The Last Day of May

In early 1998, I had the opportunity to conduct a leadership workshop to teach public speaking to a small group of 8th graders at Southeast Middle School is Portage County, Ohio.  I got the connection through my Toastmasters club -- the principal was a member.

I already knew that I wanted to go to school to become a teacher, but that dream seemed very far away. Through the leadership work, I met a 7th grade teacher named Judy Wilfong.  Together, she and I wrote a grant for me to bring story writing and storytelling to her students.  We received the grant and throughout the month of May that year, in addition to the leadership group, I taught a couple of days a week in Judy's class. This was the same month my dad was diagnosed with cancer.

The storytelling workshop was completed by the last week of May, with the students telling their stories to elementary school students.  It was a fabulous educational experience for us all.  I told the kids I would come back the following Monday -- June 1st -- with my djembe drum, and we could drum and tell stories.  And on that evening, the 8th grade graduation was scheduled, and I was to introduce the speakers who were in the leadership group.  I was flying high with success and the fulfillment of working with young people.

That Sunday night, May 31st, my father died.  At first I didn't think I would make it to the June 1st events.  But when I realized that all I was doing was lying around the house feeling miserable, I decided to go to the school and complete what I had started with the kids.  It turned into a very healing experience for me; one I will never forget. 

A year later, Jim and I were at the cabin in North Carolina for Memorial Day weekend, which also happened to be the first anniversary of my dad's passing.  By this time I had finished my first semester of community college, and was starting the summer session. The following is from a journal entry I wrote on that day: May 31, 1999.  A poem I would discover years later follows.

I let my father go because I had to. He had to enter those woods alone. I have work to do in this world. The day before he died I had outlined my future. My day had gotten interrupted by an accident on the highway that prevented me from reaching Columbus to see my niece's dance recital.  Instead I went home and I answered questions in The Path as I sat alone and visioned my future.

The next day I walked in the woods feeling joyful, yet feeling something was "off."  An erratic yellow butterfly ran into me on the path, which I found rather strange. Usually they are so graceful. I went to church, then ventured to the hospital in the late afternoon.

My brother John was there, and told me the story from the doctor. I didn't believe him. My father looked no better. He was feisty and funny. It rained. Then the sun came out and the rain on the screen looked luminous to my father. I think he was seeing the entry to heaven. He wanted to know when I would leave.

I walked out of the hospital wondering why I didn't pray for my father. It was quickly revealed I was in constant prayer and that I had incredible trust in God. That everything would be alright. That there was perfection and I would know it.

I prepared for the next day. I talked on the phone to one of the students. I ate some chili. I was not ready for that phone call.

I was plunged into the gray depths but by late evening was found floating on the surface of the water there, buoyed up by the love of my friends and Jim. Life would go on. I just needed to get through the next week.

Southeast Middle school and the kids saved me. Drumming, telling stories, "Happy Healing," flowers, acknowledgement, hugs. God showing me my mission sandwiched between the death of my father. God lifting me up with a vision that sustains me. This is why today, although I grieve and I miss my daddy, I know I must be here and I know I have important work--school and incredible career path in education.

No, my father will not be physically present when I get my degrees. But he is always present for he is part of me--a gentle, loving, artistic part of me that holds unconditional love and acceptance. This is his gift to me and I thank him.

And then this side note: 
Oh my God--as I was writing, a little brown and white moth came and sat right on my pen. I am stunned. My pen was moving along and the moth just sat there, tickling my thumb. Daddy, I know you are with me.

Mariposa  

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.

All the things we ever knew
Will be ashes in that hour,
Mark the transient butterfly,
How he hangs upon the flower.

Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you
Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.