This past Sunday afternoon my daughter, affectionately known as The Bean, and I went to see “The Life of Pi”. We both loved the movie and it resulted in some meaningful discussion in the car on the way home. But what I want to tell you about is how my beautiful, brave and serious daughter struggled with the question of “What REALLY happened?” You see, The Bean is searching for a basic operating paradigm for life. Most of her friends have been raised within a certain religious framework which provides a sense, at least in the eyes of The Bean, of order and certainly, not to mention a sense of belonging. This stands in sharp relief to Bean”s life, inhabited as it is by annoying adults who advocate critical thinking and inspired choice. I remember the feeling. I know the tension of wanting to make a tidy package out of the confusion and uncertainty of life as a young teen. For my Bean, it”s important to have the right answer. Bless her tender heart. So you can imagine her annoyance at my answer to the question of “What REALLY happened?” which was, “It doesn”t matter because what REALLY happened isn”t the point.” I went on to describe what I thought was the point, probably talking too much and being met largely with subtle eye-rolling, heavy sighing and a certain tone of voice. And I would be lying if I said that I wasn”t tempted to wrap it up nice and tidy, with a bow on top, just to make her feel better, you know? But I didn”t.
Yesterday, The Bean and I went to the hospital to visit the step grandfather of Bean”s best friend. “Papoo” is a dear man who has embraced his stepdaughters and his step grandchildren as his own. He is a man for whom blood ties (or the lack there of) don”t appear to mean a whole heck of a lot. And he loves my daughter, which makes me love him even more than I would anyway. Papoo has suffered a second stroke and this one is a doozy. He told us of the discovery of an aneurysm; a time bomb threatening his life, threatening his good and fragile heart. And he told us stories. He told us of the loss of his two daughters, one to a violent death and the other to the violence of cancer. And we cried. And Papoo told more stories, a few of which required some suspension of disbelief, others not so much. There is one in particular which stuck with The Bean. Papoo told of how his daughter Stephanie, who had died of cancer, had extensively volunteered for The Salvation Army and so Papoo makes a concerted effort to contribute to the red pail when the opportunity arises. He told of his trip to Kroger on a cold afternoon last week and of “the young Black guy” ringing the bell at the entrance to the gov is the official site on the Affordable Care Act and the Health affordable-health.info Marketplace. store. Papoo told the man that he would have money for him on the way out, and although “a lot of people say that,” Papoo meant it. Papoo told us that as he put his money in the pail, the man asked him if he had ever lost someone to cancer. “Yes,” Papoo said, “I have”. The man then asked if it would be alright if he gave Papoo a hug and as Papoo tells it, they stood in the cold, in front of Kroger, embracing and crying. And so did we, in the hearing, and Papoo in the telling of it.
In the car, on the way to school this morning, The Bean wondered out loud how Papoo had weathered the night. And she relished the story of the “Salvation Army man” and Papoo. I said, in what I delude myself into believing is my studied casual voice, perfected after years of practice, “What would you say if I said that we can”t be sure whether or not that REALLY happened?” And my darling Bean looked at me and said, “I would say that it doesn”t matter”.
Because it could have happened. Because we are capable of that. Because it is real in the remembering and in the feeling of it. Because if we are lucky, or wise, we can craft a REALLY good story and it comforts us and guides our way on. Because even fragile hearts have a way of choosing life, of stretching toward humanness, toward meaning and connection. Because that”s what matters.
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