Sadly I return from Ohio while my father has yet to pass from his world of pain and confusion into the eternal peace I believe waits for him beyond death. I truly believed I would be there at the end to mourn and celebrate his passing hand in hand. No decision is the right one or the wrong one it is just the decision to be made in any given moment. When I arrived some 13 days ago he was alert and able to transfer from wheelchair to bed or recliner. He was clear headed and excited about my arrival. “Come over here daughter and hug your old man” he said. He made several references to me being a sight for “sore eyes” and that he loved me. In the days immediately preceding my departure, he had not once known my name. Twice he thought I was Audra, my oldest daughter, once his younger sister Bertie and once my mother. This morning as I said good-bye and prepared to leave, he puckered and gave me a kiss from his bed. It was so sweet. I recognized his lips and his pucker through the years, wrinkles, and grayed mustache. He may have thought I was my mom; I am pretty sure he did not know who I was. Yet, I will remember the kiss just the same because I know who he is. It was knowing who I am that I pondered throughout the week.
When I arrived in Radnor, one of the first adjustments, was getting used to being called Shari. While I have expressed my desire to be called Sharalyn, the name given me at birth, no one back home seems to get how important it is to me to be called Sharalyn. For me it represents my maturity, education and specific decisions I have made along my life’s journey. I re-claimed that name when I was ordained, and re-claimed the Hamilton name when I divorced. Ten years ago it was a declaration of my liberation and symbolic of my growth. Back in Radnor, I am still Shari, even though most know that I now live in California and the once wild child has become a pastor with some presumed taming of that rebellious nature. At times during this visit back home, I felt confused about who I am. I was constantly faced with what I used to do and how I used to be and yet maintained my contacts and the work that partially defines me today. Much as I wanted to rebel against being called a little girl’s nick name, as time went on there became something comforting about it. They knew me. They knew who I was and more and more I realized it is also who I am. So much has changed and yet so very little has changed.
Last Sunday I took the opportunity to go to church in the little Welsh church now called Radnor Congregational United Church of Christ. I hoped that taking my mother to that church might rekindle some relationships that would be helpful to her as she navigates my father’s death and her life as a widow. While I have never been a member of this church, it holds a special place in my childhood memories. My mother often played the organ there and I accompanied her as she practiced. The interior was white and bright in contrast to the dark woods of the Baptist church where we attended. The stained glass windows did not bear my beloved images of Jesus, just symbols. It always felt more sterile and God felt royal and set apart rather than the one who walks with me in the garden. As I entered this week it was a happy and welcoming place. While the congregation was small, there was a warmth. As we entered from the back of the sanctuary, we were looking at the backs of most people’s heads. When it was time for greetings and passing the peace, I saw faces that, while wrinkled and grayed looked familiar. My brain sorted through the old files and dusted off memories to recollect names and stories. And then, I saw a face and a smile that were unmistakable, Sally. Sally and I started first grade together and across the room was our first grade teacher, Mrs. Sparks. Forty some years later there we were, all the miles and events in between meant far less than that formative beginning we shared. Sally and I were in class together through out grade school and on and off in High School until graduation. We have each gone our separate ways, pursued education, found love, married and had children but in that moment, when we began to talk, I knew her and she knew me. It is great to see her boys and to talk about my kids, and career but beyond all the changes in our lives there was this incredible sense of connection and knowing. I look forward to keeping the connection more alive in the future.
Twice while in Ohio, I was blessed to have a meal with my dear friend and college roommate, Kim. While our relationship includes many failures in keeping up with each other and staying in contact, we have managed to keep up with each other’s journey a little better than most who met working at McDonalds at age sixteen. We have probably averaged seeing each other once a year. The blessing is that we pick up where we left off and there is immediate familiarity no matter how long it has been or what has happened or how our appearance might have changed. Beyond the life transition created by my father’s impending death the always present topic of conversation and contemplation with me is men. Being single, lends itself to questions about my love life from my happily married friends. I looked forward to telling Kim about the men in my life over the past year and to hear her thoughts and advice. After listening to my stories and hearing my ponderings what stuck me was not her assessment of the men in my life, or whether they were right for me. It was how she framed her responses, “I know you.” I listened to her describe me as up front and forthright in what I want, where I am going and what I need, never leaving to question where a person stands with me. I could not help but think, “have I always been this way?” I thought it was something I developed over the years of education, experience and psychological work. Do you mean to tell me that I have always been this way? After all these years, the distance between California and Ohio, and the different courses our lives have taken, she is still quite certain she knows me. And, why would I ever question it, when I know that I know her. I know the depth of her passion for life and the ways she expresses it in a big style. I know her heart, her compassion and her strong sense of right and wrong. And, I know when she draws the line, saying “enough” of something. What a blessing to know and be known.
I have contemplated and struggled with this concept of being known for over a year. I began with a belief that everyone longed to be known intimately and yet loved because of and in spite of that knowledge. Yet, I have met people who don’t seem to have that need and for whom the thought of being known that deeply is scary. I kept thinking that I wanted to be known authentically and that it would be the foundation for the partnership I wanted with a man. I had a belief that maybe it was only in the context of an intimate male/ female relationship that I could be known. After going home, I will have to contemplate knowing and being known differently. There are people who know me in Ohio. They call me Shari and remind me that they know my roots and were a part of my formation and maybe, just maybe they showed me the piece of myself I was calling into question. I am more sure of who I am having seen myself through their eyes.
