last count, he has worked on nearly 5000 films, including appearances as the in-show announcer for the Screen Actors Guild and Academy Awards. Based on contracts signed, he has the distinction of being perhaps the single busiest actor in the history of SAG. Don is survived by his wife -- singer/actress Nita Whitaker, and three children: Christine, Skye and Elyse.

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Don LaFontaine will never record my voice-mail message. Nor will movie trailers ever be the same. And I won't tolerate the impersonators.

My brother experienced a spontaneous pneumothorax a few years ago. Scary.

Happy Birthday, Grandma

She would have been 80 today.

Now she's ageless, not defined by the minutes on that gold watch or the days on those calendars scattered everywhere.

And she's probably dancing.

Bye-Bye, Bernie

Bernie Mac died. So did Isaac Hayes. And now there are rumors that Paul Newman is on his deathbed. I never know how to process deaths of the famous. Because I never knew them in the flesh. They will continue to live on my screen as they always have. Theoretically, nothing will change.

And yet it's different. There's something more definitively past tense about the Ocean's Eleven franchise. The Shaft theme song conjures up a little more nostalgia. And one day (soon or not), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid will be just a little more bittersweet.

And I know straight lines, in any human designs
We live the same lives, in different times
And I thank the supreme being, for giving me eyes
And the days that I had for living, and now I'm laughing 'cause I can't find tears to cry

And even the Sundance Kid would find it hard to shoot his way out of this hole I'm in (x2)

~Sam Roberts, "Sundance"

Read my Bernie Mac post over at MovieZen. His life was short, but it was full. Not many at the age of 50 have 30 years of marriage, a grandchild, and a legacy of art and love to leave behind....

Please Don't Die

I don't think it's possible to cry yourself to sleep. I'm pretty sure you cry yourself into a state of exhaustion, you stop crying, and then you sleep. Do people actually nod off mid-sob?

I went to bed too late last night. And then I decided to read. Not the smartest idea I've ever had. But when it's late, my wisdom is impaired. As is my everyday caution. If I'm exhausted, my heart is on my sleeve. Those of you who've spent the night talking to me know this. I will pour out the intimate stuff of heart and mind when the rest of the world is sleeping. Too much energy is required to keep my guard up.

I was reading The Last Lecture, Randy Pausch's book based on his lecture of the same name. It's a little book, full of sound-bite wisdom, quirky stories, and a William Shatner tale that actually nudged a few tears down my face.

It's also a dangerous book. It makes you a little more dissatisfied with mediocrity. It gives you no excuses for laziness. It makes you want to crank up The Lion King soundtrack while speeding down the highway in a convertible on the way to your dream job as a Disney Imagineer. I kid you not.

I was skimming through. I was tired. I was almost done. And then one sentence destroyed me.

There's a moment in his lecture (Have you seen it yet?) near the end, where he brings out a birthday cake for his wife. It's a total surprise, the room erupts in song, and she comes forward to hug and kiss her husband. As the audience applauds, his wife whispers something in his ear. We assume it's along the lines of "I love you." It's sweet and moving and then we move on.

But the book expands.

As we held each other, Jai whispered something in my ear.

"Please don't die."

It sounds like Hollywood dialogue. But that's what she said. I just hugged her more tightly.

Those three words shattered my little world. I lost it. It was the most perfect honest sentence I'd read in a very long time.



I'm going to start reading the Sears catalogue in bed. Good night.

Randy Pausch: 1960-2008

Randy Pausch died today.

Randy Pausch, the Carnegie Mellon professor who became a YouTube phenomenon with his "Last Lecture," died Friday of complications from pancreatic cancer. He was 47. He died at his home in southern Virginia. [...]

"I knew what I was doing that day," he wrote in the introduction of his best-selling book, also titled The Last Lecture. "Under the ruse of giving an academic lecture, I was trying to put myself in a bottle that would one day wash up on the beach for my children."

source

I'm glad I spent a sick day with him once upon a time. Because, sure, his lecture was for his kids, but it was also for every 20-something daydreamer in need of a challenge.

Watch his last lecture here. Cry a little. And then go live intentionally.

How Not to Decorate

Today I went to a decoration service at the cemetery where my grandmother is buried.

We did not wallpaper her tombstone.

A Life in Polaroids

He took Polaroids. One per day, from March 31, 1979 through October 25, 1997. And then he died.

What started for me as an amusing collection of photos — who takes photos every day for eighteen years? — ended with a shock. Who was this man? How did his photos end up on the web? I went on a two-day hunt, examined the source code of the website, and tried various Google tricks.

Finally my investigation turned up the photographer as Jamie Livingston, and he did indeed take a photo every day for eighteen years, until the day he died, using a Polaroid SX-70 camera. He called the project “Photo of the Day” and presumably planned to collect them at some point — had he lived. He died on October 25, 1997 — his 41st birthday.

After Livingston’s death, his friends Hugh Crawford and Betsy Reid put together a public exhibit and website using the photos and called it PHOTO OF THE DAY: 1979-1997, 6,697 Polaroids, dated in sequence. The physical exhibit opened in 2007 at the Bertelsmann Campus Center at Bard College (where Livingston started the series, as a student, way back when). The exhibit included rephotographs of every Polaroid and took up a 7 x 120 foot space.

Chris Higgins, Mental Floss

Livingston's website of Polaroids can be found here.

I find it both haunting and fascinating that one man moved so many merely by proving that he lived.

Love Lessons: Part 1

One of the disadvantages to being a grandchild is that you never see your grandparents as anything but. By the time I entered the world, they were, in my eyes, old and platonic roommates. I didn't think romance and dancing, quiet moments and stolen kisses. I saw hard workers, not lovers. Occasionally, I'd hear of them going off to dances, but I couldn't really wrap my head around this. Wasn't my grandfather the man who came in from the barn only to fall asleep at the table after a steak-and-potatoes meal prepared by my tired grandmother? Where does a night on the town fit in? Euchre, maybe. But sweeping her off her feet?

On their 40th anniversary, my grandmother put on her wedding dress (Yes, it still fit. How intimidating a feat) and danced with her husband. It's one of the few vivid memories I have of him. He died before their 45th.

When I cried at his funeral, I cried for my grandmother. Sure, I was sad that he was gone. And I was sad that my mom lost her dad. But I was mostly devastated for the wife he left behind. For the next 15 years, I found saying goodbye to my grandmother difficult, as I didn't want to leave her alone in the house they built together. Not once (except in jest) was there a hint of another love in her life. He was it.

This week, the day after her funeral, my cousin stumbled upon treasure. In the bottom of my grandma's closet was a paper bag from Eaton's. Inside were neatly stacked letters. All handwritten. All from my grandfather. All carefully folded and tucked back into their original envelopes.

My grandfather, William, only had an eighth grade education. This didn't stop him from writing her letter after letter, sometimes multiple times a week, while he pursued her. I remember him as a man of few words, so to look at endless pages of written affection is so overwhelmingly beautiful to me. And as the letters approached 1949, he started adding X X X X X to his sign-off. Underlined and all.

I've found it difficult to be distraught over the death of my lovely grandmother. She's dancing with her love on the streets of gold. And no one was left behind this time.

...And Tragedy

Not everything about today was happy.

Maria Sue Chapman (2003-2008)

Steven Curtis Chapman’s youngest child died Wednesday evening after being struck by a car driven by her teenage brother in the driveway of the family’s Williamson County home.

Maria, one of the Christian singer’s six children, was taken by LifeFlight to Vanderbilt Hospital, which confirmed the death, according to Laura McPherson, a spokeswoman for the Tennessee Highway Patrol.

The 5-year-old was hit by an SUV driven by her teenage brother, she said. Police did not give the driver’s name.

The teen was driving a Toyota Land Cruiser down the driveway of the rural home at about 5:30 p.m. and several children were playing in the area, McPherson said. He did not see Maria in the driveway before the vehicle struck her, she said.

“It appears to be a terrible accident,’’ McPherson said.

No charges are expected, she said. The accident was witnessed by two other children; the entire family was home at the time, McPherson said.

Singer/songwriter Chapman, who recently was inducted into Music City Walk of Fame, is one of contemporary Christian music’s most recognizable and most awarded names.

read the rest

I almost cried at my computer today. Over a YouTube video of a dad doing the dishes with his daughter. Because she's gone. And he's heartbroken. And her brother must be shattered. I can't even imagine....

Remembering Larry

I was pleasantly surprised today to find the entertainment industry acknowledging Larry's legacy.

Over at Entertainment Weekly, there's a rather personal reflection on the man who subverted expectations.

I remember looking over and watching the grin on the youth leader’s face turn into a puzzled grimace as Norman sang lines like “Pardon me, kissing you like I'm afraid/But I feel I'm being played…/Close your eyes, and pretend that you are me/See how empty it can be/Making love if love's not really there/Watch me go, watch me walk away alone/As your clothing comes undone/And you pull the ribbon from your hair.” Of course, I got a big smile on my face as the youth pastor’s disappeared, because, as a rock kid, I lived for status quo-breaking moments like that one, when a "Christian concert" could turn into something altogether less predictable. He didn’t always follow through on his early promise, but that’s the Larry Norman I’ll remember — the maverick who never deviated from his chosen mission in search of any big brass ring, but who didn’t give many second thoughts to subverting the expectations of fellow believers, either.

And at The Huffington Post:

Larry Norman, the most amazing artist you've never heard of has died.

image source

Only Visiting This Planet

Larry Norman: April 8, 1947 – February 24, 2008

The pioneer of Christian rock died yesterday. Before heading home, he dictated this letter:

I feel like a prize in a box of cracker jacks with God's hand reaching down to pick me up. I have been under medical care for months. My wounds are getting bigger. I have trouble breathing. I am ready to fly home.

My brother Charles is right, I won't be here much longer. I can't do anything about it. My heart is too weak. I want to say goodbye to everyone. In the past you have generously supported me with prayer and finance and we will probably still need financial help.

My plan is to be buried in a simple pine box with some flowers inside. But still it will be costly because of funeral arrangement, transportation to the gravesite, entombment, coordination, legal papers etc. However money is not really what I need, I want to say I love you.

I'd like to push back the darkness with my bravest effort. There will be a funeral posted here on the website, in case some of you want to attend. We are not sure of the date when I will die. Goodbye, farewell, we will meet again.

Goodbye, farewell, we'll meet again
Somewhere beyond the sky.
I pray that you will stay with God
Goodbye, my friends, goodbye.

Larry

source

He's missed already. But as he sang in "Reader's Digest," he was only visiting this planet. And a visit can't last forever.

image source

Again.

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In my high school yearbook, I wrote that my future aspiration was "to hang with Christian and Heath."

"Heath Ledger found dead."

I'm numb. In shock. So much brokenness.

Source.

"Rest in Peace" Doesn't Mean Much.

When an actor dies, I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because while the person was a complete stranger, something he or she did while on this planet resonated with me. I aspired to a little piece of who they were. And while I get to keep waking and sleeping and dreaming big dreams, that person now only exists on DVD.

He was only 25. In my head, he was still the 12-year-old boy holding his own in The Client. Or the kid who made me cry in The Cure. He was the Huck to Jonathan Taylor Thomas’ Tom.

“Found dead.” Such a strange phrase. As if dead is a state of being. No, the headlines should read “Lost.” There’s something just so hopeless about it all. Just a whole lot of nothingness. Like when Jonathan Brandis killed himself a few years ago. These are guys with careers I wanted, with smiles I swooned over. But they were broken. And when you’re broken, none of that really matters anymore.

Sometimes I get a little delusional and wish for the “good ol’ days” that never existed, where death was for old people who lived long and full lives.

Brad Renfro. I wish I knew you. Maybe I would have lent you my hope until you found some of your own.

"Found dead." Gone.