Cousin Karin and the ‘C’ Word

Today is my cousin Karin’s 36^th birthday. She’s celebrating on the other side. Since I started this blog in her memory, it seems appropriate that I write something in tribute to the privilege of living. We never know when or where our time on earth will end. This occurred to me especially today when I made a special trip to the chiropractor’s office because my pelvis went out of whack—again!—just 2 days after my last adjustment. Something is definitely awry with my muscular-skeletal system, and we (my chiro and I) haven’t yet been able to figure out what. One thing I appreciate about Dr. L is her thoroughness. She asks a lot of questions and tries a lot of techniques. She had her husband and fellow chiro Dr. M take an X-ray of my pelvis about a month ago, but it was a couple inches too high (I have a long torso), so we’ve scheduled another X-ray later this week.

We’ve talked about all kinds of possibilities, but today was the first time I insinuated that I feared something worse than muscle strain might be at play. Though I haven’t had any other troubling symptoms of the “C” word, today, on Karin’s birthday, I couldn’t help but “go there.” I hope and pray (and strongly suspect) my qualms are unfounded on this score. Nevertheless, having witnessed the untimely death of a family member or friend changes us. It makes us more aware of our mortality. I’ve always been inclined to ponder death (as is common to humankind, no?)—not morbidly longing for it, but considering the inevitability of it. And preparing to face it.

I’ve experienced 2 near-death experiences that I can recall. Both happened with Will, both in the same vehicle. In January 1995, during the holiday break between semesters our senior year of college, we went to Long Lake in the Adirondacks to visit friends. Lyn and Leigh were excited about showing us around their new hometown, and we were merrily rolling along one wintry afternoon when I lost control of our Nissan Pathfinder and played Ping-Pong with the guardrails on both sides of the ravine-lined road. While Leigh summoned Jesus’ help from the back seat (and thank God she did), I scrambled to summon my memories of Driver Education: Was I supposed to steer into the skid, or in the opposite direction? I don’t remember which way I turned. I just know we drove away from that country road with our lives intact. We were rattled, but preserved.

In October 1998, Will was driving the Pathfinder to church, with me as the lone passenger. Another country road. A 16-year-old boy was wandering aimlessly in unfamiliar territory, looking for—what was it?—a horse show or some-such. His parents had gone ahead, and he was trying to catch up to them. In his confusion, he pulled out in front of us at a visibility-impaired intersection. Had Will not swerved, we would have broad-sided the kid at 55 mph. The thing with swerving in an SUV, however, is the roll-over risk factor. Will risked it, and we rolled over—twice, according to eyewitnesses. Again, we came away unharmed. Can’t say the same for the Nissan, which was beyond totaled. But all I bear from that accident is a few small scars—amazingly few, considering the billions of bits of broken glass we left behind.

In some ways, neither experience shook me as much as saying goodbye to 2 precious people taken too soon by cancer: First, our friend Matt in March 2005, then my cousin Karin last December. Their deaths—and others, including the recent passing of my colleague’s daughter Kathy—have not only forced me to face the inevitability of my own death (whether soon or far off, I don’t know), but I have also had to come to terms with the difficulty and discomfort of Not Understanding Why. I guess you could call it the death of simplicity.

And yet, “these three remain: faith, hope, and love.” I believe in the One Who knows all, understands all, and loves all. I look to the Light of the World to uphold me, here and now and, someday—with Karin and Matt and Kathy and Edna and Lisa and all the saints who have gone before me—in Heaven, that place of perfect peace for those whose hearts are stayed on Him.

I have the song “In These Times,” by Quaker folk singer and English Lit Professor Bill Jolliff, spooling through my mind. Though I couldn’t find the full lyrics online, the chorus goes something like this: “These are my times / These are your times / We can be the love of Jesus in these times / Count the hours, count the days / It’s really not that long to stay / We can be the friends of Jesus in these times.”

Image: A painting in Karin’s memory, by one of her many, many friends Laura: http://karinupdates.blogspot.com/2009/01/awesome-painting.html