Human beings are strange. We react to tragedy in a million different ways: one with a peaceful smile or relief, another with great gulping sobs, and still another who stares beyond reality, pensively considering bad news with thoughtful disbelief. There are times when we experience each of these reactions in a very short time. And there are times when the reaction is greatly delayed, drawn out, distributed over the story of our lives.
Just last week, I dreamed about my grandmother. We called her Momo. I was very close to her and losing her, several years ago, was difficult. Most of the time, I don't think of her. Her memory doesn't loom over me or haunt me, but only comes to mind occasionally, causing me to pause to try to think of her voice. In my dream, upon discovering she was alive, I exuberant ran into her arms to embrace her. And that's when the dream ended. I suddenly awoke and was catching my breath, perhaps even hyperventilating a bit, audibly swallowing air, and praying that my wife not wake up. But there were no tears. Those tears have been shed. Other deaths have occurred, and with them there have been tears. Tears for my sisters in Christ. Tears for those lost in a tragic storm. Tears for my mother-in-law. Tears for my great uncle. But they don't always come immediately or conveniently. Often they occur in front of strangers. In front of an audience. Or alone with my wife. For years, I have been fascinated with people's tearful responses. As a "people observer", I have seen people turn against God for "taking" this person or that person. I have seen people turn on the church for not responding to their personal losses to their satisfaction. I have seen people wallow in their losses, each year citing the anniversary of a death and spending the day (or days) dreading said anniversary. As this blog is about my books and about writing, we'll get to that part now. If you ever get around to reading my books, you will notice the common theme of death weaves through them all. That's not by design; it's simply because the books, so far, have attempted to draw readers in at a very personal and transformational moment - the moment when a character must deal with the loss of a very close friend of relative. In Crumbling Spirit and in Mumsket, as in Chippin Cleats, death enters by the hands of other humans. I Out of the Wind, death is the result of natural phenomenon. In some cases, the death is sudden and unexpected; in others, it is predictable. In every instance, the reaction of the characters is more interesting than the loss itself. In all instances in my writing, my characters are weakened, but ultimately strengthened and improved as a result of the tragedies described. They tend to question God - or even argue with Him. They are angry at God. They lash out at Him. And then they admit their losses. They turn about and acknowledge God through prayer and the realization that they must move beyond their current situations. In some cases, they do not cry until they come to this realization. The effect is dramatic, but I believe it is also very realistic to the characters I have written. While the process may be shortened in my novels, I still think I have been true to reality in my writing. As for me, I am a writer. I always have been. Since I was a child, I have written to cope with loss, the first time at the loss of a great grandmother by natural causes. In that writing, I wondered why people send flowers to a wedding to celebrate, and then also send flowers to a funeral. Confused by death, I asked questions that have never been (and probably can't be) answered. Writing helps me work through difficult issues of loss, anger, and love. Expressing myself on the written page (or in a computer's word processor) is a natural coping mechanism to keep me balanced and focused, and it gets me back on track to deal with the more "boring" sections of daily life. Those mysterious ways of dealing with sudden tragedy, however, remain a mystery, and the ways in which we all deal with them are intriguing. I don't think we will ever exhaust all of the stories those moments bring. My Great Uncle Donald was a man. That's all. Just a man. Donald was a man. That's true. But, like all men, there were events in his life that made him unique. Indeed, there were people in his life that made him special.
When I was a kid, this red-haired man was more of an encounter and less of a man. He was more of a dread and less of an uncle. I recall standing in my great grandmother's kitchen. Alone with my great uncle. Looking up at him as he recounted some dirty joke. It was inappropriate at any age, but especially so considering mine. To my credit, I did not understand and cannot remember what he said - only that he said it. Afterwards, he balled up his fist, stuck out his middle knuckle, and ground it into the top of my head, all the while trapping me within the crook of his opposite elbow. I suppose giving "noogies" a way of showing affection. Uncle Donald was the man who constantly "stole my nose" and wouldn't give it back! As silly as that seems, I took it personally, and I was clearly upset, but he was relentless. I guess to understand the man is to know his history. To a little boy those things - the wartime experience and the failing marriage - don't mean much, and they don't excuse any sort of abuse, but they do help a grown man to understand. Uncle Donald was a tough guy, and the whole of the thing is this: I didn't like him very much. A few years later, a new Christian wife, his own life transformed by an obedient relationship with Christ, and even a new responsibility of preaching in a small congregation in rural Oklahoma, another part of this ordinary man was made obvious. Not only was he tough, but he was also sensitive and gentle. The crusty exterior fell away to reveal a soft filling. In her battle with Alzheimer's, Donald's wife was never alone. He doted over her, perhaps too much, waiting on her hand and foot, long after she became bedridden and incoherent. It was both painful and endearing to witness. One of his last great acts was to preside over my parents' renewal of vows for their 50th anniversary. Uncle Donald was able to express his own love for my family in the midst of their enduring love for each other. Nearly completely blind for several years, he was still just a man. But he was a man made great through his reaching out to express love to me, almost embarrassingly at times, perhaps making up for those old days when he bullied me. I think he felt the guilt of mistreating me, though I easily forgave him and understood the tremendous changes he made to improve. He embraced my wife, and he made a special connection with my daughter, when she finally got to spend an extended time with him, this past summer. In his last days, in the throes of suffering, he would often call out to her with their catch phrase: "I'm OK." Before 5:30, this morning, my great uncle peacefully passed from this life. Donald Warren Ellis was just a man, but he became so much more as his time on earth matured. Bully no more. Inappropriate no more. Loved and missed forever. |
AuthorD. Ed. Hoggatt is an award-winning fourth grade teacher. Click Titles to Order Now
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July 2017
RECOMMENDED READING
Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko
Because of Mr. Terupt by Rob Buyea Charlotte's Web by E. B. White Chippin Cleats by D. Ed. Hoggatt Crumbling Spirit by D. Ed. Hoggatt Echo by Pam Muñoz Ryan Hatchet by Gary Paulsen Holes by Louis Sachar Loser by Jerry Spinelli Mumsket by D. Ed. Hoggatt Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse Out of the Wind by D. Ed. Hoggatt Petey by Ben Mikaelsen Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary Stone Fox by John Reynolds Gardiner There's a Boy in the Girls' Bathroom by Louis Sachar Touching Spirit Bear by Ben Mikaelsen Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls Yankee Girl by Mary Ann Rodman |