By that I mean my husband and his two brothers. Now I love my Beve, like his brothers, but when it comes to this grieving stuff, they might as well be in some movie where th protagonists go from one bad thing to a worse thing, to an even worse thing. Think John Candy and Steve Martin in "Planes, Trains and Automobiles". (Or don't, if you're like me and hate that kind of stooge-like comedy). Their way of coping with all of the upheavals in this season is to a) talk about sports; b) crack jokes; c) drive off on unrelated errands; and d) seem to pay little or no attention whatsoever. Meanwhile, I'm crying copious tears, tearing my hair out about the parents, and trying to keep all the plates in the air. Excuse me if I get a little steamed for a moment.
Now I know these men are capable of deep feelings. I've heard rumors of it from Larry's wife, seen evidence of it on Mo's cheeks, share a bed with Curly (he's curly because if he let his hair grow, it'd be just as Curly as the original!) who has sobbed deeply once or twice in our quarter century of marriage. But get them all together, as they were last Friday night, and they're liable to stand around, blocking the fire, and talking in half sentences. I suppose it's so seldom that they actually get to look people in the eyes, they don't want to waste time sitting or getting blurry-eyed from tears.
But to me, surely created on a different day of the week than such giant stooges, this is a season to hurt. To dwell in the hurting until the hurting begins to fade. To allow the sadness to sweep over me, to color the season just as frost covers the earth. I miss Beve's sister in all this. I need her to help balance out these stooges a little, to bring a little female perspective to the table as we deal with their dad and his wife. I am grateful for my sisters, who speak the same language I do, who communicate and cry and don't have to watch football games as a coping mechanism. Maybe my brothers are part of the stooge patrol as well. They certainly have all the testostrone for it.
OK, so I'm complaining. So sue me. This is a hard time, and there's nothing to be done but live through it, live through it with these three stooges and their families and hope we come out the other side still liking each other. And the truth is, we're all stooges in a way, all fumbling our way through this life, doing the best we can with what we've been given. And asking God to make up the difference. I know there are times when I'm as clumsy as they come, saying things that are insensitive, falling on my face, making a big mess of it all. But thankfully, God doesn't mind stooges. He doesn't mind one mess after another, one pratfall after another, as long as we also fall on our faces before Him, seeking His help. So these three giant stooges I share a last name with? I fall on my face and thank God for them as well. I hope they know that--all three of them. I thank God for them.
As my stooge, Curly, would say, quoting Jim Eliot, "We're just a bunch of nobodies (or just a bunch of stooges!), trying to exalt a Somebody."