When Body and Heart Have Different Agendas
Big Plans Run Out of Gas
I signed up for the protest happening today. I’m furious that our Constitution is under siege.
But I’m staying home. And feeling extra guilty.
I lived the protests of the sixties. Back then, I remember trying to participate in marches at Arizona State without alerting my very conservative adoptive dad. I tried going braless too. Neither idea worked out very well.
I didn’t know even as an eager eighteen-year-old that polio was sapping my energy. Decades would pass before I finally understood why I had so much trouble keeping up with my peers. Post-polio Syndrome still tails me on the daily, causing pain and a fatigue that robs my best intentions. Which we all know the road to hell is paved with.
So this morning, as millions of people across the country rise up to say that in America we have no kings, I’m sitting at home wishing my body would cooperate a little more. One of my sons volunteered to push me around in a wheelchair. Another son said he’d go and protect me. But I just can’t make it happen.
Sure, I’m pooped. But there’s something more niggling at the edges of my tired old brain. It’s that pernicious grief that has followed me for a while now. My Marine is gone.
He’d never protest like a damned hippie, although he was much more enthused about the braless part. He flew both the American and Marine Corps flags every day—to the point where some of the neighbors thought we were red hats.
But he would’ve decried the presence of Marines against citizens. This man served three Vietnam tours in country. He was wounded as a helicopter door gunner. He was point man on Force Recon and defused underwater bombs on ships. He saw it all.
Seems like the true heroes seldom speak of the gruesome details of war. My Marine didn’t explain much about his time in Vietnam until our kids were nearly grown. Even then, he mostly watched hours of that era’s documentaries and movies.
So even though he probably wouldn’t have joined me at the march today, even he saw that our country’s democracy teeters on the edge. He railed against the abuses of power he recognized would hasten our descent into a less free country. He gave up years of his youth and nearly his life to ensure free and fair elections, free speech and freedom to assemble.
He believed in our Constitution and was willing to fight for it.
And me? I keep trying to shake off sorrow and do something dammit. But my feet are stuck in clay, the inertia that grief can bring. Too many days, I don’t want to do anything. I force myself to go through a routine: drink coffee, read news, empty dishwasher, feed cat, feed rabbit.
But when I’m all dressed and heading out into the day, I find myself drawn to stare at the tiny seedlings in the wildflower garden I made this year. I walk among the raised beds and greet each little veggie valiantly growing in spite of slugs and cabbage loopers. Hello, little onion sets. How are you pole beans? What say ye, peas with the pretty flowers?
I wish I was jostling among thousands of others who have made clever signs and are bellowing out chants. A big part of me really wants our government to hear those cries. The cries of injustice. The sobs of those whose loved ones have been tackled or chased across farm fields. If we are of the people, by the people and for the people, don’t they have to listen if the screams are loud enough?
Our Constitution says so.
My heart wants to sweat and get sunburned and be hoarse after chanting—because this is not a good cause. This is the best cause. Our democracy experiment says all of us are equal before the rule of law. We must each do something to get past this crisis.
But another part of me (namely the decrepit body parts) says to stay home and if I’m lucky, I’ll have the energy to get the gardens watered before an afternoon rest. It’s a bitter pill, but I hope I’ll be forgiven for my fatigue, my conundrum, my grief.
My faith tells me that God is OK with all my dithering. God recognizes that what we want to do and what we actually do are often different things. Jesus says love God and neighbor are the most important bits.
In college, I was passionate about anti-war sentiment even as I had to hide it from my tuition-paying dad. My boyfriend and I held our breath as the draft lottery numbers were announced on TV. We thought the country was wrong enough that if he was drafted, we’d move to Canada.
Today, my guilt is self-imposed. See, I have this giant hole in me where a certain Marine used to be and it’s killing off many of my ambitions. I hope somebody will march for me, as I try to dig my way out of this pit.
But I’ll be there in spirit, carrying my best homemade sign: In America, we have no kings. The real king, Jesus, didn’t even want to be crowned, and some today are trying to give his mantle to someone who has trouble completing a sentence. My Marine’s words echo in my ears: We must defend our Constitution. Amen.
George,
You know it! These tens of thousands give me hope. One sign I saw locally said they were marching for all of us who can't be there. Best Wishes, Linda
I’m now the same age my former AF Flight Engineer turned Instructor in his forties, retired, was when he passed. He always said he had the benefit of being nine years my senior, that was his wild card
So I’ve caught up to the age he was when he passed, and very much the same person that prayed a little prayer that the Lord would return him safely to me whenever he moved out of my sight.
That serious man that surely thought seeing Airplane was the greatest jumping off point to teasing ever created “Don’t call me Shirley.” and “surely” was my favorite word.
We shared a belief we were here for a purpose of the Lord, and would be called home when our purpose was fulfilled; I still believe that, still believe he will come to take my hand as I go.
I sometimes wake feeling as if he’s been holding my hand while I slept as he always did; toss up if I close my eyes wishing the feeling to return, or pleading silently the tears don’t fall.
If better means not crying every day, fewer of my days and nights involve tears; in my heart and soul, every fiber of my being, I remember, him, the memories of us with all our flaws and special affinity for each other remain as if they were yesterday.
There is strength in memories, we don’t become the people we are alone, we didn’t always agree, but we talked about why we came to the same point from different directions, and we grew from the effort to understand each other.
He even learned that he couldn’t talk me out of my joy of walking in rain storms with wind and lightning, waiting with a towel for my return; men that fly don’t approve of such behavior.
I too, am not well enough to go out and protest, I tire more easily, my spirit is willing, my body isn’t what it used to be, sometimes it’s wobbly without notice or intention; he’s not here to open jars with stubborn lids for me, so now I have a canning wrench I secretly call Larry.
My past nine years, grief has no expiration date, but your memories can blunt the pain with Your shared history; he had a ridiculous little tongue twister he whispered in my ear when he thought I was concentrating on something too intensely, quietly snuck up unseen and whispered, exasperating, now I laugh when I think of it. You will find your way too, blessings. Christine