Books Who Found Me In Solitude and Grief

Solitude provided me the opportunity to spend time with people who lived and learned and some who died;  all shared what they learned, and I needed to know. Embracing solitude opened doors to me. Because I had no fear and wanted what they had to teach, I walked through the openings or at least peeked inside.  Lucky for me.

I believe it is mostly true that books find you, you don't find books. Books are the most patient of all living things. Books have heart and soul. They live, they love, they give. Yes, books are alive.

Here is my list of books who found me. The list is by author in no particular order other than the order I want to list them.

Thomas Merton: No Man Is An Island. Thoughts in Solitude. Love and Living. New Seeds of Contemplation. The New Man.

C.S. Lewis: The Problem of Pain. Miracles.

Eckhart Tolle: The Power of Now. A New Earth. Stillness Speaks.

Robert J. Miller: Grief Quest, men coping with loss.

Viktor E. Frankl: Man's Search For Meaning.

John C. Robinson, Ph. D: Death of A Hero, Birth of The Soul.

Jeffrey Hopkins, Ph. D: How to Expand Love, His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman, Steven Nickman:  Continuing Bonds, New Understandings of Grief

Anne McCracken, Mary Semel: A Broken Heart Still Beats after your child dies

The Bible

There are more books on the shelf which were read and made a difference in my life since May 10, 2005. These are the ones that struck me as having been the most significant in guiding me to answer the question, "Now that this has happened, what are you going to do about you?" Far from perfect and more of a man than ever, it's enough to begin and end my day with hope and gratitude for one day of progress, not perfection.

Today I had one day and it was good.

The Man Looking Inward

I've looked back at my past, ahead at my future, and finally inward at myself. It is only the inward view that gives me a clear picture of why the other views appear as they do. The man I will be in the future is the man I am in the present. The man I was in the past stands in my last step forever. There is no space between.

I Forgot

I forgot how he walks. I forgot how he talks. Every thing I forget, I lose him some more.

Lucky Dad

They came into the building being  more loud than the quiet their mother told them to be. Their voices were hushed and loud. I knew they were inside the door. A quick sprint down the hall, shoes shuffling, flopping, a  trip, a shove, and two boys stood in the doorway to my office. Dust under Sun tanned faces. Shirt sleeves cut off. Dirty knees,  sweat beads on  noses. Smiles probably hiding some mischief, or not hiding the pleasure they had in surprising dad.  Aaron and Patrick, ten and six, had come to see their dad at the office. Lucky dad.

I drove across town today to see Patrick at his first day on the job at US Cellular sales. Walked across the parking lot, 94 degrees hot. Sweat beads. Eager to see my son. P saw me in the doorway. My smile was for my pleasure in being there for my son.  We hugged like men who are proud of each other. Our pride is not for what we do, but for what we be.  Lucky dad.

There's A Man in Black Up Ahead

The roads I travel stay clear of May 10, 2005 for most of the  year. Regardless of where I go or where I am, each spring my journey leads to the date I want to avoid. I can be a thousand miles from there and then I'm on that road again.

It's an old road. No one maintains it. The asphalt is pocked with potholes. The shoulders are crumbling and the lines have blurred to faint images of dividers that once served a purpose. Mile markers pass by the day; April 1, April 23, May 1, May 6, May 7, May 8, May 9. Speed of the journey is consistent until May 10, then all control is lost and the vehicle rockets to noon.

Twilight Zone has begun. The doors are locked and control is on auto pilot. Soon I will be able to see the man in black up ahead at the curve. He stands six feet tall and  just on the other side of midnight, May 9. His wide brimmed hat is pulled low to shade his eyes. A long black duster is his coat, a once white shirt buttoned to his neck, is tinged with life. He leans on an old fence by the right side of the road. He knows what's ahead for me and he waits. In his hand he holds a tarnished pocket watch, attached by a gold chain to his belt. It's flipped open. If the man had whiskers, they'd be as dirty gray as the hair straggling out from under the hat. There is no smile on his shaven face or satisfaction in his eyes. He just waits for me. He looks 75. When I pass, he will look at his watch, close it, put the watch in a pocket, push himself from the fence and walk away with his head bowed. It's dusk as I pass.

Closing Doors

I closed a door on a chapter of life today. Bad Times. Sad Times.

Home To Stay

Not forever. Aaron came home to stay seven years ago tonight. To stay was supposed to mean he wasn't going back to MBA as a student. Freely one day, sure. Aaron would likely go many places. But he came home to stay and he stays  forever.

I woke with trepidation that morning. Same today. I wanted my expectations met then. Same today. I deeply wanted to believe my son in everything he would say or do. I wanted his intentions to be pure. I didn't want to be fooled. His sincerity, I probably thought I needed it to be significant. Aaron lived the remainder of his life accountable with integrity.

I thought he had forever ahead.

Things He Carried

A half full plastic bottle of Gatorade. His high school football jersey, number 15, in LSU style and purple, gold colors. A Beetle CD belonging to his brother. An assortment of Camel cigs, some broken, some smooshed.

The flip cell phone with a phone number of a convicted dealer survived the crash. The police saw the digits and rushed to judgement. They carried guns, bullets, weapons of all sorts. None were needed that Tuesday. Patience was in short supply. Same with common sense, compassion, and science. No one carried facts. Rumors were carried by radio waves to cell to phone to brains.

He carried smart ideas in his open mind; peace in his heart. It was his heart that broke in the wreck.

A Living Memory

I wanted a living memory not the image of my son in a casket. Almost seven years later I have no recall of how he looked in our last face to face conversation. Just that image I never wanted but can't forget.

Drifting With Grieving Dads

In the movie The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,  the father who lost his son rows out into Lake Pontchartrain in the fog of the night. There is nothing said about where he is rowing to or what becomes of him. The man is grieving his son and he's drifting. I assume he has placed his life in the hands of nature. I rowed. I drifted. Peace and grief ebbs and flows.

I heard the news that a son of an NFL coach in Green Bay died in the Fox River yesterday. My heart aches for the family. I have tears in my eyes and feel pain for the boy's Dad. Such agony.

I've met old timers who have lost sons in their younger days, and old timers who have lost sons in their later days. They all shed tears when they recall their boys. Sadness doesn't end.  Prayers for this dad and his family.