Transitions and New Year's

Part 3, Transitions and New Year's


Entering into the new year brings a whole new dimension to the idea of “new year’s resolutions”, as well as dramatic clarity as to what must be overcome. There are days of hope and strength interspersed with hopelessness and tears, often brought on by thoughts of my children. A look, a wave, a “hi daddy” – just the name “daddy” can bring the tears.

New Year’s Eve. I’ve never been a big celebrator of that night anyway. Maybe if it were an opening act for Christmas, instead of a poor follow up for the best possible holiday. The night is often just an excuse for small clubs to charge a cover and for restaurants to rake in the money. I like fireworks, but more at a distance. Too many experiences as a boy watching my neighborhood friends running and crying after accidentally stepping on firecrackers or watching older teens crawling across the grass like soldiers in combat, tossing fireworks like grenades at each other. So instead, I lie on the couch and watch the nighttime explosions. Prior to that, I walked across the street to have snacks at a neighbor’s house, coming and going between houses. I am confident for short periods of time only; most of the time I am rethinking of alcohol as a possible contributor to my condition and how I would be training myself to get out of that habit. Starting on New Year’s Eve of all times. I have recently started drinking hot tea to take the chill off, so I guess now it will be “tea time”.

On New Year’s Day we go to Becah’s mother’s house for what is to be an intimate party. As the day progresses, more people enter, including those who are strangers to me. I am occasionally comforted by their condolences but more frequently unsettled by being the recipient of this negative attention. One visitor is a close family friend; her being there and cheering for LSU against Penn State in a close game helps temporarily divert me from my sadness. When family leaves, though, the reality of my condition settles in like a rainstorm.

The following Saturday morning at home I feel a lessening of my tensions regarding my kids’ behavior. I appreciate just being around them now, cherishing that privilege. When you view your children from a new perspective, the little aggravations become just what they are, very small.

In the late afternoon I reluctantly accompany my wife to a neighbor’s open house, an event made easier to attend by its being only two houses down (I can wander out the door and return home in a few steps if needed). It is chilly, with the kids inside having a tea party and the moms chatting inside while the dads hang out in the back outside by the grill watching a football game as the host flips burgers. The next-door neighbor’s daughter drops by, home from college, looking bright and attractive, talking about learning to surf at her Christmas vacation in Hawaii. Sam, another neighbor, has been taking out more time for family activities and trying to strengthen his marriage. After some socializing, I walk back home for some private time to reflect.

Sunday morning. The first Sunday of the new decade and communion Sunday to boot. How can I play coward and stay home? But I can’t face the choir. I can’t sit with them and try to perform. But if I sit to the side, will they walk over to me during the passing of the peace? Instead, I opt for the contemporary service. We arrive minutes before the service, so I only have to encounter a few friends (most of whom come to Becah anyway and offer condolences). I tear up a few times, but the stand up/up tempo atmosphere helps.

Back at home, I watch the Texans play the Patriots and try to grasp a winning season and possibly get in the playoffs. Becah and my daughters Breanna and Brooke go to the mall for a while and I work out, trying to keep up my strength and release some endorphins to lighten my mood. They return with a stuffed bear built especially for me (with “I love you” recorded by each family member, activated by squeezing the bear’s foot). My oldest daughter Bree sits and watches the game with me, remembering how the Texans play well in the first half but poorly in the second (they will prove us wrong, though, winning the game strongly in the second half).

I see that life will go on regardless of my predicament. The world still turns, the wind blows, the sun and moon still rise.