Pink Floyd and the Post Office

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Pink Floyd and the Post Office

by John Carter

 

“Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying”

– Comfortably Numb by Roger Waters and David Gilmour

 

Here’s an example of how two people, both having spoken English for 50+ years, could participate in two totally different conversations at once, and the misunderstandings that can arise from this situation.

I went to the post office to send a check overnight to my granddaughter’s new daycare school in Georgia. As I was sending my check in their big, white overnight letter, I was chatting with the POD (Post Office Dude) about daycare, the weather, and overnight shipping rates …

Me (upon hearing the cost): Wow. UPS is $20 more for the same thing, so unless they deliver the letter with a $20 bill attached, this is an easy decision.

POD: (laughing) That’s a no-brainer, for sure.

Me: And if you’ve paid for daycare lately, you know that you need to save every penny. That stuff is pricey!

(This is where he continued to have a conversation about overnight mail, while I began talking about daycare.)

POD: But you know, it’s a tough job. The labor costs are high.

Me: Believe me, I’d be the first to tell you that I couldn’t do it. It takes a very special person.

POD (looking me over): Ah, you could do it. It’s a tough job, but you could do it.

Me: I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it would be too much for me. Everybody would be just like I am, wanting their own little treasure to be treated special.

POD (puzzled now): I don’t think most people are that fussy about it.

Me (now puzzled, too): Are you kidding? How could they not be?

POD: Believe me, I know some of the folks who do this work, and they aren’t that sharp. They have a lot of help. They just sort ’em by color and size, and they make sure the big white ones are taken care of first. The rest, they deal with when they can. They may lose a few, but they do a pretty good job.

Me (now puzzled and horrified): What?!

POD: They have to process so many. It’s hard to worry about every little one.

Me: You must worry about every little one! That trust – what could be a bigger responsibility? It’s the single most important thing in the world to every person who walks through the door.

POD: What in the heck are you shipping, pal?

 

My Father’s Sanctuary

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My Father’s Sanctuary
by John Carter

Dream, take me to my father’s sanctuary,
where the hay field stretches each morning
and yawns its soft, foggy breath
down the hill
and across the pond.

Where the reeds soak their feet
in limpid pools
that smile back at us,
reflecting the light
we now see in each other.

Where the clouds climb
down from the sky
and dance through barren treetops,
waltzing with the apple-pie winter air.

Where the bales in the barn
and the tools in the shed
echo my father’s love.

Where we share each other’s company,
a moment’s communion
that lasts forever.

Mother’s Last Gift

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Mother’s Last Gift
by John Carter

My mother is dying. Terminal emphysema, heart disease and life’s relentless accumulation of years have robbed her of most of the things that made her life worth living. I have watched, wondering what possible purpose could be served by this prolonged torture, this painful, heartbreaking process. I have reminded myself that life’s lessons are often learned – and character is forged – in adversity. But what could God possibly be trying to teach my mother? She can’t remember a visit five minutes after it’s over. How can she possibly be learning anything from this ordeal?

When I told my oldest sister about this doubt, she said, “Maybe it’s not what she’s learning, but what we’re learning.”

Who knows the thoughts of those very close to death? Where does the mind go when it leaves this plane of existence? I have hoped that as the body dies, the spirit soars. That as the veil between this life and the next grows gossamer-thin, we glimpse Heaven drawing near. But is this just wishful thinking? Where does my mother go, and what has she seen there? Watching her die, as I did my father, turns my thoughts back to the lessons I learned from both of them.

My father was a good man, and I loved him dearly. But when I think of the contrast in what my mother and father taught me, I think about a speech from an old movie called I Never Sang for My Father. It reminds me that fathers can be hard. They prepare a young man for life. For the abusive boss, the dishonest partner and the unfaithful friend. Mothers are soft and loving. Their lessons are about family, acceptance, and unconditional love. While my father taught me about becoming a man, my mother kept the child in me alive.

So now, after a lifetime of sacrifices … of meals and laundry. Of the thankless, often-isolated life of the mundane. Of a life measured only in the service of her family … now come the hospital beds. The breathing treatments. The diapers. The loss of mind, memory, and dignity. This is mother’s last gift. The cross she bears to teach her children one final lesson. After twenty years of growing apart, of different paths chosen, of forgotten kindnesses and nurtured slights, her sons and daughters are forced to come together. To do the right thing. To care for her.

Her lesson is this – that we are destined to be different. We will disagree. We will probably always drive each other crazy. But we will always be a family. A family that she and my father devoted their lives to building. And we can no more abandon that than we could abandon her. As I sit by her hospital bed on this rainy afternoon, she doesn’t even know that I’m here. But I believe some part of her, deep inside, knows. Knows that her grandchildren – living in an age that treats family, like everything else, as a disposable commodity – need to be shown that love can turn selfish people into selfless people.

My mother has never had a forceful personality. My father could have brought us together with a few words. Left alone after his death, my mother’s only option was to lay herself down, to die a prolonged, horrible death that has made her children cooperate in caring for her. In the midst of this hell, when she is lucid, she says, “I am so lucky. I don’t hurt anywhere. If I could just catch my breath.” She reminds me of the Coleman Barks translations of Jallaludin Rumi’s poems. I am certain that my mother never read Rumi, but they both taught me that Life is not about grief. Life is primarily a joy. And when I write – one of the most joyful things in my life – it is my mother’s voice, my best voice, that I see on the page.

Mother, now I know. Your youngest – and slowest to learn – has learned this lesson. Your baby – who you did spoil – now asks for one thing more.

Wherever you are now, Mamma, wherever your spirit has flown … listen. Early this morning I dreamed of you. I was a little boy again, tagging along after you like I always did. I was playing in our yard on Culloden Road as you hung laundry on the clothesline. All the dream colors were incredibly vivid – the grass a deep, rich green. The sky cerulean. Only you were in black and white. You were young. It was you from the black and white photo I have of you when you were about 16. In the middle of pinning a shirt to the clothesline, you stopped. For just a second, a look of concern flashed across your face. I knew that you heard something I could not hear, some music or someone calling from far away. Then you turned towards me. The look of concern was completely gone, replaced by absolute peace. For one final moment (and that’s exactly what it felt like – a final moment), you showed me the first thing I ever saw in this world – your beautiful smile. And then (aren’t dreams bizarre?), you just flew away – up into that blue sky. My little boy self felt a moment of panic, and then … peace. The peace I felt as your little “mamma’s boy.” Before the world taught me the hard lessons I have been forced to learn. The lessons that have changed me into whatever kind of man it is that I’ve become.

And then I woke up, and I knew.

Fly mamma. I love you, and your absence will leave a hole in my life that can never be filled. But you’ve given enough. And the reward you have waited for – and taught me about my whole life – is one heartbeat, one final breath away. You have taught your children all we need to go on. To pass on the most important lessons.

Fly.

Epilogue
I originally wrote those words months ago, when my mother was in the hospital, and before her brief stay in a nursing home and her death early this morning. Although we prayed for a quick end to her suffering, this wish was not to be granted.

But how can I be bitter? I have just said goodbye to a woman who told me over and over again my entire life that I should trust in the Lord. I feel strangely at peace. I know now that my mother wrote these words through me, and that I have left them dormant these long months, waiting for today, when I will deliver them to my sisters and brother.

For my mother, the adventure has just begun.

 

The Gathering

There is a gathering tonight.

See
on the far shore,
they come together
waiting to welcome her.

See
the parents.
They wait, with love and praise,
withheld until now.

See
the husband.
With giant strides he crosses an amber field,
a black dog romping by his side.

Sister, aunts, uncles, friends.
The Lord’s congregation waits.

As she leaves our small circle of love
and moves toward theirs,
they assemble
to lead her to the One.
Healer of them all.

One day soon
they will gather for me,
and I will see her again, as she is now,
for the very first time.

Whispers

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Whispers
by John Carter

Tonight, with everyone asleep, I’ve made my familiar rounds, going to each of my children and whispering:

“I love you, Evan.”
“I love you, Matthew.”
“I love you, Lauren.”
“I love you, Dylan.”

These are the quiet moments. The whole house is asleep, and the world seems still. I am filled with the strength of the words I’m saying, combined with a familiar frustration at my inability to show them how much I love them.

Part of me wishes that these small souls, who I love so fiercely, were standing beside me in this darkness. That their adult selves could run through these hectic days, to be my age, to know me now and relate to all I’m feeling. Another, smaller part of me, lies sleeping, curled up beside those sweet, innocent faces, pajamas rumpled, arms akimbo.

The reason I do this is – for me – uncharacteristically superstitious. I hope and pray that somehow these night messages are subliminally stored in a special part of their brains. And that at the end of this life, no matter how close or far apart we’ve grown, or how things turn out, they will remember these whispers and their father’s voice, their father’s love.

I look out the window at a brilliant, clear night sky, and I recall what I’ve read about those stars. Some are long dead, but their light is just arriving here, to fill me with warmth and wonder in this moment. When I am long gone and they need it most, I hope these sweet children can still find strength in my abiding love.

Physicists say that our bodies are made of atoms that were once part of the stars. At this moment, I know it’s true. I can feel it when I look at my sleeping children. When all the noise is gone and everything is as simple as the ray of pure love pouring out of me and into them.

My little stars. Myself, but not me.