It Is Holy

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“Tis a Fearful Thing

‘Tis a fearful thing

to love what death can touch.

A fearful thing

to love, to hope, to dream, to be –

to be,

And oh, to lose.

A thing for fools, this,

And a holy thing,

a holy thing

to love.

For your life has lived in me,

your laugh once lifted me,

your word was gift to me.

To remember this brings painful joy.

‘Tis a human thing, love,

a holy thing, to love

what death has touched.” 

― Judah Halevi

I’ve found myself thinking of my dad, dreaming about him in the last few days. I wasn’t quite sure why, and then I remembered that his birthday would have been this week. He would have turned ninety five had he not died at the age of thirty three. Given that his father lived to one hundred eight, and he shared those genes, he might have had thirteen more years ahead of him. Of course that was not meant to be. Instead he was outlived by his mother and his father. He was mourned by his wife and children, children who are now older than he would ever be. Still we think of him, love him, and wonder what life might have been like if he had hung around just a bit more.

Some might consider it impossible to long for someone for sixty two years. It might appear to be neurotic, unhealthy, but it is a human thing to love what death has touched. My father lives on in me and in my brothers, in our children and grandchildren, We see snatches of him and the power of DNA in all of us. Thinking of him does indeed bring painful joy. We cling to the things that we know about him, even though we still have so many questions about who he really was. We see him through the eyes of the children that we were, idealized in many ways because of our innocence. We have learned about him from secondary sources, people who walked and talked with him. They have forgotten his flaws and now only choose to speak of him with a kind of reverence. It is a human thing to be that way. We all do it.

I try to tell my daughters and my grandchildren about him. I don’t seem to have adequate words to reveal his essence, his flesh and blood. They stare at me with blank looks when I attempt to regale them with stories about a man whom they never met. They do not comprehend because they never heard him telling a joke or smiled at the sound of his laughter. They can’t even imagine how much he loved sports, especially his beloved Texas A&M Aggies. They never sat with him on a fishing pier and literally felt his entire spirit soaring with the peace that being near the ocean brought him. They were not lucky enough to accompany him to a bookstore, any bookstore, and to witness his love, his passion, for the written word. They did not see him devouring print while classical music played softly in the background. They never got to watch him smile at his wife with a love and pride that stirred the heart. He is for them only a story, one that is difficult to fully grasp.

Even my brothers are only vaguely able to create a complete picture of him in their minds. A five year old and two year old are only capable of remembering so much. They often come to me for confirmation of the images of him that pop into their minds. They want to know if they are only dreaming or if they have been lucky enough to actually have a small part of him stored away.

Loving is a fearful thing, because sometimes it is punctuated with loss. Loss hurts. It scars. It shatters a part of the soul. Still loving is something that we never regret. We are always better for it. It is human. It is holy.

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