The Extraordinary Ordinary Things of Life

I’m at Thomas’ wake. I have his memory box on my knee, and I take out a few photos and pass them to a friend.

“He was a chubby baby!” she exclaims.

I reply, “He wasn’t really. Those photos were taken at the funeral home. He looked different at the hospital.”

I think about this. I remember how much I longed to see Thomas once more at the funeral home before his burial. He was in his coffin at the far end of the room, and I hurried towards him. And then suddenly I stopped. He didn’t look like my baby. In some way, he’d changed since I’d left him at the hospital. Tears rolled down my face, and I wondered, “Did they get the babies muddled up? Is this really Thomas?”

My friend’s voice interrupts my thoughts. She is asking me another question, and I open my mouth to reply. My lips move, but the words won’t form. I try again, and again, I fail to say anything. I have lost control of my speech.

My friend notices my difficulties and says, “You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay.” But it’s not okay at all. I want to tell her about my son, but I can’t. I don’t want her to move off and leave me alone. But she thinks she’s upsetting me. She pats me on the shoulder and hurries away. And I am helpless.

Yes, I remember the day I lost control of my speech. But it wasn’t just the ability to form words that I’d lost. I’d lost control of my whole life.

Life can go on the same, day in and day out. It is known and comfortable, and we feel secure. We think we are in control. Yes, we have problems to deal with, but we cope. And then one day we wake up, and life has changed forever, and we know there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.

I am very aware of how life can change so quickly. I travel through my comfortable days where I am seemingly in control, and I wonder how long it will last. What plans has God got for me? Will He allow my world to be turned upside down again? Will I once again sink into that pit of suffering?

I remember, a few days after Thomas died, going to the shopping centre and seeing two young women. As I walked past them, they continued to laugh and chat together about nothing of real importance. And I wondered why they hadn’t noticed that I was no ordinary woman. Hadn’t the air around them turned cold as we crossed paths? Why were they enjoying the trivial things of life while I was gripped by the arms of grief?

The trivial things of life? It’s strange how unimportant some things seem when we are grieving. What if my world fell apart today? Would I continue my normal routine? Would I be interested in the little things of life? No, I don’t think I would.

I think of the possibility of more suffering, and my heart skips a beat. A feeling of dread and fear overcomes me that threatens to spoil the present moment. And then I tell myself not to be silly. I say trust. Live life to the full and don’t look ahead. Be thankful for the joys of today. Don’t let thoughts of possible pain-to-come spoil the present. The future is God’s concern, not mine. My job is to concentrate on the little things of life.

So I get involved with the little things. I think about what I am going to wear for the day. I stand under the shower and enjoy the tingling of the hot water upon my skin. I spend time with God: I pray and read. I hang washing on the line and feel the warmth of the sun. Later, I challenge my body to a long run. Afterwards, I sit at the lunch table and devour my sandwich as I answer the girls’ eager question: “How far did you run today, Mum?” We work; we share books; we chat; we laugh; we write; we discuss what we shall cook for dinner. Then my husband Andy arrives home. We hug. I pour a glass of wine, and we exchange news. Eventually, our ordinary day comes to an end.

As my children arrive one by one to say goodnight, I think about how much I love my family. I love them so much it hurts, and the present moment threatens to be spoilt by the question, “What if…?” But I don’t let it. I have no cause to worry.

I think about Thomas’ death when I lost control over every aspect of my life, even my speech. I was sure my life was over. But here I am full of joy, surrounded by love. I still have no control over my life. I don’t even want it. Yes, I am aware God could allow any kind of sorrow and suffering to touch me. But I also know He will always be there to bring me through it. For hasn’t He already done that?

So I live in the present moment, and I enjoy the ordinary things of life which I suddenly realise aren’t so ordinary after all. Ordinary becomes powerfully extraordinary when combined with love.

Before each child heads off to bed, I enfold her within my arms, and I hug. I hug tightly, my eyes closed, my heart overflowing with love. This is today. This is what is important. This is an extraordinary ordinary moment of my life.