Yesterday a girlfriend and I shared stories about our treasured Hummel figurines. We each have one statuette, long-ago broken and sloppily glued, but valued for memories it evokes. Hummel’s name for my figurine is Postman. When we cleaned out my aunt’s condo after she died, I immediately claimed Postman to remember her by; Aunt Pat was a prolific letter and postcard writer. My sister said, “You know, most Hummels don’t sell for much.” But I didn’t care, because I didn’t plan to sell Postman. Every day of the eighteen years since Pat died, I have looked at Postman on my dresser and felt the bright warmth of someone who so often thought of me.
By all accounts, my years were blessed with much happiness. But I also had hurts. I was lonely. I struggled deciding how best to handle relational conflict and life transitions. I buried troubles, carried burdens. Like everyone, I experienced a little heaven, a little hell. But whatever my wows or worries, when I saw one of Aunt Pat’s missives in my mailbox, I felt loved. She was thinking of me! In the midst of her busy life, she sat down and jotted me a line.
Discussing my Hummel Postman with my friend yesterday transported me back to the weeks before Aunt Pat’s death. When a stroke hospitalized her, my uncle tearfully pleaded with me to come for support. I did. It was a heart-wrenching time. My brother-in-law, who was nearby for business, joined my uncle and me. My uncle and Pat had had theater tickets for one night that week. I wanted to stay back at the condo to e-mail my shocked family all the medical drama, as everybody was eager for updates. But my uncle and brother-in-law went to the play.
Surprisingly, they returned laughing hysterically. When they relayed the evening’s hilarity, tears of laughter streamed down our cheeks. First, while walking to their seats, my uncle face-planted in the aisle. Once seated, the woman next to him asked loudly if anyone had a pen she could use. So everyone in their row and the row behind tried to help by calling out, “Anyone have a pen?” When no one produced a pen, the woman said, “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to use my own.” So that was ridiculously silly. And then my uncle laughed, “And for those who didn’t see it the first time, I belly-flopped again!” Oh, how we needed that tension reliever. A few days later after leaving my aunt’s hospital room for what I suspected would be the last time, I collapsed in a puddle of grief, saved from crashing to the floor by my quick-thinking brother-in-law. The only sliver of light in our dark misery was that funny incident at the theater.
This morning, as I recalled my uncle’s timely tale of levity, I dissolved laughing at the memory of that much-needed respite. In a flash, however, I found myself sobbing at the sadness of all my losses of beloved people over the last twenty or so years. Sometimes, one’s grief is simply overwhelming.
What to do with my grief? My pep talk to myself is this: Feel it, work through it, of course. Lament. Realize that even though your Aunt Pat’s postage stamps no longer tell you you’re thought of, your heavenly Father does. Psalm 139 says How precious are your thoughts toward me. Furthermore, I’m the apple of His eye. (Psalm 17) He rejoices over me with singing. (Zephaniah 3) No stroke or postage stamp rate hike can take those from me. Choose joy. Let your Postman figurine prompt memories of love over your lifetime . Find the good, the laughable. Be kinder. Draw near to others.
And—in tribute to my Aunt Pat—Jot someone a line to let her know you’re thinking of her. As a bonus, enclose something humorous to bring laughter into whatever tension or sadness she feels or add to her joy.
So, “Anyone have a pen?”
No? “Well, I guess I’ll use my own.”
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