Friday, January 23, 2009

Soup and the Red Tweed Couch

It's amazing how some people who waltz in and out of our lives contribute their own unique flavor to who we are. I wondered why a college buddy of mine took a day off work when George Harrison, the quiet Beatle, died of cancer in 2001. Weeks later, I started to notice a steadily focused, gentle creativity in my friend . . . the kind that probably kept George strumming and singing in the Background of one of the biggest spotlights music has seen. I wondered if my friend buried a little bit of himself when he mourned George that solemn-day-off.

When I returned from overseas in 2005, I was homeless--but absolutely determined to live in the small town where I went to college. A good friend offered her parent's spare room. So, with songs of extreme thankfulness, I moved in with Da and Dw. Over the months of our cohabitation, Dw taught me about cured meats, international music, and Jazz. Da taught me about good salads, clean counters, good deals, and fearless directness. Sometimes, when I have a cilantro'ed salad, memories of sitting at her counter are more solid to me than the bowl in front of my hungry face. There is a big left corner of me that belongs to these once-strangers who became my family.

There is a reason, I think, that laughter sounds so much like crying and tears mark both joy and tragedy. The Lord calls us to love even our enemies, but sometimes, He puts people in our lives who are so easy to love, they change us. It's as if they carve something lovely and permanent in our souls. So, mourning is a celebration. It's a celebration that an exchange of something real has taken place.

Redeemed Birthdays. Redemption Process. Loss and Never Lost.

Aubrey

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