A mere 25 years ago …
Fumbling my front door key, I heard the telephone ring inside. As I turned the knob, I heard the familiar voice leaving a message.
Dropping everything and tripping over everything else, I raced for the phone. I would not let this call go unanswered. It was my mother-in-law. She rarely ever called us. I always called her. I knew it had to be something important.
And it was. She called to say how beautiful the flowers were that we had sent her this Wednesday before Valentine’s Day. Those flowers. She went on and on about that red and white bouquet, proclaiming them the most beautiful she’d ever received, ever touched, ever savored. How they had brightened a painful day.
Her pain was real. Her pain increased by the day. Her pain, driven by a merciless disease that was destroying her body. The flowers we had sent had eased her pain. That was all I needed to hear.
But we talked. She laughed, she made me laugh. Her voice rung as strong as I had known it since I was sweet 16 and had been kissed by her son for the first time.
Our flowers had made her day. Her call made mine. She told me how much she loved me, her son, her grandson. I reminded her how much I, all three of us, loved her.
I saved that message on the answering machine, uplifted every time I listened to it the next three days.
Then the phone rang again on that third day with the news that Janice was gone. That precious conversation had been our last.
On Valentine’s Day, my husband, Roger, and I journeyed to Florida to say goodbye and celebrate the life of this incredible woman, one of my dearest friends.
As friends and family gathered for an informal memorial service on the front lawn of her Florida home, my palms dampened the papers in my hand. I had wanted to say something, anything, and unexpectedly the words had fallen from my heart and fingertips that morning. These words, the echo of how she had always encouraged me. Now, I only prayed I had the strength to share them with those gathered.
The minister asked if anyone else had something to say. I raised my hand as if in school and moved to the front, under the bluest and clearest Florida sky I had ever witnessed. I signaled my husband to stand beside me, to give me strength. It was then I shared my love of a 61-year-old wife, mother, grandmother, sister, and dear, dear, friend, gone far too soon …
***
Life is a beach. Or so I learned from a dear friend of mine.
It was on this beach I met a woman named Janice. She had five children, the eldest of which was smitten with me. She had created a sand castle in which there was great love and affection, an abundance of laughter and craziness, and organization within the chaos. She had created a home in which there was always room for one more, two, three, 30. You get the picture.
It was on this beach that life’s greatest lessons were taught. Compassion, respect, how to share, how to fight fair, how to make do with what you had, yet how to aspire and become a better person or the person you wanted to be. It was where a painfully shy 16-year-old girl was sucked into a robust family and had her life forever transformed by love, kind words, hugs, and a thousand different funny faces. She was the first one outside my family to call me Monty. I guess that was a sign that we were meant to be family. Yes, all her children were changed and enriched by her, whether they were nurtured in the womb or taken under her wing along this walk on the beach.
Life is a beach. Or so I learned from a dear friend of mine.
Janice had a love of family and fierce loyalty that was unsurpassed. Nobody was going to mess with her kids. However, at the same time, she encouraged us to make our own decisions, right or wrong. When I became one of her kids, I learned of the unique relationship she had with each of us. She always made you the center of her universe even when there were a dozen others in the room. That was the beauty of her love. I’d go to her and complain, “My parents don’t understand me.” She’d say, “Maybe, but they love you so much.” In turn, she taught me to appreciate, love and understand my parents more.
Life is a beach. Or so I learned from a dear friend of mine.
No one symbolized the fun and togetherness of the holidays greater than Janice. No one was more excited when opening gifts, with each unveiling like the discovery of a rare shell hidden under the sand. No one else could create the most magical Christmas even when times were lean. No one else could lead the charge to transform a Charlie Brown tree into a majestic though crooked monument that withstood the great earthquakes of running and rowdy children and grandchildren, and an occasional stray animal.
Life is a beach. Or so I learned from a dear friend of mine.
Through her guidance, I unraveled as many great mysteries of life as granules of sand on this beach. I owe her and Ivan so much for giving me the two greatest joys and most rewarding challenges of my life, my husband, Roger, and our son, Gordo. Yes, she’s the one I’d call and whine when they were driving me crazy. Her greatest advice? Just smile and nod at appropriate intervals. And it worked.
Life is a beach. Or so I learned from a dear friend of mine.
She had one of those built-in detectors that could mine the greatest treasures from under the surface of the sand. No, she was not a millionaire, nor did she aspire to be, though anything she had she would have given to her family. Yes, she was the matriarch. She was that proverbial guiding light, that power behind the throne, defiant, determined, stubborn, sometimes demanding, certainly never shy, and just a bit outspoken. She could spar with the best of them and leave them in her dust.
Yes, life is a beach. Or so I learned from a dear friend of mine.
She’s now the wind that shapes the waves. How do we know? Because of the warmth in its magical touch.
She’s now the water that nourishes us. How do we know? Because of the softness yet strength that embraces us.
She’s now that seagull that celebrates the sunrise. How do we know? She’s the one that chatters more than the rest. Yes, that’s the one.
***
After I had finished, I had faltered only three times, re-energized by the smiles of those who had listened to my message from the heart. After embracing family, I made my way to the back. I stared at the display of photos next to the minister, certain that Janice would have been pleased with my words.
Then it happened.
The noise made me look upward, that heavenly sound that forever changed my life. The smile that warmed my tear-stained cheeks.
A lone seagull flew overhead, chattering louder than any bird I could ever remember encountering in my many seaside visits. It seemed to hover for a moment, singing its silly song, and then flew toward the sea where it belonged. Just as I had predicted in my essay.
In that instant, I knew there was a heaven, a place where pain disappears, where a greater love takes flight.
Life suddenly made sense in this message carried on the wings of a laughing seagull. Yes, life is a beach, as I learned from a dear friend of mine. And someday we will walk there again together.
So, what’s your story? Drop me a line at monicavestwheeler@gmail.com or leave a comment. I’d love to speak to your group, organization or company about working our way through the pain and challenges of everyday life. You want straight talk? You got me!
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