Picture Perfect

At one of my trainings, we were asked to borrow an idea from our 7th grade anthology and quickly write our own story. I chose "The Three Century Woman" by Richard Peck. It's a story of a woman who has lived through three centuries and is being interviewed by the media. The story is narrated by her great-granddaughter. The great-grandmother tells all sorts of lies to keep the reporter entertained. She is feisty, and full of life, despite her age. I found myself reflecting on someone very dear to me who holds many of these qualities, although she is much younger. In one of the most desperate times of my life, and her own, her strong character showed through beautifully. Here's my story:

"We're hanging out at the funeral home. Just come here, " my best friend told me on the phone. "Sure, I'll be there in a few minutes Ryan," I stuttered. "Who hangs out in a funeral home?" I thought to myself.

It had been four days since Ryan's sister had been murdered by her estranged husband. We had been walking around in a state of shock during that time, adjusting to a new life without her. The night before I had left a sad, grieving family, and I braced myself for what I would find at the funeral home.

As I entered the building, I could smell not death, but grief. There were fresh flowers, newly brewed coffee and that sterile smell that comes with a building cleaned often. Quiet, soothing piano music was piped over the speakers.

As I neared the door that was marked for Lauren, I heard laughter. It was not the quiet, muffled giggles of the evening before, but the all out laughter that took me back to birthday parties and holidays at their house. As I entered the room, I saw Ryan and Lauren's best friend, Ashley, sitting in a front pew. But what caught my attention was Sally, Lauren's mother, leaning over the casket. Surrounding her were hairbrushes, make-up, a straightening iron, and hairspray.

"Come see if I have her eye make-up right," she called to me from the front of the chapel. I stood there, open-mouthed until laughing, Ryan came back to me and told me that his mom was making his sister look more like herself for her kids. The mortician had done the best he could, but Lauren's three babies had been terrified of how differently their mother looked.

Reluctantly, I walked up to the casket. I was shocked at what a fantastic job Sally had actually done. Her hair was just right and her make-up was almost perfect. Ryan turned to me and said, "Didn't she wear lip liner?" I laughed and said, "Yes, remember the lipstick was always wearing off, leaving just the line behind?" Ashley emphatically agreed and pulled some out of her purse. She joked Lauren could just keep it; she couldn't wear that color well anyway.

For a long time, I would look back on that afternoon and wonder if we had all lost our minds. Who redoes the hair and make-up of a dead body? But, then I remember Sally standing there, carefully applying the lipliner, not wanting to mess up Lauren's clothes, and I realize I was witnessing a beautiful act of love.

The First Language of Love

I had the wonderful opportunity to spend the weekend with two of my sisters and their beautiful baby boys. For the past five months I have adored my new role as "Auntie". I am very close to my sisters. As Amanda once put it, "We're much more than siblings. We're a pack." So naturally, I feel very close to their sons.

I get to see Daegan, Leslee's son, almost every day. I know him very well. I can tell without seeing his face whether he is telling a story or his babbling talk has turned to complaint and will soon turn to crying. I know how to hold him so he will fall asleep, despite his best efforts to stay awake. My sister and I agree though that the best thing in the world is the way he grins at you when you first show up to pick him up from daycare or when he sees you coming to pick him up from his nap. He can go from screaming to smiling just at the sight of your face. His Aunt Tricia was like this as a baby. Saturday, I looked down at him grinning in his playpen and said, "Do you know you can make a person feel like the most special person in the world?" His mom laughed and said, "I know. It's like you are just who he was hoping to see." How can someone so little, unable to speak make me feel so loved?

I do not get to see his cousin James who lives in Chicago as often, and I find that he has always changed quite a bit between visits, no matter how regular those visits are. I often find myself confused at what this tiny little person is wanting from me. It's hard to love him so much and not know what he's wanting. I often wonder if he knows who I am or how much I already love him. He's developed the best way of answering my unspoken questions. He grabs my face with both his tiny little hands to pull my face to his for a big, open-mouthed kiss. I don't know that that kind of love will ever need words.