It is tempting to allow life to charge forward as if our moments are like boxcars clamped together into one great, endless train. We slip into routines that distance us from the felt experience of life, as if we are not really inside our own train but are watching as its tiny image chug-chugs on some distant horizon. The rote performance of our customary tasks is a gentle rhythm that lulls us from feeling the immediacy of new moments. Distracted from an awareness of the joys of the here and now, our inattentiveness has the effect of pulling us from feelings of attachment to our personal destinies, as if we have delegated to some invisible conductor the privilege of steering our course.
Once in a while, however, seemingly unrelated events happen synchronously, and the very contemporaneousness is itself a dazzling explosion that shakes us from our complacency.
Today, for example, is a day that my dear friend and fellow souljourner, Dawn Neely-Randall, marks with emotions so wide and inexpressible, the sky itself is a space that crowds them, for today is the first anniversary of the death of her husband, the love of her life, John Randall.
John was something. To know him was indeed a privilege. To see them together was a delight.
(See: Eternal Flame)
For those of us who love Dawn, the Year of Firsts has been a shared journey. Sometimes, we gave her space. Sometimes, we appeared at her door. We called, asked how she was doing, and then listened. In essence, we hitched as many boxcars of our lives to her train as could be done without becoming simply additional weight that she had to pull.
And so here it was. The First Anniversary. I woke up feeling as if I could let out the breath that I've been holding since Monday, 25 January 2010.
But . . . maybe not.
Early this morning, my telephone rang. It was Ronald Lane, a gentleman my family and I met shortly after he escaped from Hurricane Katrina by fleeing to Lorain, Ohio, where his mother, a beautiful woman named Grace, lived alone. He had worked as an artisan in the French Quarter for decades, but his life-sustaining career was dismantled by the drowning of New Orleans.
He's a character. Once you have met Ronald Lane, you'll never forget him, and once he decides you are his friend, he'll remember you in his prayers forever. He's as loyal as he is indefatigable. The Zagrans family expanded to include him in our circle.
We helped Ronald as much as we could. He delighted in the laptop that we were able to give him. My sons spent countless hours with him, teaching him how to email and peruse the Internet, which proved to be a good instructor for an eager student. He spent hour after hour researching far-away places, such as Egypt, that have always held his fascination.
"I've been going on all kinds of trips," he told me with a chuckle in his voice. "I've been traveling all over the world with my computer!" Shyly, proudly, he mentioned that his Internet studies were improving his reading skills.
My sons also set him up with a free Web site. They photographed his jewelry and inventions and placed them on the site. Ronald was hopeful that an Internet presence would be able to replace, somewhat, his physical presence at the French Market. But the business aspect of on-line marketing was too tough for him to manage.
He stayed in Ohio for a couple of years and then, dipping a toe into his former life, returned to New Orleans. He was hopeful that he would be able to reestablish his jewelry making career. It was a struggle. He never seemed to catch a break. But he always kept in touch. Every time we spoke, Ronald expressed undoubting faith in the journey, faith that God had everything under control. He never failed to thank me for my friendship. "I love you, Maura," he would say, laughing, "and there ain't nothin' you can do about it!"
In November, Ronald received the kind of news that changes life forever. His mother was in the final stages of lung cancer. She needed his help.
He called me. As soon as I heard him speak I knew that something was very wrong. If a voice could buckle, his voice was on its knees. By the time we hung up, he was calm. I think he just needed to know that he had someone who could be there for him, just as he would be there for his mother.
And so he came back to Ohio. He was a willing servant in the face of his mother's incapacitation. He told her, 'Mom, you can't use your legs to get around anymore; I will be your legs. Your arms don't have the strength they used to have; let me be your arms. I am an extension of your legs and arms. Whatever you want, whatever you need, you just tell me.' He cooked for Grace, he bathed her, and he kept her house as she wished it to be kept.
Two weeks ago, Grace had to be hospitalized. Ronald beat back Fear. He would not allow It to own him. He knew that he needed to be strong for Grace.
This morning, then, when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, I felt hope rise in me because he sounded so different. He sounded elated. There must be good news, I thought.
"I wanted to call and tell you that my mother transitioned," he said. "And she's just fine, and I'm just fine."
"Transitioned," I repeated, more a question than statement. I wasn't quite sure what he meant. I thought that she had improved so much, she had been taken out of intensive care and put into step-down care. That is when I learned that, for this faith-filled man who has had little more than nothing for most of his life, death truly and simply is a transition.
And so there it is: A brilliant explosion of synchronicity that shakes my soul into reflection upon the important things in life. For Dawn, today is the end of The First Year. For Ronald, the same date is the beginning of The First Year.
For me, the day escorts me out of Dawn's First Year and into Ronald's. I am thereby blessed with another chance to be someone's friend as he confronts a huge hole in the world. It is also another example of how mysteriously synchronized life events are perhaps meant to prod us from complacency and distractedness.