I Should Be Sleeping

I'm in South Carolina, stylishly ensconced in a posh beach resort courtesy of half-off rates I stumbled across while perusing 'Hotels.com' for . . . well, hotels. A resort just yards from the white sand along the Isle of Palms strip of the Atlantic Ocean never crossed my fiscally conservative mind as an option. And, then in a display of online providence, the proper combination of website advertising, pricing and need culminated in a mental explosion, decision, purchase, which led me, my husband and my son to the Wild Dunes Resort on one of the many small islands dotting the harbor town of Charleston where, incidentally, the first official battle of The Civil War was fought. (The Confederates won and held their position until just days before the North emerged victorious in the overall struggle.)

In the main, we had a swell time. Sunrise on the beach was all you'd think it was cracked up to be. A molten sun spilled rich color, reminiscent of ripe fig and peach, across the gentle waves of the morning sea and led right to where we stood in awe of the sight. Of course, compulsive girl that I am, I recorded it on digital camera and cell phone and IPHONE, sending text messages out to a few chosen friends and family as the scene unfolded. (Maybe there should be a TAKE 2 in eight hours and 21 minutes without the tourist aspect. Just me, my God and the natural tableau which allows day to usurp night.)

However, this is not a forum for extolling the virtues of the 'Fall Break Impromptu Getaway.' Though, it's not the worst idea I ever had. Nor is it a free endorsement for 'Wild Dunes' -- though they give real meaning to truth-in-advertising. What this is, as I sit in the dark of the living room in our 1-bedroom well-appointed semi-condo room with palm trees just outside our terrace, while my two men slumber in the aftermath of prime college football viewing with bellies yet swollen from a pizza-and-dessert gorge at Whole Foods Market, is a painfully sharp contrast to the end-of-the-day being had by people we love living half a country away from us at present.

While we cruised the bicycle paths up and down the incredible streets of our island getaway on rental bikes, our cell phones were busily ringing and beeping and vibrating within our backpack of trip necessities. I told my main man to leave them be. They'd still be there when we completed our tour of colorfully fantastic beach homes and lazy lagoons full of turtles and wading fowl. But, the sounds of technology would not cease and my husband could not long endure the thoughts of concern over their frequency.

On both of our mini-screens were missed calls from his mother and brother. Not a good sign as they knew we were on vacation and would not chat us up without good reason. Oh, how I wish that had not been the case. The one side of the conversation my son and I witnessed stirred a deep sense of unease within us. The news relayed doused all fires of fun and frolic: someone had died.

Early this Saturday morning, on a road leading into Walsenburg, Colorado, black ice conspired with the wheels of a vehicle to convey a young man of nineteen years to his death as he made his way from college to his parents' home for the weekend. Jonathon Aguirre, son to Chuck and Josephine Aguirre, brother to Michelle, Rachel, DesiRae, Bryan, Debra and Joseph, grandson to Ben and Virginia Aragon, nephew to Juanita Aragon, relative and friend to countless, met his end in a lonely random car accident. Because he was late and they were worried, his mother and father ventured out in search of him and happened upon the scene just moments after he was pulled from the driver's seat and swiftly escorted to the local hospital. He was most likely killed upon impact. A small blessing to consider that he did not suffer. We look where we can for any consolation available at such dark times as these.

This kid . . . he was special. Truly. These are not the post-mortem superlatives of a grieving cousin. I say he was exactly what he was in life and will be remembered as such long past his death. He liked and was well-liked. You'd wish him to be the visitor at your table for any occasion. He was a cure for the rainy-day blues. Smiles and laughter seemed to originate from the center of his being in a never-ending supply available to any and all at no charge. Baseball was his passion. He played it well and with vigor. His sense of discipline was impressive in one so young: he cared for his body through food and exercise as though he believed it to be the temple the Lord says it is. Though distance kept us from seeing him often, the time in which we collectively shared space and conversation was so memorable that we replayed our impressions of him over and over again. My kids found him charming; my middle daughter thought him worthy to date had there not been blood between them.

We last basked in the glow of his attention during our vacation in July of this year. At one point, I wandered away from the kitchen at our Aunt Donna's house only to return fifteen minutes later. Jonathon glanced my way, that wide red smile in place, and exclaimed, "Where'd you go? Sit down here. I want to visit with you!" Now, I wish I'd spent the entire evening sitting at that old oak table with him. Later that night, I lovingly and firmly ordered the entire Aguirre troupe to pose on the newly-erected porch steps of the house on the family hill for a group photo. Jonathon thought it the perfect ending to a festive evening. You can see it in his face when you look at the picture. When we set foot in the 'Boro, I plan on enlarging that shot and framing it for his parents. Never have I been more pleased to be the annoying point-aim-and-shooter of our large clan.

I want them to know they did well. By them, I mean his mom and dad. That should extend to his grandparents, too, as he and his siblings grew up in their home. They worked hard raising those children, with Jonathon as number three, and they heaped love and attention in massive amounts. He represented the Aguirre family well and naturally. He loved each and every one of his siblings in a very openly affectionate manner. Their closeness was noticed by all of us cousins. I can not bear to imagine the hole his untimely passing has left in each of their hearts. I pray the Lord's grace upon them at this time. I pray the countless healing tears will fall and soothe the seemingly endless ache within. I pray time, family and friends will facilitate healing in the days, weeks, months and years which follow the initial shock of this tragedy.

Though intimately acquainted with the agony which accompanies the sudden unanticipated loss of children, I've not lost my own. Whatever contemplations I've entertained in the past few years can not begin to taste as bitter as the draught which has been forced on Josephine and Chuck. I share a mother's grief with this mother of seven. People often say it must be easier to bear a child's death when there are more children yet left. I don't agree. She has merely magnified maternal feelings seven-fold . . . her mourning is thus magnified to this same extent.

I yearn to bear at least one-fold of this burden for a woman who has lost the first son of her womb and of her heart. And, I'm intensely sorry for the loss this planet endures in losing one of its finest persons. We are all dimmed in his absence.

Godspeed, Jons.

Me and P. Diddy

I mourned in the midst of perhaps one of my most enjoyable summer activities - digging. Picture me, my red-handled shovel, my classic I-POD with the leopard print cover, and a Bermuda- and crabgrass-infested flower bed. I'm situated on the wide expanse of lawn in front of our church; that's the Church at Cross Point located on Dill Lane here in the 'Boro if you'd like to drop in this Sunday. (Let's see: thus far we have Bermuda grass and Christ in the hizzat. Here comes the third in the trinity . . . ) My collection of oddly dispersed fat cells is covered by bright blue Nike shorts; one of Jimmy's perfectly acceptable old Bronco t-shirts tops off the ensemble.

It's my gift to the assembly today - landscaping. Two and a half hours of 92 degrees with mild humidity and the sun bearing down on me in a very direct, full-on August summer manner. The brim of my pink camouflage cap is saturated with sweat which continually drips into my eyes. Cars cruise by, coming and going, some with kids yelling, a few with stereos thumping, most with harried housewives or sedate seniors rolling in and out of their little piece of terra firma. The music on my I-POD is the 'Jesus Songs' list. Did I choose it based on my location? I don't believe so, but we can't fully rule out subconscious influences. Lord knows I possess plenty.

Today I start with reclaiming the border - nonexistent. My progress is measured by a series of jumps and yanks on the shovel. To the casual onlooker, I wonder if I resemble a giant spastic blue-and-orange bunny rabbit. It is monotonous and the edge reveals itself sl-o-w-l-y. Thank the Lord for my Valentine's Day gift of two years ago (I wasn't aware I needed an I-POD until it was bestowed upon me) . . . the music encourages me to move along like any good Christian soldier. I'm glad to accomplish a needed task, to provide a service, to burn a pound's worth of calories. Every so often, I belt out the lyrics as I reacquaint myself with God being good all the time and the Alpha, Omega, Beginning and End, Savior, Messiah, Redeemer and Friend.

My patience eventually pays off - all done. At least with the perimeter. What remains for me as the final notes of the last song ebb is a vista of weeds gone wild. The abnormal and plentiful rains of July created an intricate web of matted vines and runners with no clear beginning or end. UGH! I click on a tune which samples heavily from a classic by 'The Police' - 'Every Breath You Take.' It's P'Diddy, Puff Daddy, Sean Combs, just Diddy - take your pick - singing (is that the right word?) 'I'll Be Missing You' - his tribute to the death of fellow rapper and friend, 'The Notorious B.I.G.' I'm not a fan of either dude though Sean worked it out as Walter Lee Jr. in 'Raisin In The Sun.'

The first handful of knotted roots has barely cleared the deck when the tears hit - unexpected. I feel that familiar punch-in-the-gut of grief. Where moments ago both satisfaction and pleasure over a productive day reigned, a resurgence of sorrow for the losses in my life welled and spilled over, literally, onto the red earth below, my tears mingling with beads of perspiration. There before me were Grace and Gabriel, my young niece and infant nephew, shockingly killed and terribly missed. I saw my youngest brother, Gary and the trail of broken and wasted years fanning out behind him, lost to prison, misunderstanding and misdiagnosis, drugs, an overworked legal system. I thought of what my sister, Rebekah, endured, and endures, so unnecessarily due to one-time ignorance on the part of everyone and misfired chemical processes which betrayed the body of a young woman who desired from her earliest years to be a mother, first and foremost. I allow the triple-header of tornadoes, in both physical and emotional forms, which blasted through my life this past spring and summer, to take shape and assume the mourning position.

This collection of woes coalesces, a tense ball of fury and lament, weaving its way in and around the bass line of the song, gathering strength and then lessening in ferocity, backing down, breaking into smaller and smaller parts, until they once again assimilate into the whole of me. I thank the Lord for His gracious company in the midst of these many hardships. I welcome the lessons despite the cost of the learning. He allows me to be a soothing balm to others who grapple with the unexpected blows and cruel knocks of this hapless world. I know He created this opportunity to stir the well within to keep it from bubbling over as it continues to press deeper into the fertile ground of my heart, running over the debris collected in the dark corners, washing clean the wounds of sadness until the the waters run clear.

The clouds drift across the face of the sun. P'Diddy's ditty fades into another selection a bit more upbeat. The moment passes. I am back in the presence of the living, the present, the here and now. Time to step away from the gardening mess and pick up my daughter from school. Everything, and I do mean everything, will be here, waiting for me, for another opening. They'll be missing me.