Flagging an Important Day

Flag Day 2011

Most people don’t know anything about the glory of Flag Day—why we have it, what day it is, or when it started. Now I still don't really know what the intended purposes were, but for me and my younger brother, it’s one of the best days in June. It’s June 14th, actually, and we almost miss it every year because there’s no insane advertising inundation leading up to the fateful day like there is for Christmas or the Fourth of July.

Still, it’s my favorite day in June.

We first began celebrating Flag Day seven(-ish?) years ago. My brother and I had just come home from an afternoon at the river. The skin on our cheeks and shoulders was taut and freckled with sun. My calves and hamstrings burned from the perilous hike up the steep rock cliffs that led to our own private oasis on the sun-baked river bank. We drove home in my shaky 1988 Honda Prelude, windows down blasting DC Talk and dancing carelessly, free. (Even now I'm not ashamed of my love for DC Talk)

At home we ravaged the kitchen for ice cold sodas—Cherry Pepsi for him, Diet Pepsi for me—still in our bathing suits.

“Aly, let’s make a cake,” Cameron declared as he flashed me his dimpled smile that gets him out of chores and punishment, even when he’s as guilty as a child caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

“Okay,” I conceded, not that it took much convincing.

“We don’t have cake mix,” he looked at me with the eyes of a wounded animal, but I already knew how to save the day.

“We could go to Mike’s,” I suggested. Mike’s was the convenience store right down the hill from us. We used to ride our bikes down to purchase candy bars for ourselves and milk for our mom. It hadn’t been called Mike’s for a couple of years since an Arab couple took over the store, but it would always be Mike’s to us.

“We should bake the cake for Mom. When does she get home?” Cameron asked me. I was surprised at his spontaneous selflessness and felt a little guilty that I hadn’t thought of it first.

“That way she’ll give us money for it.” No need for guilt, there’s the Cameron I knew.

“We could say it’s a birthday cake, or maybe her half-birthday!” His excitement was growing as he schemed. Meanwhile I made my way over to the calendar, checking if there was some kind of holiday that was close enough to justify baking a cake.

June 14th. It was Flag Day.

I rushed to my room to throw on some clothes, yelling to Cameron to do the same.

“We’re going to Mike’s, Cameron! It’s Flag Day! Everyone needs a Flag Day cake!”

Five minutes later clad in cut off shorts and old gymnastics t-shirts, my brother and I stood in front of the cake mixes preparing to make the most difficult decision of the summer thus far: what kind of cake is appropriate for a Flag Day celebration?

Our eyes greedily studied the sumptuous labels of rich, moist, luscious cakes, and then stopped scanning at exactly the same time. I turned to Cameron and met his brilliant blue eyes as we both broke into a smile.

“Yellow cake, chocolate frosting,” we said in unison.

Flag Day 2010

. . .

Although today is not Flag Day, I share this story in honor of my "little" brother's 22nd birthday. This is just one example of the rich--and unexpected-- camaraderie we share.

Today I want to say I am grateful for the birth of someone who has loved me and been the champion of my soul since the day he was born. For this brother who has taught me so much about life and confidence and self-assurance and second chances. Who has loved me so unconditionally, so fiercely, that sometimes I question his sanity.

Cameron, today I want to say thank you for being my brother.

For being you.
For your unwavering confidence in me.
For your outrage at my pain.
For the songs you've written me.
For the times we've laughed so hard we've snorted and cried.
For the times when you had every right to be angry at me, to look down on me, to judge me, and instead you scooted into the seat next to me, wiped my tears, and told me you loved me. I have never experienced such grace.
For the love of words and poetry and creativity that we share.
For trusting me with your scribbled journal entries and half-formed songs.
For guarding the scribbled bits of my heart that I've shared with you.
For the joy you bring me when I see you perform, your eyes alive and your heart on fire.
For the Flag Day cakes.

You play a leading role in my love story with God and my journey to love myself. You are an unwarranted fit of compassion in my life.

Happy Birthday, you butthead. Enjoy your yellow cake and chocolate frosting.

And now some proud sisterly plugging: check out Cameron's newest song here: http://cameronlewis.bandcamp.com/

P.S. I have an older brother who has greatly shaped and blessed my life as well. He will get a tribute on November 1st, his birthday.

*Flagging in this case is meant to show that I am indicating, marking, or labeling this day as a special day.

Celebrating Savannah

In honor of my beautiful friend and sister, Savannah Feinberg, today's blog post is a little longer than usual.

 

September 15, 2005

 

The wind bit at my cheeks as I walked back to my dorm after class. I checked my phone and saw thatonly my mom had called, as usual. I pressed number one on my speed dial and was instantly connected with my voicemail. I expected the usual, “Hey, Aly, it’s Mom. . . call me back,” but nothing sounded normal about her message.

“Aly, it’s Mom. I know you’re in class, but I really need you to call me back,” she pleaded, her voice tired and pale like she hadn’t slept in days. Images of my Alzheimer’s-stricken grandmother tangled in tubes and gasping for her last breath flashed before me.

I expected the worst.

I punched down my mom’s speed number hoping that my worst fears were still fears, not a catastrophic reality. Not yet. She answered on the second ring, and my heart sank like a small sailboat caught in the acidic storm of my stomach. She had been waiting for me to return her call.

“Aly, I need to tell you something. Where are you? Are you sitting down?” I wasn’t sitting, I was walking home from class, but curiosity trumped my mom’s concern.

“I’m fine, Mom. What?” I snapped. I was angry already, and I hadn’t even heard the news.

“Aly,” my mom’s voice was hushed, and I had to strain against the wind to hear her. “I guess Savannah Feinberg has been sick for awhile. She was in the hospital last week with meningitis. I don’t think anyone evenknew she was sick, and I think everyone thought she was getting better. But there were complications. ”

“What? Getting better from what? Savannah’s fine, Mom. I don’t understand.” By now I had stopped walking and was standing at the top of the hill above my dorm overlooking the ocean. None of this made sense.

“Aly, Savannah died this morning.”

Savannah wasn’t my grandmother. Savannah wasn’t anybody’s grandmother. Savannah was a beautiful 15-year-old cheerleader and my former gymnastics teammate. She was like my little sister. She couldn’t be dead; there must have been some mistake.

I didn’t hear my mom as she explained the details of the funeral. I didn’t hear her when she told me that she wished she could hug me. I didn’t hear her tell me that she loved meand didn’t know why this had to happen. I heard nothing. I felt nothing. My head, my heart, my wholebody, felt empty and meaningless. When I finally said goodbye and snapped my phone shut, I crumbled.

Tears slashed my face as I fought the cutting wind and the urge to throw up. I zombie speed-walked back to my dorm, passing by couples talking happily outside the grey cement building. With my puffy eyes and pathetic attempts to control my sobs, I imagined them thinking I had just been dumped by my boyfriend. I wish.

I made my way down the hall only to find I was locked out of my room. I knocked on the door, praying my roommate was home. No answer. I ran down the hall to my best friend’s room and quickly collapsed into the oblivion of her lime green, garage sale couch and the comfort of her embracing arms.

The next day I was on a flight back to my hometown.

“I think you need to be here, Aly,” my mom had advised. “The girls need a big sister.”

…

Savannah was like my little sister, the epitome of pink. All of the little girls who loved Savannah most, with their bra stuffing contests and prank calls, and now in their grief, were my sisters, too.

Savannah’s dream car was a white VW convertible bug with leather seats and fuzzy pink dice hanging from the rearview mirror. Everything she did, she did with style. Savannah liked to make a statement, and she especially liked to make a fashion statement. She was our resident drama and fashion queen, always commenting on fashion victims’ wardrobes as if they had set out dressing to personally offend her.

“Oh my gosh, look at what she’swearing. Doesn’t she know you can never wear black and brown together? Uuggh,” she’d cringe.

 

We’d just roll our eyes; that’s how Savannah was. We knew deep down she’d always love us even if we didn’t have the best fashion sense. We knew she’d always be the first one to congratulate us on mastering a new skill, her bright smile wide in genuine excitement.

This is the flexible little Savannah I remember--hot pink and all.

The last time I had seen Savannah shewas wearing too much makeup and a much-too-tight halter top at the annualNevada County Fair. She told me that she had just found out she had ADD.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she pleaded with us. “Oh my gosh, I am so embarrassed.”

Luckily for her, when cute blondes have ADD, it’s misinterpreted as a bubbly and enthusiastic personality, not a disorder often associated with hyperactive, delinquent boys.

…

 

For Savannah’s funeral, one of the moms bought us pink silky shirts that were too skimpy to wear to church on any other occasion. None of us wanted to be haunted by Savannah’s critical fashion eye, so we erred on the side of attractiveness. We assembled popcorn and M&M goody bags because it was her favorite treat. We tied each bag with pink ribbon and made our way to the church.

In the church we moved robot-like through the sea of pink. Pink flowers,pink flowy skirts, and pink ties flashed through the sanctuary; even her small, white coffin was trimmed with pink. The blackest day of my life was also the pinkest.

Streaks of rich, black mascara streaked our raw cheeks, but we looked good in our silky tops, form fitting jeans, and strappy shoes. This was my church. The same sanctuary where I lifted my hands in worship and thanksgiving every Sunday I was home. The same sanctuary where I sang my favorite worship song, “Blessed Be Your Name.” The refrain of that song grated against my head and my heart.

“You give and take away. You give and take away. My heart will choose to say, Lord blessed be your name.”

I prayed constantly throughout the funeral, and for weeks after. I prayed for peace and comfort for Savannah’s family. I thanked God for the abundant life Savannah had lived. I prayed that I could somehow be a comfort to those around me. I prayed that, although I didn’t feel it, I would be able to mean the words “blessed be your name.” I clung to the idea that God is good because I couldn’t live with the alternative. I knew life had to be meaningful, otherwise it wouldn’t hurt this bad when it is taken away.

When my friends picked me up from the airport the same day as Savannah’s funeral, I wasn’t ready to get back to real life. They threw me a surprise birthday party because I had been attending memorial dinners and coaching my teammates on how to give a eulogy instead of celebrating my 19^th birthday. As they waited to surprise me in the darkness of a lovingly decorated dorm room, two of my friends held my hands as I sat in the car, heaving and sobbing, empty and tired of being strong. After a few minutes, I pulled myself together and went back to my life.

…

For the first week I was back I talked about Savannah non-stop. I recounted detailed stories of my favorite moments with her, like the time she tried to convince us that the water under a frozen pond is actually colder than the ice because the water is under the ice or the time we convinced her that the roof was leaking in August by spraying her with a water bottle when she wasn’t looking. I told them all of the funny, ditzy, Savannah things she did. I talked about her mom. I talked about her sister, pregnant with her first child, because if I ceased to talk about her, it would mean that she was really gone.

I prayed like crazy, convincing myself that God had a purpose in all of this.

 

God, please be with Savannah’s mom. Help her to know Your love, Lord. Thank you that I could be there for my friends. Please bring them comfort. Bring them peace, Lord. I want to feel Your peace. Surround everyone who is numb, heartbroken,and hurting. Let your glory shine.

…

 

Today, September 15, 2011, I echo the same prayer.

 

Lord, thank you for Savannah. For the life of laughter and love that she lived. Please be with her mom today, her sister, her family. Please bring them comfort. Bring them peace. Let you glory shine.

 

I love you and miss you, Savannah.

T.S. Tuesday: Antsy for Creation

In T.S. Eliot's poem "East Coker" from "Four Quartets" lies one of my favorite phrases:

"the intolerable wrestle with words and meanings."

In his own poem, Eliot finds that often poetry can fall short of explaining the mystery and awe and wonder and heartbreak of life. In the middle of the poem, he writes,

"That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings."

And that intolerable wrestle with words and meanings is what brought me back to God. I found that when I couldn't pray--couldn't even consider praying--I could wrestle with words. I could write questions and question meanings. I could create meaning and delight in my creation. I could wrestle with poetry and in a way wrestle with God.

I started a journal I titled, "Antsy for Creation." Because I was. But as I started to write and create and wordplay, I found I was even more antsy for God. For the Creator who stamped his own desire to create on my soul from the very start.

God spoke to me through poetry long before he spoke to me through prayer. And why wouldn't he? The Bible is filled with poetry, with testaments of ancient, anxious wrestling with words and God and meaning. And God speaking into chaos. God filling and comforting and redeeming with his words and his meanings.

So whenever I read this poem and these words by Eliot, I am grateful for a God who created me to create and who brings forth his presence into my own "intolerable wrestle with words and meanings"--and makes it a little more tolerable.