Last night I had a dream about my cousin Dan. I'm one of those
people who recalls dreams vividly and is fascinated by the world unseen
that we all hold within. I enjoy hearing people's dreams, but I
sometimes curb the desire to share the details of my own because I know
the dreamer finds their night-life more bewitching than others do.
In
this dream, my Aunt Sherry and Aunt Carol were present, as well as my
Aunt Lamoine-- Dan's mother-- and her daughter Sarah-- Dan's youngest
sister. Annika and Aidan were the only two I remember from my little
family, and we were all crammed into a glass-walled hospital room,
visiting Dan, who sat upright in a hospital bed with the left side of
his face pink from the burn that landed him there. The entire left side
of his body had somehow caught on fire in the dairy barn, but his face
just looked harmlessly pink, like a baby fresh-scrubbed.
Everyone
was visibly disturbed and upset. Tears and simmering anger spilled as
one member unwrapped old family skeletons, and closed wounds opened
afresh. I felt awkward and out-of-place. They were part of something
that I should not be present for, so as I prepared to leave, I hugged
Dan and told him I loved him, something I never would have done in real
life. I left the hospital, and then I awoke.
Devoid of
the color and detail that linger from having experienced a dream, this
retelling falls flat. I only share it because while sometimes dreams
seem to spring from thin air, this one had a solid tie to waking hours.
Yesterday evening, while sorting through a stack of summertime papers,
most of which should have already found their way to the recycling bin, I
came across Dan's obituary. My throat instantly tightened, and I put
it into the pile of papers to keep. Anything else seemed irreverent.
The recycling bin seemed a sorry place for
those few words that try and fail to sum up a life.
Dan
was unique. He was six years older than me but had a warmth and eye
for others that made people feel more connected to him than we might
otherwise. Often at family gatherings, he would make his way over to me
and engage in a bit of jolly banter, with a big grin and a laugh.
Looking back with adult eyes, I can see he probably did so because I was
lingering on the sidelines, feeling out of my element. He made others
feel comfortable. He had the love of Jesus.
I have 23
first cousins on my mother's side of the family. Even with distance
between, we're all bound up in a big ball-- that potent stew of family
pride, heritage, and shared story that you just can't shake-- the one
that roots a person to place and people. My cousins were my closest
playmates growing up, even those who lived in South Carolina (then West
Virginia) and Delaware. We saw the out-of-state cousins only once a
year, but they were my
cousins, and I was closer to them than I was to my friends from school.
I
used to unconsciously split all of us into groups according to age and
playmates. Those younger than me didn't fully count, except for my
brother Luke, Tim, Melody, and Ray, because they were mostly too young to
join the fun during that golden age of play. The Too-Old-for-Play group
didn't count, either-- those cousins
with whom I had some awed contact but who had matured beyond existence
in my sphere. As I grew older, both the younger and the older cousins
entered my orbit, but from my limited vantage point at the age of ten,
moving upward but stopping short of the Too-Old cousins, it went
something like this: my cousin-neighbor Mike, Christina, Lisa, and I;
Leah, Sarah, Cara, Matt, Mark, and my brother Pete; and finally, my
sister Becky, Dan, and my oldest brother Andy to round out the bunch.
I've
always paired Andy and Dan together in my head because they share a few
similarities. They're roughly the same age and look a bit alike; they
each have four children who are nearly the same age; they're both men
whose great talents revolve around building, making, and fixing; they
love the outdoors; and they're warm and affable and make others feel at
ease. One detail of my dream that I didn't mention is that in it, Dan
looked
more like my brother Andy then he did himself. Dreams are funny like
that.
After waking this morning and while our children were still
sleeping, my husband convinced his out-of-shape girl to go on a morning
run with him, and as we jogged along our country road, I thought of Dan
and Karen running their country road on an early Saturday morning exactly seven weeks ago,
unaware that everything was about to change. The hit-and-run driver
that struck them and killed Dan carries the weight not only of Dan's
life, but also of Karen's life and their children's lives, now bereft of best
friend and beloved father.
This isn't normal shotsnaps
fare, but my thoughts today are a bur centered on Dan, Karen, and their
children. A few words stammered to honor a man whose love made him
great. A few words sent like tendrils to his children, the youngest of
whom is the age of our oldest. A few words to remember Karen in her
sorrow, for even with the great Hope she has, the truth of heaven and a
joy-filled greeting, the grief must seem unbearable at times. Pray with
me-- would you?-- that the Father continues to bolster her for its
bearing.
