It’s been almost four months since Jon “relocated.” Some people will say that he just plain died, and that the idea of heaven is comforting nonsense. Well, when I need money, I know that no amount of wanting will make it materialize. Staring in a skinny mirror doesn’t take off pounds. And I can think positively about my teaching skills ’til the cows come home, but unless I plan my lessons, I waste my students’ time and look like an idiot. The practical product of a bookkeeper and an engineer, I am given to pragmatic rather than wishful thinking, and this has led me to believe in God. Because of this, I’d say that Jon is having the time of his life. Believing it doesn’t make me miss him less; it makes me miss him more and want to be where he is.
But I am still fixed in earth time, and May 18 was Jon’s earth birthday. His mother said that she labored all night on the 17th of May, 1953, thinking, “If the sun will just come up, I can bear the pain.” And the sun finally rose, and Jon arrived–blue eyed and jaundiced. Miriam dressed him in a yellow going-home outfit, and I am told that the combination was unfortunate. Eventually though, Jon pinked up, grew strong and determined, and the rest is history. So on May 18, 2012, we celebrated the creation of Jon Shehane– only in this case, the sun was going down.
For the first time in his life, Tim was in charge of the birthday bonfire. This took some doing, as he used green wood to build it. So he squirted lighter fluid on the pile and lit a match. Fire blazed magnificently for a moment and then crapped out. He tried it again with the same results. Eventually, we all trudged off in different directions collecting kindling. Six year old Shauna was especially enthusiastic about this– Papa had always let her help. Cardboard, sticks, scrap wood and dry logs later, the fire was flaming and the grandchildren couldn’t contain their excitement.
When Shauna is happy, she giggles, talks a mile a minute and hops up and down; Two year old Eagan screeches and runs, and it’s hard to tell whether his shrieks are happy or unhappy. In this case, he was clearly having a great time. Whether it was staying up late and being in the dark, or the fire, or prowling cats and barking dogs that juiced him up, I don’t know, but he ran and hollered and was almost too excited to eat the s’more we offered him.
Finally, we lit the sky lanterns, held them up while they expanded, and released them into the darkness. For a second, their light illuminated the upturned faces of the children. We stood together, watching as the glowing paper balloons sailed over the treetops into the sparkling night sky, disappearing into the distance.
For a minute, it seemed to me that the darkness was bigger and the bonfire paler because Jon was not standing on that hill with us. I missed his strength, his laughter, the intensity of his gaze. But then hope began to drift into the darkness of my soul, just as the sky lanterns drifted, glowing, across the night sky. I was reminded that this physical separation is temporary. And even though Jon and I live in different places now, we still abide in the same great Presence. Someday, we will enjoy that Presence together again. Until then, I just have to wait.
