There's so much in life, I find, that needs fixing. It seems like every day, there are things that just don't go the way they should. Things break. Plans fail. People disappoint. Life is full of bumps and bruises, pains and problems.
Some of us are problem-solvers. We take joy in fixing these things, both for ourselves and others. Our fix-it impulses pull us into situations all the way from small appliance repair to major life crises, all with the same motivation--to make everything all right. I guarantee you, though, that even those of us who are problem solvers--maybe especially us--also need fixing. And beyond fixing, we need healing, mending. Always, for everyone, the journey of simply being alive in the world has brought hurts, shame, and pain to us in ways that are deep and shaping. Who or what can help us mend?
In most cases, I believe that significant relationships are where we find healing and wholeness, relief from the pains and brokenness of our past. And in my life, Rick was the fixer. He knew how to fix a sump pump, reboot the wifi, unclog a toilet. He could help think through difficult decisions, bring clarity to hard conversations, find guidance in confusing situations. He was always willing to offer his own hard work, practical help, and reflective wisdom. He could stop a whole evening of family fighting in my house, just by showing up. Wherever he went, he brought with him an aura of calm, and left behind a wake of peace.
For me, he not only smoothed the rough edges of daily living, but his healing touch sank deeply into my past, into hurts and griefs and false beliefs that have shaped me in painful and destructive ways since childhood. Listening to him preach every Sunday, listening to him talk in our everyday conversations, just seeing him live in a way that brought lofty truths to intimate life, helped me shape a new understanding of beliefs that have always been a part of me. I learned from him to see grace and love in new ways. Always, I've labored to meet the standards of my own faith, to do well at doing right. But Rick's faith was not about being right or doing right; it had room for failure, room for weakness, room for doubt. The grace I've offered myself has been dispensed sparingly, as a necessity. The grace Rick spoke of and lived out was never grudging, never stingy--it was generous, joyful, more than enough. Love, in the pictures Rick painted, was about others. It was never about how to change anyone, fix anyone. It was only about extending itself out, inviting others in. And most of all, love was for everyone, the ultimate truth. It was lavish and unconditional, welcoming and complete. It was the core truth of our existence, for ourselves, for others, and as the foundation for a community of the Beloved. It was for me.
In my adult life, love and I had not done well together. Love had meant revolving in orbit around someone else and their needs, always in the shadow; Rick showed me that it meant emerging into the light, having someone else rejoice in my happiness and success. All the love I had to give had fallen into a black hole, a chasm that could not be filled, absorbed like tiny pinpricks of light being consumed by the darkness; and so, no matter how much, it had never been enough. I learned now that love can be received with joy and returned; and when it is, it is multiplied many times over, making love increase for both the giver and the receiver, until giving and receiving are indistinguishable acts and there is nothing but more, hundreds and thousands of times more love. In all the broken places where I had lost sight of my own beauty, he
found it and gave it back to me, reflecting it back in a thousand
truthful glimpses with the simplest of daily interactions. Before, love in my life was like a cactus, its sparse beauty surviving and even thriving sometimes on the tiny streams of water buried deeply in the sand, perhaps able even to burst into flower with the faintest sprinkling of rain, yet with pain and danger always present. Love with Rick was like a lush and spreading old-growth apple tree, green and inviting, fragrant with blossoms, cool and shady, heavy with fruit, bursting with fire. Its peaceful beauty nourished the soul in every season.
And now, I suppose, comes winter, when it lies sleeping, bare and silent in the cold.
Once, after a tearful outburst over some hurt or frustration, with my face buried in his shoulder and his arms around me, I asked plaintively, "Is there anything you can't make better?" With that slow, self-deprecating chuckle, he said drily, "Oh, I imagine there's a thing or two."
I didn't believe you then, my dear. After all, you mended everything in me that was broken. As always, though, I know now that you were right. I've found the one thing that you can't fix. I don't blame you; even your powers had to have their limit. But even though you cannot come this time and make everything all right, rest assured, rick champ--you are still the only one.
How I love you.
