Anointed with Syrup

There's one story told to me this past week that I have to share.  As a writer (or at least I like to think of myself as one) I like to leave these stories last in the story.  During my poetry phase, I was taught that the last image of the poem is sometimes the most crucial.  I always tried to follow suit with my short stories and attempts at chapter fiction.  Even these blogs follow a similar format.  You write what you know and in the style that comforts you.  But the story was integral to how I viewed a lot of moments this summer, and these last few weeks as well.  Sweet, syrupy and childlike.

I met a friend of mine who moved away after a divorce a few months back.  We met through coaching and because our daughters were best friends.  He was my Emmaus sponsor and a friend during the baby Christian phase of my life.  I'd go to him under the guise of listening to him tell me about his marriage and I always felt like I learned something about myself in the process.  He wasn't afraid to deliver the hard truths to me even as the world around him was crumbling.  God placed him in my life at the right time, and I have been carrying a sort of friend-guilt along the way when he moved to Georgia.

To understand the story is to understand the man.  His mother has a recent stay at the local retirement home as her battle with dementia and Alzheimer's had began to strip her of her personality.  So, moving to Georgia meant moving her again, along with his older brother who was barely able to hold a job because of his mental handicap.  My friend brought me into the story by reminding me that God always has a sense of humor (his favorite quote is upon reaching heaven, God will say, "I sure had some fun with you") and that a mind disease like dementia not only takes away memories, but robs you of sensations too.

Like the taste of syrup.  Imagine that sensation of anything sweet being gone from your memory.  The plasticy punch of a lollipop, the crumbled chocolate and flour of a cookie, the cold fruit taste of jelly.  Momma H, as I'll refer to my friends mom, didn't want syrup on her pancakes.  Her mind has no recollection of the word, much less what it felt like to taste.  So my friend takes a fork-full, dips it in syrup and holds it up for her to eat.  She bites, and a child's eyes awaken at the taste of syrup once again.  I remember my own kids sitting on their high chairs, that great time when they can start eating table food, and the messiness of their cheeks after an all-out onslaught on birthday cake.  That was probably the face on Momma H as she poured the rest of the syrup on her pancakes.  

I haven't had the misfortune of seeing a loved one unravel one memory at a time.  I am a child of divorce, but as a child you have different memories and feelings as one would a husband.  My mom had always been pretty forthcoming about her divorce, but not so much my dad or step-dad.  I imagine asking them to divulge any other details would be like pulling a scab from a wound.  Listening to this story about Momma H was another friend too, one who lost his wife to cancer a few years ago.  Divorce and death, 2 wives lost to time and disease.  Literal and figurative, the memories now flashbacks in a man's mind, or on the faces of their daughters.  

So here I am, nowhere near a divorce, or God-willing a death.  I feel like a young David in the Bible miniseries I watched this past summer.  In it, David is anointed with honey poured onto his forehead.  It drips down his face in this glorious metaphor of having God in your life.  Just blessing upon blessing poured out.  24 new kids in a classroom--honey.  One daughter in college and my other stopped crying in the morning on the way to the bus stop--more honey.  She told me no more tears because she's holding her fear inside.

And my son.  Too many pizza rolls doomed his appetite.  I nixed playing football for many reasons, one being he's going to be flattened by some man-child kid whose dad is some Al Bundy-like ex high school football star.  After telling him he doesn't have enough weight on his bones, that bottom lip of his quivers.  I know at that moment he wants nothing more that to be accepted and valued.  I bring him over after dinner and try to console him with the promise I accept each day I say "yes" to God.  In that instance it's honey on his forehead.  Anointed with the syrup.  Nothing could be sweeter.