Slouching Toward Saturday
I woke up at 3 a.m. and I thought, then, wide awake but still sort of cobwebby, that I might have lost him.
What a week. Busy busy. My head spins at the end of the day and I hear voices, that's how busy. I need a break but there's no sign of that, not for a while, not until next weekend, when my mom comes out for a visit and I have some time off.
I've been so busy that I missed my first Maundy Thursday in years. I missed the soup and the bread and the message and the fellowship. I missed the meal.
I remember, years ago, when I was putting out our church newsletter, that when Holy Week came along my pastor told me not to advertise Maundy Thursday too much. He worried about this, about the logistics.
"We might not have enough food," he said.
I understood this, of course. The deacons were preparing the meal and had to have some idea. What if an extra hundred people showed up? It could get scary. Still, the essence of the thought stayed with me a long time.
We welcome all to the Lord's table. Hopefully we'll have enough to eat...
It just seemed wrong.
Anyway. I lost Holy Week this year, let it slide by in a frenzy of commitments, so I guess I'll just have to compensate on Sunday.
God (who looks like Ed Asner/Lou Grant): So, did you comfort the afflicted this week?
Me: Uh, no. Sorry.
God: Did you lighten your purse by giving to the poor?
Me: My purse is extremely light right now. Maybe next week.
God: *sigh* OK, OK. I swear to Me, you are in need of some serious redemption. Tell you what. Go to church on Easter, but you need to sing really, really loud, got it?
You can find redemption in all sorts of ways. I believe this.
So I woke up early this morning, full of cross-building guilt, peripheral, sins-of-ommision guilt, seeking redemption, and it struck me that I couldn't see my father's face.
Good Friday, two years ago. I was due at the service but I stayed home waiting for news. The news, at is does, came.
The PET scan shows widespread cancer. They've hospitalized him because of his low sodium. He's very confused.
In the next eight months, I would go to Arizona three times. Once to visit, once to say goodbye, and once to carry his coffin.
And this morning I wondered if I'd forgotten.
My son has a fair amount of obsessive-compulsive behavior, and one aspect of that has to do with doors. When he leaves a room, he has to close the door. Not a bad idea, not always, and certainly not dangerous or even distracting, except the bathroom, where a closed door means "Occupied" and that can be important in our house since the other bathroom isn't exactly in great shape.
So we used to try, try to get him to change. And to show you how pervasive this is, one day I was outside the bathroom when he exited. He was closing the door when I gently but sternly reminded him not to.
He smiled sort of sheepishly, understanding his quirks, and we laughed and all the while his hand was jerking, stretching back for the knob, still desperately wanting to close the door.
And now I understand. I do this, too. Usually on the weekends. I save up stuff, angst and joy and misery and mysteries, and then my hand jerks toward the phone, and I smile sheepishly. He's not there anymore.
OK. Sometimes I don't smile.
I miss my father.
And today I woke, and couldn't see him. Maybe I dreamt about him, I dunno. But I couldn't see his face or hear his voice, and I wondered if Mr. Time had done some voodoo and taken something.
It went away. I can see and hear now. I can hear the clinks and the exhalations, the pauses and the irritating way he'd stop and then continue when you thought it was time for you to say something. I can see the strong arms, I can see him putting screws into my wobbly deck, I can see his Parliaments resting in the ashtray and his Scotch and water. I can see it all, but for a moment I couldn't, and now I wonder how many moments like that I will have.
Oh, it's early. I need to go back to bed, I guess.
Just another Good Friday, and now the Saturday after. Sunday's coming.
I went to Easter service two years ago and cried, I was so scared. It's hard to be scared on Easter; it doesn't make sense. Still, I was in bad shape. I would get worse. I am better now.
And I will be better tomorrow. My hand won't jerk so much, but I still will remember, and want to call, and want the door to always stay open, and I'll sing really, really loud, because sometimes that's all you can do.
5:35:18 AM 
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