I attend Sunday school with old people. I have usually been the youngest in my class, but not too long ago two classes combined and now I am in a room with a group that includes friends of my parents and now also my grandparents. Honestly I do not always enjoy the new mix. It would be nice to study with peers of my own, people in a common stage of life. I am smart enough, however, to acknowledge their experience brings wisdom we'd otherwise miss, and to admit I have unfortunately already shared too many experiences that are only common amongst the elders.
One thing I've observed is we tend to trail off topic a bit more frequently. It's sometimes a challenge for my mind to slow down, let go of the focus and have patience to wander along with the conversation. A couple of weeks ago, class was so derailed I'm not sure any us even knew what the intended topic had been. I have no doubt, though, the derailment was intended for me. As the gentleman stated he wished to address the class I was of no consideration to him, but I left believing what he said was meant for my ears.
He spoke at length and began with the loss of his wife. He then told of a widow with whom he later began a friendship when wintering in Texas. His spouse passed relatively quickly while hers did not. She'd made 28 trips to the hospital with her husband and would never put herself through that heartache again. Personally I'd lost count of my ventures, but I was completely with her on that decision. Best case scenario, someone is still dying so no thanks. He said he belonged to a club that believes men should remarry as soon as possible after the loss of their wife. He's kidding, right? But they enjoyed each other's company, so he respected her choice and continued with the friendship. You're eighty-something, so why the heck not? He mentioned another friendship with a widow after returning home that he didn't feel free to pursue. His friends within said club confronted him, informing him he was a disgrace to the organization of which he'd been a member for sixty years and should be ashamed of what he'd been doing. He's fucking kidding me, right? He's old. And dating. So what? Surely we outgrow this bull shit by eighty. There's got to be an age that gets you a free pass on the judgments of man and man-made clubs. He spoke a bit more then he turned to his right, addressed the two men next to him by name and asked if he'd left anything out. Oh, snap! He is not at all kidding...I can not believe we don't outgrow that shit by eighty. He had been moved to tears, and had mentioned the morning's sermon theme that moved him to address our class was 'today is the day.'
I wanted to say to him, thank you. Thank you for continuing your friendship with your friend in Texas. I'm only 37, yet I can't fathom the idea of remarrying and taking care of someone to that degree again. The thought turns my stomach, but I don't believe God intends for us to be alone, either. I didn't say it. I was nearly moved to tears, too. I left knowing that I needed to hear him, but wasn't yet sure what my Sunday school lesson exactly was that day.
I haven't forgotten it. Listening to him and his heartache has stayed front & center on my mind. I needed to hear what her fear had cost him. Not necessarily the friendships of the boys club...I'm not sure I can call those true friends or a real loss. But he sacrificed what he desired of a relationship, compromised his beliefs to be with her, supportive of her needs and boundaries. And her fears and grief. Here was a good man of God, grieving because of her fears and grief. What am I letting go of in order to hang tight to my own? Am I really okay with that?
I don't think I am. My lesson was that it's probably time to let go of my fears and grief, and let myself risk holding tight to someone else again. I've got close to another 50 years before I'm eighty-something, so why the heck not? There are still memories that turn my stomach if I consider the possibility of repeating them, but I don't believe I should allow those to cause a good man grief of his own. And I don't believe God intends for me to be alone, either.
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