"Darlington's Light the Lake, Relay for Life: Pass the Baton" Backstage with Dr. Laurie Johnson, LPC

Darlington School, Rome GA    Silver Lake      

      Ever have one of those days when you think to yourself, "Geez, I'm really depressed" and you want to crawl under a rock in order to hide from any more incoming?

      I had one of those moments this morning. Granted, it was an amateur version of it, because right now the people I love are healthy and love me back. Also, I am relatively healthy, we have a comfortable place to live and no gunfire in the neighborhood. ISIS  seems far away, and the collapse of the world seems inevitable, however, it is in flames across an ocean for the time being. So, I have few if any legitimate reasons to be depressed.

      As I was lying in bed reminding myself of that, I gained a welcome clarity. I am not depressed. I am grieving. While grieving can be a real beast and no fun, I reminded myself that you only grieve because there's something you cherish on the line. Any person who has had a chance to experience something or someone worth cherishing, ultimately has cause for gratitude. A deep ache when it is lost or concludes--but ultimately, deep, deep gratitude as well.

      Yes, it stinks that the person or thing has to move to a different dimension of your life, physically or emotionally, but the thing that matters most, is that the person or thing DID have a season in your life for which the decent response is utter gratitude. Did they die? Then I have to remember not to make so much of our temporary physical separation that I lose sight of the fact that they do, indeed, live on.  Does it hurt like hell when death takes someone you adore? Absolutely. Do you get over it? No. Do you learn to live beside the ache? Hopefully. Can you learn to engage and entertain the loved one, in conversation and affection? That's  my aim, and it definitely helps. Does it hurt horribly, when a good thing comes to an end? Most definitely. It creates a fork in the road, in my opinion. From which, you can either choose to take the road of living out the gratitude for that gift, or take the road of bitterness or discontent that it couldn't last longer.

      Which is why I'm forcefully reminding myself to stay the course, on the road of living out the gratitude I feel, for the gifts I'm aching over.

      Today, a couple of things are weighing down my heart. Tonight, is our community's "Relay for Life" event that brings to mind the mother I lost at age 13, and the soul sister I lost 16 years ago. My mother died at the age of 47. My soul sister, at age 40. Darlington School will light up a beautiful Silver Lake with luminaries, and walk around it behind a bagpiper.

 We will also walk through a clock adorned carillon, that may remind folks that a bell will toll for each of us, and few of us know when. But the point of "Relay for Life" is to carry the baton forward, right? To carry the gifts we've received from those who had to leave, forward. Do you have a baton to pass? I have two.

       Those in tonight's procession who sense it won't be long before their bell tolls, will probably walk the sweetest steps of all, taking in the sights and smells and sounds of Spring, and watching the stars twinkle awake. Those of us with fresh ache for those we memorialize, will probably search among those stars, for the ones that might twinkle back at us, nodding a smile from loved ones above.

       Tonight, there will be a lot of kids and teens  who will be too caught up in young love or old drama or momentary distractions, to notice the deeper meaning of "Light the Lake." They will walk loops around the lake oblivious to folks like me who walk beside them, sniffing back tears and smiling at the artwork of little kids upon the white bagged candles. And that is perfectly okay.

       Until life taps you on the shoulder with a soul shattering loss, you should walk as lightly as you can. Kids should be allowed to march around in their bubbles,  giggling, sighing, strutting, and swaggering  until the "little bell" tolls. That "little bell" that signals a break with innocence, that shatters the illusion of being shielded from heartache or other realities.

        Through decades of living and being in a tell-all profession, I am not so naïve as to think that kids today are really  sheltered from much. They are not as sheltered as we wish, from scary things in the world, or upsetting things in the home. But at school, on a beautiful sunset stroll, on a Springtime evening, around this lake, there is a sweet illusion of peace and beauty and simplicity. Even though this evening's stroll is candle lit by names and memories of  young and old who cancer stole from our midst. Thankfully, we can tell their stories, and pass their batons forward! Plus, we'll celebrate that there are also luminaries to honor those who battled and overcame cancer. We rally for them, too! 

       In dissecting what I thought was a momentary wave of depression this morning,  I realized that more accurately, I was grieving. Without realizing it, my soul was bracing for this evening. Inside, I can sense a  river of emotions beginning to rise. Those same waters, have been lately fed by realizations of how terribly I will miss my son, when he graduates in a month.

       I reminded myself that  I can choose to be bitter about losing my mom and sister, or I can celebrate that I had them in my life for a while and in my soul forever. I can harden myself to the departure of my son, or I can embrace all that we have forged through growing pains and fights and fears and hard won intimacy. It is a choice. Life is always a matter of choices.

       I'm going to choose gratitude. I'm going to stick to that path. For tonight, it will probably be weepy and poignant and powerful. When graduation comes, it will be weeping and poignant and powerful. But I don't think there are any tears more true, than those punctuated by unexpected laughter, or any laughter more deep, than knows a sorrow beside it. That is the beauty of life. We risk to love, because it means losing. It means losing folks when they leave us for another relationship or address or the other side of life. But if we love well, we keep the best of them within. To light our dark days. To sparkle in our celebrations. To guide us to that home we'll never have to leave, nor ever want to leave.

       In a few months, when I face my next dreaded "good-by" to my son leaving for college, I'll remind myself of a quote that has sustained me for decades… "The heavy heart must be full." I'll focus on how utterly grateful I am for the chance to love this special son. Even if it hurts like a mother to let him go. You know, some folks may be offended by that reference, but I'll own it. Because in my estimation, there is nothing tougher than a "mother"--whether that is a trauma you have to battle through, or the woman who will battle beside you through hell itself.  

        I'm pretty proud to be a mother. I have my scars and dings and mileage to show for the ride. But I wouldn't take anything for it. Love can hurt. In fact, I dare say, true love and loving truly always has elements of pain, because it puts you in a vulnerable position to care so deeply. 

And as your children grow, you have less and less power to stand between them and pain or danger. You can't love well and hide from tough truths and brave words and raw moments. Sure, you can dodge those if you keep your heart to yourself and don't hold anybody else's heart. But, that went out the door when I became a parent.

        So, for those of you feeling twinges about tonight, I hope you will give yourself the gift of coming to "Light the Lake." You might think of it as a mournful thing, but it is not. Yes, there may be an aching, but it will be in good company. It may feel like saying "Good-bye" all over again. On the other hand, it may give you the gift it gave me--which was to say "Good-bye" without all the heavy drape of a funeral and a hundred observers.

       For me, the "Good-byes" I got to say at my first "Light the Lake" had a beautiful, profound impact on me. Somehow, the letting go, freed my hands to open up. They freed my soul, to step forward. They freed my heart to feel the gratitude on the other side of a mountain of grief. I hope that is something you receive, if that is what you need. And, if what you need, is to march around that lake, sucking in every scent and blossom and promise of Spring, as you determine to live every day of your life--join us! You will be blessed.

Tonight, when the luminaries are lit, and the Chinese lanterns are launched, and the stars twinkle back at us, I know, there will be loving faces at heaven's window, showering us with love. Maybe that falling star you see, is love in motion.

Tonight, there will be tears and songs and laughter. There will be hugs and struts, noise, music, quiet, and stillness. We'll make it around that lake, some with a bounce in their step, a few struggling to put one foot after the next, some arm in arm, and some like me…silently hugged by two folks you can't see, but I can. I hope if you come, it will fill your soul. If you can't come, light a candle. The love with which it glows will unite you to loved ones wherever you are. Choose light. Choose love.

Hugs in print, 
Laurie

Dr. Laurie Johnson, LPC
www.drlauriejohnson.com