The Message

“Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us, and the art of life is to get the message." ~Malcolm Muggeridge

Brown pelicans skimmed the surface of the Gulf of Mexico.  Mere feathers apart, they searched for food.  The leader flapped his wings and pushed away the sky for his companions who glided effortlessly behind.  He faithfully executed his duty guiding the formation until a wing-mate, seeing him tire, moved forward to assume command.  I watched their precision maneuvers from the deck of a beach house perched upon a sand dune above the Gulf and pondered the troubled state of my marriage.  

    

“I warned you, Bunny,” my friend and spiritual director had cautioned. “The death of a child often strains a marriage to the breaking point. Some of them don’t make it. Are you going to let yours be one of them?

Our daughter Tara and her baby Alden had died. Our grandson Spencer was all but lost to us.  Requests to speak with him continued to be denied. The last thing I wanted was to loose Sam too. Remembering my friend’s admonitions and her refusal to commiserate with my discontent, I pondered my cause for complaint and reexamined the fabric of our relationship.

Sam and I are polar opposites.  He is reserved, thinks before expressing his thoughts, and saves words until they are needed. I, on the other hand, am outgoing, prone to superfluous speech, and quick to offer an opinion that, more often than not, the world could live without.  I am adventurous and spontaneous; a trait that balances Sam’s steadfastness and sometimes gives him permission to rest from responsibility to enjoy life. Our differences can be challenging, but when we are at our best, we have all the bases covered.

Sam’s quietness might be judged by some as detachment. That would be a mistake. Keenly aware of his surroundings, Sam watches. Mostly he watches me—always standing guard, always there to protect with an open hand and a gentle touch, always supporting me being me, and never interjecting unless absolutely necessary.  More than once Sam has saved me from predicament brought on by my impulsiveness by gently pointing out that I am standing perilously close to the edge on an icy cliff in imminent danger of falling off.  I can depend on Sam when I need him, even when I don’t know that I do.

“Please stay with me,” I had begged after Tara's death, fearing grief would devour me if he left me unprotected.  In spite of my pleas, Sam departed, choosing instead long hours at work and the distraction of labor. For the first time in our relationship, I felt abandoned--an unforgivable offense in my grief-stricken state of mind.

Sam is the yin. I am the yang.  He is strong when I am weak, and I’m there for him when he is the one who needs consolation.  What had changed? Why were we estranged? Why was he distant when I needed him the most?

Movement on the Gulf interrupted my thoughts.  With a burst of acceleration, the pelican in front of the flock thrust himself into the water. Trusting his lead, the others plunged into sea behind him.   Amid a frenzy of flashing foam and flapping feathers, the flock emerged from the waves.  A tiny silver fish dangled from each beak and quickly disappeared in one hungry gulp.  Their bounty consumed, the flock rose again to formation. The former leader gracefully slipped to the rear as another moved to the forefront. The change of duty was flawless.  I watched as over and over the pelicans repeated their well-orchestrated maneuvers, and as I watched a knowing slowly began to rise. 

Sam had not abandoned me.  Grief had disrupted the well-honed patterns of our relationship. Grief had robbed us of strength. Grief had stolen the ability for either of us to lead. I wanted desperately to coast behind Sam. I wanted him to ease my way through grief like the lead pelican parts the air for those who follow. Did Sam need the same from me? 

Compassion replaced anger and tears swelled from the depths of love. In the blindness of my own misery, I had not recognized the intensity of Sam’s pain or understood his need for the normalcy of work and the consolation of colleagues.  Tenderness replaced resentment when I imagined his heartache in observing my agony, powerless to make it go away, all the while, bearing the weight of his own despair. 

  

I resolved to release Sam from my expectations and to honor his unique path through sorrow. In time we would rise again to resume the rhythm of our relationship, but for now, just as we are opposites in life, we would be opposites in the way we grieve. 

I watched the pelicans fly away toward morning.  “God speed,” I wished them, "traveling mercies,” I whispered.  "And thank you.”

Reflections:

 “Ask the animals and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will tell you. . .” Job 12:7


“I love to think of nature as an unlimited broadcasting station, through which God speaks to us every hour, if we will only tune in.”~– George Washington Carver


"Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit."~Peter Ustinov

 “Love is a fabric that never fades, no matter how many times it is washed in the waters of adversity and grief.”~Anonymous

“No two people will ever grieve the same way, with the same intensity or for the same duration. It is important to understand this basic truth. Only then can we accept our own manner of grieving and be sensitive to another's response to loss.”~Jinny Tesik, M.A.


--Has stress ever lead to misunderstanding in my relationships? If so, how?
--Is there someone who needs my understanding and compassion?
--To whom do I turn when I need support and consolation? 
--Do I see nature as "a parable whereby God speaks to us"? If so, where have I seen God revealed?