Rebecca H. Cooper's Blog

Today is the tenth anniversary of Charles's death and I woke up this morning to a text from a dear friend who still misses him too. Two years ago, "Hey God? Yes, Charles." was published. Last week I heard from a new reader, and an old one. This week brought this book review from Brian H. Peterson who is an artist, curator, critic, and author and whose works are in the Library of Congress and countless museums (photo below). Peterson writes:"This book sneaks up on you! Alternately wry and serious, thoughtful and spontaneous, Ms. Cooper patiently reveals the very core of loss, offering a rocky road to recovery through listening, self-awareness, and prayer. 'Hey, God? Yes, Charles.' is one of those rare books where one person’s story becomes everyone’s story, with honesty and courage reminiscent of C. S. Lewis’s "A Grief Observed." - Brian H. Peterson, author of "The Blossoming of the World"and "I Give My Eyes…"My life, like everyone's, has changed a lot in ten years. But one thing remains the same. And that is my gratitude, not just in this season but always, for the opportunity to make good out of bad and for every single one of you who have helped me - or someone - do that.

All these baseball games remind me of a long ago, looong, hot summer when our really young daughter played softball. She was the worst player on the team (sorry honey but you know it's true : ) and so she batted last. Not a single hit the entire season, but she loved it anyway so we loved it anyway. Then came the final game of the regular season. The winner would go to the playoffs. Bottom of the ninth, we're at bat, and losing. Two outs, two runners on, and they're still ahead 3-2. The rotation rotated right to our daughter. I turned to Charles and mouthed the words, oh no. She was going to be the one who cost her team the playoffs.  And then she hit the ball, brought two runners in, and we won 4-3. Everybody -and I mean EVERYBODY - went nuts. She was enveloped in a mass of ponytails and the coach as they headed off for their usual after game team meeting. We waited, still enjoying our stunned disbelief. Finally here she came, managing to run in a strut with the words tumbling out. "Momma, Momma, the coach said I was the clutch player!" She grinned all over as I assured her that was so correct and then she said, "Momma, what's a clutch player?" Well honey, that's the person who comes through for you when you need 'em the most.  I've sure had some clutch players in my life and I bet you have too. I'm so thankful for them all and also thankful for any opportunity to do what they, and our child, did. Because sometimes, whether for ourselves or for others, we all just need to step up, ignore the outs, and swing the bat.

Saturday night was one big ole party, my high school reunion - my 50th. Please humor me by looking shocked.  But what a great evening. Big picture wise, it was all the good words that you hope you can say the morning after anything. I also found myself thinking about the individual lives of our classmates. One came all the way from Oregon to attend. She was my houseguest for a few days so we had a chance to really talk about things in the context of the reunion. Pam made the best statement, observing that, in one way or another, we all live an unexpected life.  Ain't that the truth. And yet, my impression from all these people who have weaved in and out of my life for 50 years is that many have managed to more than handle their own curve balls and disappointments. If you've read "Hey, God? Yes, Charles.", you know another widow once said to me, "Life really is fair, it ultimately breaks everyone's heart." And I guess there was probably not a single heart in that room Saturday night that had never been broken, or at least pretty badly bent, one way or another. Yet the vibe was upbeat, strong, and, even in a class as special as ours, the resilience of the individual was evident. I mean we had newlyweds in the house! And when the band cranked up, the first two people on the dance floor both claimed heart surgeries! It's not funny but it is and it's also great! Mostly it all reminded me of a song I recently heard by Old Dominion. The lines that caught my ear were:"You know you can't keep the ground from shaking, no matter how hard you try, You can't keep the sunsets from fading  You gotta treat your love like you're jumping off a rope swing maybe cause the whole thing is really just a shot in the darkYou gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart."  Read that last line again. I think that's what people are doing. I am saying - because I am seeing - that it can be hard and it can take awhile, but we all do gotta love like there's no such thing as a broken heart. Because we all gotta make this next 50 count too. 

There seem to be a lot of deaths in our world recently. For me, since January, a dear aunt and an equally dear friend; two classmates; a man from a long ago office. And even though I know in what decade I was born, the news somehow surprises me still. I've lived through many losses at this stage of my life - you probably have too - grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, husband, cousins, friends, acquaintances. But a death last week reminded me of a relationship I've never experienced. A friend with two sisters and one brother just lost her older sister. Our friendship is ancient and so over the years I've come to know how close those siblings are. It got me to thinking what it would be like to have, then lose, a sister.Actually, in a way, I guess I do know.  If you've read "Hey, God? Yes, Charles.", you know I claim to be an only child. That's not exactly true. I have a baby sister, born in 1953, who lived one day. Cathy entered the world with infant respiratory distress syndrome (then called hyaline membrane disease), the same thing that killed the Kennedy baby ten years later. With today's medicine, they would both likely come home from the hospital, and I'd have a baby sister. But I never really questioned the outcome. I wasn't quite four, we were a family of three, and this is probably a good time to confess that I have also always been aware of the perks of the only child : )  But if I could pick, I'd pick having a sister and I'm eternally grateful for cousins who have come really close to filling that sibling hole over the years. Still, it's been hard for me to imagine how my friend is feeling after losing a sister who has been actively sistering her for 68 years.You also know if you've read the book that I have great expectations of Heaven. Everybody is there, and yes, just for the record, all our animals, and somehow it all just works. I checked on my friend this morning and we talked a lot about that, about sisters and Heaven.  She pointed out it's a different perspective to think about a reunion with people in your life, often on a daily basis, versus getting acquainted with someone you never knew but who is still a critical part of your history. I look forward to getting to know my sister someday. I'm guessing Cathy has already reversed the private sadness that my parents tucked away the day their baby died. I'm betting she has met all the family that was denied for so long. I hope she's looking forward to meeting me. Will she have grown? Will she still be a baby? How does all that work? It's a neat thing to contemplate really. I just hope she doesn't expect me to share.

This powerful statement was a simple line in an update I recently read on Facebook from a family dealing with the sudden life-threatening injury of their teenage son. I've been eagerly reading their daily posts and was immediately lifted up, both by these words and the gradual optimism for his condition.Who among us has not grieved - for a friend, father, son, mother, daughter, spouse, other family member, or maybe for our marriage, our nation, our world, even for a stranger in a news story. It's sometimes hard to see behind the pain. Yet I believe this post is exactly right. We have not grieved without hope. Whether we realized it or not.

[image error]Our neighborhood school bus pulled into my street one afternoon recently. I happened to be behind it. There's a roundabout a few houses down, and the driver began to angle off the first right. In the middle of the turn, he stopped and fired up the bus flashers. A tiny girl climbed down the steps, passed in front of the bus, and began to head on around the circle, opposite his path. The bus driver waited, watching her walk toward her house. She shot a quick glance back before she turned into her yard and disappeared safely inside her front door. Only then did this driver, this member of our village who doesn't live in our village, swing his stop sign closed and allow his yellow cocoon to lumber on out of sight.Our world can be tough and maybe never tougher personally than when we experience loss. But how many times then do others in our world step in to help. Without fanfare, our friends do what we need, sometimes things we don't even know we need. They wait. They watch. They make sure we know they're there. And they stick around until they're satisfied we're safe. Sometimes, somewhere along the way, we can return the favor.I guess we're all on a school bus of sorts. Sometimes we're the driver and sometimes we're the passenger, and either seat can offer both opportunity and gratitude.But I know one thing. I intend to flag that driver down one of these days and thank him. And in so doing, I am thanking a lot of people who have driven my bus for almost 10 years.

My college roommate Jackie and I met for the first time at Belmont in 1967. A close friend from my hometown was also there along with my cousin who was my best friend growing up.  The four of us were an immediate posse and we had one big ole time our freshman year. Eventually our new best friend went back home to Michigan where she married a great guy and raised a family. The rest of us remained closer geographically.We managed to visit a time or two over the years and loosely stayed in touch. Maybe a year and a half ago, we three Tennesseans were shocked but thrilled to learn that her kids and grands had wound up here too and she and Larry would be relocating to east Tennessee immediately.We could not wait for that first foursome reunion. And it was a blast - so much fun seeing her face again and catching up. We admired each other's grands in the present. But then the years fell away as we laughed so hard recalling our freshman innocence and antics. We reminded each other of campus parties - and some off campus ones; the unreasonable curfews which could ONLY result in violations; the midnight fire alarms; our tiny dorm rooms and how did we get all that stuff in there. Most of all we basked in the opportunity to be with each other again and eagerly plan our next adventure.Except. That's all a lie.We were going to do all that. We were. Everybody was pretty busy last year but we had all the time in the world. This year for sure. Soon. We had all talked about it.Twenty-eight days ago the formerly healthy Jackie began to experience inexplicable symptoms. Ten days ago she was diagnosed with a rare and deadly brain disease. Eight days ago she stopped recognizing her family. And yesterday our planned reunion became a real regret.Dammit. Watch out for the lie.

The Academy Awards is supposed to be the story that tells the story of stories. At the end of the night, it is not supposed to be the story itself. Yet, unbelievably, the awards show this year became its own tale, and a cautionary one at that. If you haven't been under a rock since Sunday night, you know what happened when the final presenters were handed the wrong envelope for Best Picture.  The announced director and sidekicks were halfway through their acceptance speeches, Oscar in hand, before auditors figured out that another movie was in fact the winner.A national firm is responsible for maintaining the secrecy and integrity of these awards. Apparently, though, someone got caught up in the glam and glitter of the moment and forgot what he was really supposed to be doing - pick up the right envelope and hand it to the right person at the right time. On the very last handoff of the evening, that didn't happen.The envelope guy in this saga is getting heat for his mistake. It appears that he lost focus of what was important and what he was there to do. But really. How often do we do the same in our daily lives? We get sidetracked by other stuff. We take our assignment for granted, get complacent. We quit paying attention and the wrong thing receives recognition.Our time on earth is a great gig and a greater responsibility. We have a finite amount of time to do the right thing. To love all the people in our lives. To set an example for our children. To be kind to animals. To serve those we know and those we don't. Whether it's a lifetime of living (life changing) or a few seconds backstage in Hollywood (merely embarrassing), the opportunity goes by in a flash. Don't squander it by picking up the wrong envelope.

When we're kids and mad about something, it's easy to think that whatever bad is happening at the moment is the way it is always going to be. We just can't see past RIGHT THIS SECOND so we think this second is forever. Over the years, it's a relief to learn otherwise.And then we lose a loved one and in those first few days - weeks, months, years? - we're right back to being kids again, stuck in that place of absolute certainty that we will forever be in our current purgatory of grief and loss and unrelenting pain.Of course it's still not true, any more than it was when we were kids. I learned that after Charles died. But to be honest, as much as I tried, I could never really understand HOW I moved forward. I eventually accepted that God was working it but HOW. I did finally get to a place of peace but HOW. I did embrace a new normal but HOW. How. How. How.And then today, an epiphany. Someone else's words trumped any I ever came up with to make the pieces fit. Our pastor delivered a beautiful Lenten message. But once I heard the words "God is always creating," my mind left Lent and went to loss.And finally I got it. God is always creating. And because God is always creating, we don't have to stay stuck in that same place. Because God is always creating, peace is possible. Because God is always creating, a new normal is possible. Because God as the creator is always creating, when we are ready, anything is possible.That's how. Wow.

I've been wearing Aunt Shirley's fleece top. She didn't really give it to me. It was in a plastic bag with her other things when I left the hospital for the last time. I finally washed it all and then couldn't resist sliding the gray pullover on. It's comforting.You may have read a recentblogon this website, about the death of this fine lady a couple of weeks ago.  She was widowed too. We had hung out a lot. Her presence was comforting and her absence is tough.I know scripture promises comfort and I cannot begin to tell you how many days and in how many ways that's been delivered to me, and hopefully to you, over the years. I guess it starts in childhood with a night light, a nearby parent, a favorite stuffed animal. Linus's blue blanket! Eventually the stakes get higher and good friends and kind deeds roll in. I received a sympathy card last week that says, "Wishing you a peaceful place, a sheltering space, where your heart can be safe from the sadness and know nothing but comfort."I'm sure Aunt Shirley was comforted by many things in her life too, but none more so than her certain knowledge of the hereafter. I have to say that fleece top of hers feels really good. This soft remainder of her presence is a solid reminder of her faith. Thank you Aunt Shirley. May we all follow your example and provide comfort to each other.