Every summer seems to have a song that reflects its special character in time. This summer, that song was Toby Mac's "Hold On," which is cheerful enough to be a song of celebration, yet acknowledges the difficulties of life.
It has been a difficult summer.
After the cruise, my parents and I started on the difficult task of packing up the home we've lived in for twelve years.
We did take some time one weekend to visit our friends, the McMillans, in Los Alamos. They've been like a part of our family for the last ten years or so, and we've really started to miss each other since some of them moved out to Los Alamos. We walked the streets of Santa Fe together, looking at one of the most incredible photo galleries I've ever seen--a photographic history of the United States. Our time together ended with a wonderful opera, Gounod's Faust. More wonderful than the opera, though, was just chatting with my friend Caroline. I'm looking forward to living a little closer to her this year.
I also took some time to drive down to Yosemite to visit my aunt and uncle who live right outside its southern border. That visit fed my soul, too, with a good hike up Sentinel Dome and long, deep discussions about life and philosophy with my aunt. She and my uncle sent me off with a handsome graduation gift: the first full-size print of her impressionistic Yosemite Falls painting.
When I got home, we turned right around to do the impossible: find a place to live in just two days. Originally, we only allotted one day, but that proved to be completely impossible. We actually managed to find a house to rent that was not surrounded by concrete. It is a welcome retreat from the hustle and bustle of life in Los Angeles.
Driving away from the house wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I had one last errand to run at Pleasant Hill Adventist Academy, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes dry while I talked to the office staff there for the last time. As I walked back to the car, I looked over at the black granite bench that sits there in memory of my departed brother, over at the playground where I fell in love for the first time, over at the classroom where I'd spent so many evenings hanging decorations for my mother. As I got in the car, I looked over at the church where Pastor Torkelson had baptized me, where I had been inspired to my life's calling, and it was too much. I cried.
The day after we arrived at our new home in Sunland, we drove out to the desert. My grandfather was in the hospital, dying. He had cheated death many times, but we could all tell somehow that this was the end. The last thing I said to him was, "Good night. I love you. Happy Sabbath." And what was death to this man other than a much-needed Sabbath rest after a very long week of a life?
It is hard to describe what it's like to start a new job just two days after that. I'm sure that all college graduates feel overwhelmed their first day on the job, and I was no exception. Work is for the living, and my mind was on the dead. I pulled myself together enough to tell stories at a Vacation Bible School, attend a board meeting, and introduce myself to the church. In a way, it felt like telling stories to children was a way of honoring my grandfather, who loved to tell stories.
I read the 23rd psalm for the cryptside service at beautiful Montecito. I've never struggled so much to read such a short text before. His crypt overlooks the hills of Loma Linda, where every day people are healed through the diligent work of doctors and nurses. He, too, was diligent as a teacher. A week and a half later, there was a service at the Desert Hot Springs church. There were things about him even his family didn't know about him, like how he'd done the grunt-work for a medical research project that saved thousands of lives in Vietnam. The sermon wisely acknowledged the pain we all feel at his loss, and did not try to belittle it by saying, "There, there, it'll be all right. . . whenever Jesus comes." Instead, it said, "We miss Dean. There is pain. It takes time to work through pain."
Time moves on, and the living are still around to feel its relentless progress. School starts this week for my parents at historic San Fernando Valley Academy, and this weekend I'm headed to beautiful Kings Canyon with my church's young adult group. It has been a difficult summer in many ways, but as that Toby Mac song so wisely says, "Hold on just another day or two; I can see the clouds are moving faster and the sun is breaking through."
No storm can last forever, and neither will this one. Thank you, everyone who has sent our family notes of sympathy or come to the funeral. You are the rays of light that are breaking through the clouds. My next letter will be much sunnier, I assure you.
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