Sharla Dawn Gorder

Early November—I walked the shore at dawn with Shuba.  The seashells on the beach were so broken up—crushed actually—by the recent storms, that they kind of felt good under my feet.  Almost like scratching an itch I didn’t know I had.  I still like the broken ones.

I walked east in the crunchy sand toward my daily rendezvous with the sunrise. A gray flannel robe of clouds cloaked the horizon.  I suspected He would be late.  We were scheduled to meet at 6:05 AM sharp.  Sometimes He is late.  He can get away with it.  He is God.  He gets away with lots of stuff.

I turned back toward the house enjoying the feel of the shells between my toes, the sight of Shuba jamming her snout into crab holes, the sound of the Gulf, now finally relaxing after too many storms.  And then, I felt some pink in the air.  Yes, you can feel the color of a sunrise even before you see it, and I looked back.

6:05 AM.  Magenta rising.  My favorite.  In the big box, the Crayola 64, magenta was always my favorite color.  Light broke the dark horizon line in a glowing pink arc.  And then it was gone, shrouded behind the heavy drape of clouds.

But it rose for me, and showed itself for a moment to me—this broken girl at dawn on the shore.

Daddy died on a Friday.  We weren’t expecting it; we were expecting it.  We weren’t ready; we were ready.   We were distraught; we were relieved.  For 17 days we stood vigil at the hospital, my sister and brother and me, silently begging him to live even while struggling to find a pen to sign his permission slip to be excused from this life.  His last days in that mechanical bed were truly awful.  Even at 88, he did not give up without a fight.  When he died, Jem stood in the middle of the room like a bewildered orphan and said, “The roof is gone.”   Mom and Dad are both gone now, one right after the other it seems.

At the memorial we held in his assisted living facility, we sang that old Peaches and Herb song—Reunited.  In 70 years, Mom and Dad had never been apart for more than a few days when Daddy would travel for business.  I guess Daddy decided that eight months was just too long.  He had to go.

We had a second memorial in a little clearing on a piece of farmland in his hometown.  We planted a fig tree.  Old friends and relatives gathered around and told stories.  My cousin, Todd, read a poem.  And as soon as he read the title, To be of Use, my heart just about burst with kinship and love.  How did he know?  He had seen my Daddy only a couple of times in decades.  How did he understand Daddy’s ultimate passion, his raison d’etre?

This is truly all my Daddy wanted—To Be of Use.  The poem is by Marge Piercy, and though she didn’t know it, she wrote it about James M. Sullivan Sr.  She wrote it about my Dad.

Todd stood by the little sapling and in a quavering voice began to read about my Daddy who loved the land and the work of the land that is “common as mud” who strained in that mud “and the muck to move things forward…to do what has to be done again and again.”

That was Daddy.   In work—he was a farmer, planting forests of trees he knew he would never see grow tall.   In love—he was my mother’s caregiver till the very end of her dementia and her life.  In spirit—he loved and served the God of his understanding with unflagging devotion and child-like enthusiasm even till the awful end, when I, myself, was furious with God for allowing this devoted disciple to suffer so.  (I’m still a little ticked.)

The poem ended with the words:  “The pitcher cries for water to carry/and a person for work that is real.”  And when Daddy’s real work on Earth was done—his farmlands tended by his boy; his bride in the arms of Jesus Himself; and God’s message of redemption offered to every soul he encountered—his body died, a vessel emptied out and used up, to a good and holy purpose.  And his spirit moved on.

Already, I miss his big farmer’s hands.  I regret the times when I would visit and pull my hands away from his before he was ready.  He’d playfully clasp tighter as I began my goodbyes after lunch. Usually, I would stay another moment or two, then unlace our intertwined fingers, kiss him on the top of the head, and leave.  The last time I held his hands, the hour of his death, he gripped my right hand so tightly that I couldn’t pull away. He clutched Sandee’s hand in his left.  And then—how did it happen like that?—He let go.  His grip slackened.  I remember that more than the absence of breath or of heartbeat, though my head was on his chest, ear pressed to his heart.  He let go of my hand before I let go of his.  He had to, I suppose.  It was the first time.  It was the last time.  I’m trying not to blame him for that.

I can be a little whiney about those things.  Daddy loved to tell the story of the time—I must have been about four—when I climbed to the top of the swing set at the little park by our house.  I’m not sure how I got up there all by myself, but Daddy was only a few yards away when he heard me hollering, and looked up to see me dangling from the crossbar.  He ran to rescue me, but alas, I couldn’t hold on.  In the car on the way to the ER to get stitched up, I wailed, “Deddy, why didn’t you catch me?  You should’ve run faster.”

And I still want him to be there for me.  Of course, I do.  I’ve never known it any other way.  But I’m a big girl now, and I know that it’s my turn to be of use and to do what has to be done again and again, and to try to catch people when they’re falling, and to hold their hands, and to tell them happy news about God, and to love them through their very best and very worst.

Seems like a lot.  But Daddy never complained, and neither will I.

The sun rose this morning for Shuba and me though it seemed more reluctant than usual.  That mattress of clouds at the horizon complicated things.  Sometimes things are complicated.  But still the sun rises; life goes on.

Grief is complicated.  I would think it would be familiar by now, and thereby easier for me.  I’ve done this sad dance over and over the last couple of years—Jenna, Vanessa, Mom and Dad.  Aren’t you supposed to get good at things with practice?  Ah, maybe I am.  I will say that I am less afraid, less cynical, less resistant.  Anne Lamott writes:  “Grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination.”  I have found this to be true.

But still I am broken this morning, crushed actually, like those shells in pink dawn light.  I miss my father.  I miss my mother.  I fear I will be sand soon.  But that’s okay.  Maybe I will become the gorgeous white quartz sand that this island is famous for.

Bring a pail and a little shovel.  You can build a castle out of me on the beach.  I don’t mind.  In fact, I think, I’d like that.  Let me be of use in some small way.

And the beat goes on.  Thanks, Daddy.