Answering the hard questions

Hard questions: I’ve had to answer more than a few in my life. I imagine you have, too.

When I was a baby, I had to answer the hard question of when to cry. Should I do it when I want attention? Should I do it when I’m hungry? Should I do it when I’m sleepy? Or should I do it just … at … the … very … moment … exhausted mom and dad … close … their … eyes … “Waah! Waah!” Yep. That was it. 

When I was a toddler, I had to answer the hard question on whether or not to go find mom or continue rocking my droopy, yes, even soiled, diaper as I played out in the backyard. (If you must know, I typically chose the latter, because I grew up in the poor South where it was pretty adventurous to run around all day barefoot with nothing on but a T-shirt and the aforementioned diaper hanging on by two wires covered at their head in hard plastic (aka those diaper pins you couldn’t break the plastic head with a sledgehammer and whose pin wouldn’t be freed without a pair of pliers and an exhaustive amount of strength … My mom passed them down to my wife for our kids. That’s how I know.) 

And I wouldn’t call it a day until I was covered in filth, head to toe, complete with a “turnip neck”. (Note: My mom never explained what a “turnip neck” was but based upon the extra scrubbing done under there – my chin – I can only surmise it was having enough dirt in that location she could grow turnips. PS To all those who know me. Maybe the Brillo pad treatment is why I hate turnips.)

When I was a teenager, I had to answer the hard question of what to do with my birthmark. I mean it’s not like I could hide it. (Although, many years later, and still today, I do; behind a cover stick that, as close as I can get, resembles my skin color.) It’s port-wine in color, about an inch and a half long and under my right eye. It sort of looks like God marked me with the state of Florida. (There are folks reading this who are going to say: “What? I never knew.” There are others who are now going to be all up in my grill trying to see it.)

I mention it because it had a big impact on who I became; both bad and good. Enough girls thought it was cute, but I wasn’t worried about the girls. (Well. I mean what teenage guy wasn’t worried about what the girls thought?) I was concerned about the guys. Hence, to offset the risk of it becoming a weakness I became a jerk. (An expletive would be a better word, but I’ll pass.) 

I was mean. I did things I’m not proud of to “prove” myself – my toughness – to them. I smoked. I cursed. I drank. I used drugs. I bullied. I fought. You name it. Stole. Broke into places. Shameful things. Thankfully, God was bigger. 

“… and that’s all I’ve got to say about that.” – Forrest Gump

Hard questions as an adult: What job, what profession, what career path would I choose? Marriage? Kids? A family? Losing family to the grave? How would I deal with all that? 

As a senior. Retirement? (When I’m 100, maybe.) Health issues and what to do about them? 

Hundreds of hard questions. Thousands and I thought I had answered them all, every one imaginable. Until Saturday.

“So, these are the plots we have available in the Veterans Garden.”

“Just so you know, you do have the option of being buried in a community mausoleum.”

“That aside, would you like to be buried in a simple vault or one that’s lined? We also have a decorative one but it’s considerably more expensive.”

“Do you want a vase attached?”

“Will you and your wife have a connecting headstone? Do you have any thoughts on what you want on your headstone? Some people put animals or things that were dear to them, like fishing or hunting.”

I sat. I listened. I reached a quick verdict: Well, now those were some hard questions! Maybe not the answer, but in contemplating their certitude. Their inevitability. Their finality. What they meant! I’m dead! I’m toast! Gone! Deceased! (At least on a physical plain.) Hasta mañana!

I got a little creeped out. I never thought much about having to answer “those” hard questions. I mean. I was going to live forever. Wasn’t I? (No, I haven’t thought that since I was like 30.) It made me sad. It was depressing.

Later, however, I sat and reflected and came up with what should have been an easy conclusion. The only way you can answer those hard questions without having a meltdown is by “how” you answered the other hard questions throughout life. Like for instance, with guts and grace and goodness and gratitude and a whole lot of other little “g’s”, and one big one: God.

So, I gave my life a look and I found from when to cry to when to find mom about those diapers to that birthmark to adulthood to senior hood, all of that, I’d done a pretty good job. It has been far from perfect, but I find I am satisfied. I am at peace. (I’ll take my time being at “rest” thank you very much.)

Hard question, asked out of love: How about you?