Stupid Facebook.
My Mom’s birthday is Sept. 8. I know that. Burned into my memory cells. But here’s the deal: Mom died last year. Just before her birthday. Last thing I need is some fancy-schmancy algorithm reminding me about the obvious.
Right?
Stupid, stupid Facebook.
So what am I supposed to do now?
Nothin’ — I guess. Nothin’ at all.
Except think, which is exactly what I didn’t want to do:
Think about all the things I wish I’d said?
Think about all the things I wish I’d done?
Think about the things I wish I hadn’t said or done?
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Paul shared this thought in 1 Thess. 4:13:
“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.” (NIV)
Yet I grieve — more than a year later. Not weepy, hopeless, bang-on-the-floor grieving. More of an emptiness. Sadness. Like something’s missing that should be there, but isn’t.
I’ve got Chet Baker’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye” playin’ softly in the background. (You may be more familiar with the Ella Fitzgerald version, which is a classic in its own right.)
The song starts this way:
“Every time we say goodbye, I die a little,
Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little,
Why the Gods above me, who must be in the know.
Think so little of me, they allow you to go.”
Great song — though probably bad theology.
Anyway, Baker’s version is an instrumental, featuring his soulful, earthy, trumpet. Tender, it is. Gentle. Light. Like butterfly kisses. Or that little white feather that floats so wistfully in “Forrest Gump.”
Maybe I shouldn’t be mad at Facebook — or its perky, overly efficient ability to remember the day/date Mom was born. Besides, it’s not the birthday itself that’s so bad. It’s her not being here that hurts.
Miss ya Ma …. sometimes real bad.
SUNDAY MEDITATIONS ARCHIVE: Click here.
