Living together

I've been gone for a while. 

A long, long while.  Lots of things have happened since I've been gone.

Lots of not-fun things.  People have died.  Friends, uncles, co-workers.  It's not been the greatest month, June. 

But, no matter the tragedy, life does on.  You wake up, if you're lucky, if it's God's will and you go to work.  You make dinner.  You feed your dog.  You hug your kids.  You go to bed.  And do it all over again the next day.



Sometimes you can't sleep.  Sometimes you want to cry.  So you cry.  And life still goes on around you.

Kids still need to be taken care of.  Fish still need to be caught.  Seals still need to be cut up.  Berries and greens still need to be picked.  You still need to pay your cable bill, even though no one has turned the TV on for three weeks.

My friends have gone through the toughest time of their lives this past month.  The world going on hyper speed, while they slowly make their way around.  Fast Forward is pressed around them.  You see them at the store, buying groceries to make their children dinner.  You see them checking their mail.  You see them going to church.  You see them on Facebook.  Because life has to move forward.



So you take your kids and grandkids to fish camp.  You sleep in the back of a truck on hard blankets.  You stay up until 3:30 am watching the fish wheel.  You teach your daughter how to correctly butterfly fillet a Salmon with an ulu.  You get thousands of bug bites.  You catch several King Salmon.  You even let one fall back into the river and then JUMP in after it.  And you get it.  Because laughter is the best medicine after prayer.  And then you put your fish away for the rest of the year. 



You watch your grandkids joy as their eyes light up by walking in water.  You watch your daughter claim "king of the hill."  You take your kids innertubing, because that's what their dad would do.  You take all your fish to your best friends funeral because that's what she would have done for you.  You take care of her kids and hug them tight.  Then you hug your own kids tight.

Then you visit your parents because after so many deaths in such a small region, you feel awfully mortal.  But, the kids make everything OK.  They have the time of their lives.  Even without running water and forced to use an outhouse.  Because they see Joy in everything around them.



So life goes on.  But you still cry.  And your friends grieve for you.  And that's OK.  We want you to cry.  We want to cry with you.  We want to hug you.   We want to drink wine with you and let you reminisce about your friend/uncle/husband/nephew/cousin/co-worker.  We want to see you laugh again.

So you do.  And so do I.  We laugh together.  We cry together.  We live strong together.