Good evening, Hopespotters! It has been awhile. Is there no greater equalizer than the passage of time and the inevitable busy-ness of life?
I bring you greeting from Hilton Head Island. My husband, boys, and I had the opportunity to get down here for five days leading up to the fourth. It has been extraordinary.Yesterday, I returned to the lovely home where we are staying. To be clear, it is a gift from the best friends I’ve ever had: right on the beach and with a pool. It is luxury beyond our wildest dreams. And we are so grateful for the kindness of our friends who share this home with us.
I returned after a “training run” which I was ill equipped to do in the 90 degree heat. My run was more like an attempt to avoid calls to 911 from the others on the trail. But I persevered and made it home. To the chaise. Where there was a breeze. And I had a wonderful book. My boys were playing in the pool and I was intoxicated by all the blessings around me. It made me very sleepy. Very. Sleepy….
“NO, YOU DIDN’T!”
“YOU SHUT UP!”
I awoke to a “spirited” sibling dispute. Ryan and Sean were having a dunk contest in the pool hoop Kevin built and there was a “disagreement” about Sean’s last attempt. Foggy, I reminded myself that they needed to work it out. Ten minutes later, I was in full on Mom-psycho mode. The banter continued, neither retreating, and ended with Sean full on crying about hating his brother. While these scenes play out universally and daily, I lost patience for the interruption of peace. Both boys were sequestered and clear that Mom was angry.
With expletives deleted, a truce was reached and an agreement to go to lunch in South Beach. Knowing I still needed to “chill”, I opted to ride my bike and meet the boys there.
Allow me to explain: I love to ride a bike. I’m no cyclist, but give me a beach cruiser with a basket and I can really take on the world. When I was a little girl, I had a bike called the “Ramblin’ Rose”, complete with the Shop Rite flag, daisy adorned basket and horn. I would ride that girl up and down the streets of Chatham, New Jersey, pretending I was Wonder Woman and my invisible jet was in the shop. Even when I would visit my grandparents in Arizona, and the adults would be enjoying cocktail hour, I would be tearing up the flat terrain, attending to a “very special out of state mission”.
So hopping on the bike was an act of power on my part. I needed to channel my inner Wonder Woman after the hideous brother battle. As I pedaled through the Sea Pines bike trail, I calmed. Then I heard them, long before I saw them.
What I heard was wailing crying, and a Dad scolding. As I rounded the corner, I came upon the family. Dad, two beautiful blond girls, probably 7 &9, and Mom pulling up the rear, I didn’t know them, but at the same time, I did.
This gorgeous family, in a time of momentary upset, was less recognizable from their social media profile. I could have bet that the beautiful blond girls, crying with open mouths and shooting tears, have matching Lily Pulitzer dresses that they will wear for a Friday evening family photo at the beach. Parents will wear coordinating plaids and the perfect product will wind up on their Christmas card. The accompanying letter may even reference the family trip to Hilton Head, but for sure, it will not mention the trail of tears bike ride. The card might even say #blessed.
But my encounter with them was brief and I was only able to make a very few real observations. Girl #1, for example, wore a t-shirt that said, “Sunshine Girl”. Girl # 2, the louder crier, wore a shirt saying, “Sun-day, Fun- day”. As I smirked at the irony or their shirts, I was delivered a double dose as Mom pulled up the rear. Carrying the inner tubes and beach bags, the stoic faced Mom biked along in a t-shirt that read, “Blessed”.
As I chuckled at the ultimate irony of her t-shirt message, I started to think more about its meaning.
Over the years, many of my patients in hospice have helped me reframe the meaning of blessed. As a young nurse, I couldn’t understand families that I met on the pronouncement of their loved one who could only tell me how blessed they felt. Really?, I thought. Your loved one is dead in the bed upstairs and you feel… blessed??
Those experiences, with the ironies of yesterday’s bike ride, led me to the following thoughts:
Maybe blessed is not the absence of disruption? Maybe blessed doesn’t exist without conflict or doubt? Maybe blessed, in its best form, is imperfect but coupled with a hearty dose of resilience?
As I thought deeper, blessings are originally from God above. God, taught us best about blessings. God understood that loving his children was difficult, followers would waver in support of Him, and maybe blessed is just enough to support and belief to endure suffering.
I’m humbled tonight as Ryan and Sean play amicably and imagine the family on the bike path is preparing for their Friday night photo.
And the rest of us… may we be blessed..with perfect and imperfect and resilience. AMEN.