This is not going to be a pretty post. Nope, nothing pretty about this one.
But sometimes life’s most meaningful things don’t come in pretty packages.
This is the text from my mom today ...
My boss's mom died this morning.
My mom has worked for Brad for over 13 years and his mom, Marcia, was recently diagnosed with cancer and not given long to live. She was a sweet lady and often came over to talk with my mom while she was working. Brad was especially close to her and had her move in with him for the past few weeks. I won’t lie. I was disturbed. She will be missed.
As a child, I couldn't bear to watch Bambi’s mother get shot, and I still close my eyes during that scene. I was the girl who tried to get the mean boys to stop frying ants with the magnifying glass. I still carry house spiders outside on a piece of paper (if they aren't huge). I just don’t like seeing anything die, regardless how tiny it is.
My son Morgen was given a fish as a pet for his fifth birthday. Just when I was about to declare the fish bowl experience as one of the best EVER, things took a different turn.
Things turned dark, as dark as they could possibly get.
From the warm and fuzzy connected feeling that is life at its fullest, we were thrust into the cold and heart-wrenching feeling that is death in its finality.
I had been nursing Max upstairs in the rocking chair and came down to see Morg playing with his finger "Teck Deck" skate board on the kitchen counter, and Mr. Fish, dead!
BUT….I had to be very careful. If I was too accusatory or critical, I might lose my chance, and I am talking about my Real Boy. You can’t buy one of those at the pet store.
“What do you think happened?” I calmly asked my son, my Boy, who also looked quite depressed.
“Mr. Fish wanted to ride the skate board,” he stated.
Oh that’s nice…blame it on the innocent fish…make it sound like it was his fault.
"Mr. Fish had looked lonely swimming in his bowl so I lifted him out carefully with my fingers and took him for a "ride" on my skate board,” he added.
Yeah. I think I got that.
Since fish tend to be slippery little suckers, Mr. Fish had suddenly slipped off the board and inadvertently been run over.
I went over to console my oldest son, who now looked like he had finally reached his breaking point.
“I just don’t understand, Mama. Why? Why did my fish die?"
And for someone who really did not know what to say, something quite good came out of my mouth.
“Morgy, Mr. Fish is just glad he didn't die in the pet store.”
Huh? Even I wasn't sure where this was going.
He stopped crying immediately looking at me like he needed more…wanted to hear more of my (potentially lame) theory.
“Well, your fish was chosen. That is what fish wait for…someone to chose them from all the others. You know, life doesn't really start until you get out of the pet store aquarium and actually have a home. While he was here, he looked out of the glass and not did see a store; he saw a home. He saw the same happy faces day after day. He saw that he had been chosen. So he died happy.”
He was considering. I was holding my breath.
The agony on his face softened, “You’re right. That would be terrible to die in a pet store,” he agreed.
The death of Mr. Fish was not something I thought I would write about on my blog. There is definitely nothing warm and fuzzy or inspiring about it.
But there is a soul healing here.
When I watched little fishy swimming alone slowly in his great big bowl, it was almost as if there was a sign on top that read:
LIFE IS PRECIOUS.
One day you could be going along quite happily and then suddenly you might find yourself fighting for your life, or worse, you might find yourself flat on your back, being run over by a skate board, wondering where your life went.
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When I was in Sun Valley my sister Darlin showed me this article {25,000 Mornings}. It says if we use average life expectancy numbers and assume that your adult life starts at 18 years old, then you've got about 66 years as an adult. (84 – 18 = 66) Perhaps a little less on average. A little more if you’re lucky.
(66 years as an adult) x (365 days each year) = 24,090 days.
Less than 25,000 mornings.
That’s what you get in your adult life. Less than 25,000 times you get to open your eyes, face the day, and decide what to do next. I don’t know about you, but I've let a lot of those mornings slip by.
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Morgen has grown up from the days with Mr. Fish. When we were driving back from the Orthodontist yesterday he showed me the bands that, if he keeps them on until the 10th of next month, he MAY be able to get his braces off. After ten years of teeth torture, that will be one morning to celebrate.
LIFE IS PRECIOUS.
I can’t help but think about the fish that end up dying in the pet store, never getting out to see what real life and real joy look like staring back at them.
I think it might be a lot like dying with a cell phone or a to-do-list in your hand…like you “managed” life, but never got to the “living” part.
I told you this wasn't going to be pretty.
