Father Daddy, I have questions...

One of the quirks of our household is that I don't attend church. Not my thing, not going to delve into it here. But Dr. Wife takes Miss Neverpoop, well, religiously every Sunday. So the theological questions pop up from time to time. I usually let Dr. Wife handle these; she's much more educated on these matters.

However, once in a while I get cornered, as on the way to preschool today.

Daughter: "When are we going to die?"

It is amazing how quickly the morning fog can be burned away...

Me: "Not for a long, long time, honey."
Daughter: "I want to see how it happens. Does God live underground?"
Me: "Well, many people believe God lives everywhere, all around us."
Daughter: "Then how will we see him when we get buried?"

A previous drive past a cemetery with another awkward conversation sprang to mind...

Me: "Well, our bodies get buried, but the part that thinks and feels gets to go to heaven."
Daughter: "Where is heaven?"
Me: "I'm not sure how to answer that... it isn't a place that we can see or get to while we are alive."
Daughter: "How big are clouds?"
Me: "Ginormous." Finally, my sort of question. "Bigger than buildings and airplanes and houses."
Daughter: "Weoo, that's reaaaally big. They had better be careful up there."

Hallmark has a card for it.

I don't know how to write about it. It's been one year since Eddie died. I have tried to write about that day, about the moments that crashed across those of us who loved him. But I can't do them justice. So I won't try.
I learned that day that I can be immeasurably fragile and unquestionably strong at the same time.
That day tempered me, and I'm still raw from the forge. I'm on the right path, I suppose. But I was changed by his passing, as I was changed by his life.
I miss you, Mr. No-Hair. I'm hugging you in my heart, Mrs. No-Hair. I love you both.

Minds, hearts, and minnow buckets

I have a lot to write about. I have searched for some connectivity, continuity, or theme under which to tie these things. I have failed. So pardon the complete lack of transition that follows.

The Boomerang Project is in full swing. It's the student mentoring program that I travel with, teaching folks how to build the program in school. It has taken me to Portland so far (hence Goonie Rock), and Austin (just outside the city limits). I love this thing. Very rarely does one get the chance to really examine what they are doing, how they are doing it, and then adapt to all of that. I never feel more professional than when I do this, and it is so immediately rewarding on an emotional and intellectual level. I wish I could do this full time, but that isn't really an option. And the best/worst part, the folks that I work with in this are the type who love, support, challenge, demand, and trust me. I want them in my arms every day.

I returned from the most recent trip just in time for Valentine's Day. Allow me to clarify: I returned just in time for Valentine's Day at an all-girls Catholic school. One large room was closed down and staffed with secretaries. The sole purpose of this room was to receive the massive influx of cards, balloons, bouquets, candies, bears, gifts, and other pink-infused love tokens. The reek of roses rolled out of that room, carrying with it the power to induce drama. Valentine's day seems to divide school-girls into two packs: those with boyfriend drama and those who yearn bitterly for boyfriend drama. Add to this soap-opera scenario the freshman and sophomore class retreats, which took them and their teachers from the building and infused them with church-driven cathartic tears and soul searching.

I overheard things today that no man should have to hear. Stories of teen Valentine lust, two-timing, heartbreak, hatred, jealousy, and angst that ripped all semblence of sanity from my head. At the end of the day, my already ill body felt ripped from my addled head.

The only prescription: more cowbell. No, scratch that. The only prescription: pink Valentine's ice cream with Miss Neverpoop.

A little date with the Snotter Daughter was great. We talked about Valentines cards, and to whom we want to say "I love you", and about swinging on the swings. She was thoroughly impressed that she had a pink spoon and that I had a blue spoon. She talked about her friend Emily, and how she wants to marry her and shower her with gifts of spider-rings, head bands, necklaces, and washable tattoos. It's nice to see her connecting with other kids, even if she does appear to be a tiny lesbian.

My grandfather passed away last night (see? no transition. Just Bam!). His wife had passed a few months back, he had suffered a stroke, and continually fought to recover from that. Riley was a good man: stoic, devoted, hard-working, and honest. I take some pride in that one cannot walk through downtown Kansas City without standing next to a building that either he or my father were involved in building. I am proud of my father, aunt, and uncle who made the choices to make him comfortable during his last months, even though that meant that they might not be prolonging his life. It's the decision I would want made for me. So fire up some barbecue, smoke some strong tobacco in an old pipe, and mow your lawn today in honor of Riley Aquila Killmer. He'd be doing the same for you.

I miss him

"Hi. I know this is odd, but I live in Kansas and I have some bad news for you. Your son/nephew/friend/son-in-law/brother Eddie has died suddenly. I am at the hospital now with his wife. She needed me to call you, because she is hurting right now. We think it was related to a blood clot. It was unexpected, fast, and we are hurting. I am his friend, his mentor, his beer-drinking buddy. He was my poker teacher, my daughter's No-Hair friend, and my hallway companion. Please come if you can, and I will call you again when I know more."

I came when the EMT's called for me. I drove his wife to the hospital, and held her as the Chaplain told us the awful truth. He had beaten Hodgkin's Lymphoma, survived the Marines in Desert Storm, devoted his life to bringing to others a strength to fight. And a damn blood clot took him down as he prepared to go see a doctor. His wife, Jen, is the sweetest, gentlest person and they loved each other dearly. And her world has crashed around her.

It is an awful honor, to make that call again and again. To serve Eddie and Jen, to stand when they couldn't. But oh it has laid me low. And I fear for Jen.

Eddie, my friend, I miss you so much. I keep seeing you in the doorway of my classroom, and I stand alone where we used to laugh and scheme.

How awful to measure my years in Kansas in terms of tombstones. Steve, Eli, Art, Scott, Zach, Pam, Eddie. Is this what years gain me? Is it a growing list of loss? Is there a Sunday in this terrible calendar that will give a day of rest for the wives, the parents, the brothers, the friends?

I pray that my phone doesn't ring, or that I don't have to pick it up to call. "Hi, my name is Colin, and although we have never met, I am handing you pain and sorrow. Forgive me."