Color me beautiful

Colouring_pencilsThe past several months have held quite a few losses for my family, and I’ve had several opportunities to observe and participate in our grieving rituals. As I joined my family yet again this past weekend, I learned something important.

You see, unlike the other recent funerals, this one had less elements of pre-planning. Most of the decisions about what to do and how to it were left to the survivors. And before I go any further, let me emphasize that it all came together beautifully. It was a very appropriate tribute to a life well-lived.

As a (long-term) step-relative and a bit of a sideline-sitter anyway, I spent the days leading up to the service taking in the family dynamics. Through lots of fun memories, laughter, and tears, I noticed tiny pricks of tension. Nothing big, just now and then, I’d sense a digging of heels or an undercurrent of friction. Everyone had an idea of how “it” should be, and though they were similar, they didn’t always align perfectly.

And then a couple of events started my gears whirling. In a private family moment, we shared adjectives and descriptors of our loved one. I was quite surprised that many of them didn’t seem to line up with the ones that popped into my head. I realized there were facets of our loved one that time, distance, and life phases hadn’t allowed me to see. As I listened, I also became aware that it wasn’t just me. Although there were common themes, everyone had different insights, saw her just a bit differently.

I chewed on that until the memorial service, where the feeling became even more pervasive. As a series of people took turns remembering our loved one with words and stories, I kept seeing different sides of her. Although her sweet, caring demeanor shone through everyone’s tributes, each one had a personal spin that left me thinking, “I never realized that” or “I didn’t think of it that way.”

On the trip home, I finally figured out what was going on–what is always going on, in life or in death. It’s so simple that it often eludes understanding: we see things through our own eyes. The traits and words and events that define a person come at us through our personal filter, and we translate accordingly. The tension I felt came from each of us struggling internally to defend our own memories.

My view of a person is unique; it has to be, since it comes through filters only I have. Everyone else’s view of that person is unique, too. It is only through the sharing of stories and remembrances that we can start to understand the wholeness of a person. Each person’s narrow view alone can’t encompass the richness of a life.

It took me awhile, but I finally realized that other people’s perspectives don’t erode my own. Rather than taking something away, they add richness and fullness and color.

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