March 10, 2015
I went to my hairstylist and left with a homemade casserole.
A mutual friend of ours had lost her husband and I was going to see her after my hair appointment.
Ruthy, my hairstylist, stopped cutting my hair mid-clip, placed her scissors on the shelf, rushed into the back room and returned with a frozen Mexican casserole she had made for our friend. I left her salon with a fresh cut and a beef tortilla dish.
That’s what a fellowship of friends, neighbors and strangers do when there is pain.
We come together and figure out a way to help. We feed. We network for resources. We clean the house. We organize fundraisers. Sometimes, we just show up and listen. Often, we try to figure out how to help for just that minute, hour or day. We do little things and big things to lessen the burden.
Our gestures can’t erase the loss, but we hope they can ease the hurt.
Our community is hurting once again. We lost a former local high school football player and current college player who was in the prime of his life – so prime that he was days away from his debut at the NFL Pro Day try-outs. I didn’t know this young man, but I know those who loved him and his family. We have come together to acknowledge the grief that is so present you can taste its bitter residue.
The grief remains, but there is communal love to buffer it for a while. To paraphrase author and pastor William A. Ritter, who lost his son to suicide, some pain cannot be explained, but it can be embraced.
So we embrace.
Last week, I visited a friend who is terminally ill. He is a respected and longtime local leader who made our home better in his quiet, determined way. I’ve always considered him to be our consummate statesman, though he never ran for office. He didn’t seek the political spotlight. He just wanted to make life better for those around him.
And he did. I was surprised when I walked into his room and saw two older men standing by his bed. They, too, had a hand at shaping our city and county into a thriving place to live. They were sharing stories about our friend. We talked about what he meant to each of us and to our community. We took turns holding his hand while remembering his leadership and kindness.
Author Anna Quindlen and her brother lost their mother and his wife at a young age.
“When does it stop hurting? We would have to answer in all honest candor: ‘If it ever does, we’ll let you know.’”
Grief leaves a permanent mark. Compassion leaves a space for love.
I’ve had opportunities to leave home and move away, and I did so a few times. But I kept coming back.
Once, I burned my hand in the kitchen, and it left a wrinkled, reddened blister that oddly resembled the shape of our state. I used to joke it was the “scar of Florida” serving as a visible reminder I can’t leave this place. Over time, the mark faded, but this state, this town, this community — my community — is permanently etched in a sacred spot in my heart.
Where else can you get a haircut and casserole at the same place?
If you live here, this makes complete sense.
