For Love

For you I’d do
the whole thing through
below, above
for now, for love.

J.H. Prynne

My Dad died around 5:00 on a Tuesday evening in February. Later that night, after the phone calls, the funeral home people, the stunned and exhausted goodbyes, I was sitting on my bed looking out into the February dark. A wave of the most beautiful golden light swept through the room and through my body. I watched it move from right to left, gold and tangible, filling me with such palpable joy I was almost giddy. I felt my Dad telling me that he had made it across (he had been worried about the Catholic holding area called purgatory). He had made it over and was on the way to a new, joy-filled journey; I could almost feel him laughing.

The next morning was a bleak winter day. When I woke up, he was gone. All the things that made up our daily lives—the feeding tube supplies, the medical equipment, the pill bottles—sat uselessly on the kitchen counter and in his bedroom. I felt equally useless, wandering through the house thinking, “He died. He died.” As if the process I’d just witnessed over the last several days, hour after sacred hour, hadn’t happened. As if there was the possibility of a different outcome when we learned that his cancer had metastasized. He was the North Star not only of our family in general, but also of my Mom’s and my daily lives. When he was out, we were waiting for him to come home. And now he was gone. The light in the house was never the same.

One of the hardest parts about losing him is that the version of me that he saw and loved is gone. He could be critical and judgmental at times, but on the whole, he was so loving and so supportive. He cared about my life, my kids, my work. He believed that I had value and that I would, despite struggles, know how to do the right thing. I never doubted that I was important to him. It’s been so hard to lose that.

Now, as we creep up to the one-year “anniversary” of his passing, I am engaged in magical thinking. Maybe a year is long enough for him to be dead; maybe it’s time for him to come back. Maybe he’ll find a way to let us know that he’s okay; that he’s happy about how we’ve handled things. Maybe things get significantly easier after the first year and on day 366, I’ll wake up and be happy again.

One of the Catholic Acts of Spiritual Mercy is to “comfort the sorrowful.” My Dad made it so easy to care for him in those last hard months. He was quietly accepting of the physical interventions that he needed. He was, in fact, all through those last heartbreaking months, teaching us how to die. It was he who was doing the comforting. We were and are the sorrowful ones, but he would hate that. Knowing that he’d want us to carry on living our good and fortunate lives makes it a little bit easier to do that.

He is still comforting and teaching us. But oh, how we miss him.

This Coldplay song, “All My Love,” and the video with Dick Van Dyke at age 99 are so heartwarming. I think you’ll love it.

February 4, 2025 2

Tiny Holidays: A Throwback

I wrote this in 2009 in lieu of the standard “Holiday Letter.” So much has changed, but I still love this story and that this even happened at all.

Having neither spectacular accomplishments nor grave misfortunes to report, and, to be honest, having exhausted the vein of humorous family anecdotes over the years, I will tell you instead that we are all well and fine, and hope that you are too.

Instead of Srajek family details, which are really much the same as any other family’s day-to-day lives, I offer this story about something that happened to us this time last year, at the start of a long Midwest winter.

In our local paper there used to be a kid’s feature called “Letters to the Editor,” where school kids responded to a question from the editor, and then some responses from each school got published. One week last December, Jacob’s answer to the question “What is the top item on your Christmas list this year?” turned up in the paper. He wrote that since he wanted to be a carpenter when he grew up, he had “always wanted” a carpenter’s plane.

If he didn’t get that, the number two thing on the list was “lots of nice building wood,” a response that makes him sound quainter and less electronically minded than he really is, but, well, he was probably writing what he knew had the best chance of getting published (they’re never too young to play to the crowd).

About a week after his response appeared in the paper, we received a letter in the mail from a woman we did not know. She apologized if we were not the parents of Jacob Srajek, said that she had looked us up in the phone book, and she hoped her writing was not an imposition to us. A clipping of Jacob’s letter was neatly taped to the corner of her own letter, which was printed on paper with a decorative floral border.
Continue reading “Tiny Holidays: A Throwback” →

December 15, 2024 2

Tiny Holidays Week 3

If you think you’ve seen it all
Stick around…
There’s a lot we’ve lost
But so much more we’ve found

If you think you got it all
You got it wrong…
There’s more in store
The best is yet to come

Let us boldly go
Where only those with open hearts can go
Where words aren’t spoken
And time is golden
And love’s blindfolding us with hope

And we stay honest and keep our promises
Keep evolving
Keeping on this
All we have to do is hold on
And love will do the rest
All we have to do is hold on
And take another breath

If you think you heard it all
I’ll say it again…
My love for you will never ever end

If you think you’ve seen it all
Stick around
We’re just getting started…

–“If You Think You’ve Seen It All,” Jason Mraz

A few years ago, my Dad came home from the Post Office with a book of stamps and he said, very matter-of-factly, “I’ll be dead before I can use all of these.” Whenever he made comments like, “Never get old, Lee,” I’d reply, “It’s better than the alternative,” which was a knee-jerk way of covering my discomfort with a process I couldn’t really appreciate—aging and its attendant bittersweetness.

Now that he’s gone, the time ahead of me feels finite in a way that it hadn’t until now. It’s not a broad vista anymore; it’s more like a path in a forest whose limits I can sense in the distance. There have even been times, mostly at 4:00 in the morning, when I’ve thought that maybe I’ve done everything I’m going to do—I had a relatively long marriage, gave birth to and raised three beautiful children, had an almost 30-year career, and walked through sacred days with my Dad at the end of his life. Maybe there’s no “best” yet to come because I’ve gotten my share of good things.

And then there’s the inevitability of physical limitations whether in the form of aging or illness. I mean, something is going to happen; the body always wins.

I’ve been listening to this song by Jason Mraz, “If You Think You’ve Seen It All,” which I first heard during a break in my first weekend of seminary classes. It’s a lovely mindset to have at the beginning of a journey like the seminary program, and I imagine the voice singing, “If you think you heard it all, I’ll say it again…My love for you will never ever end,” as that of Divine Spirit calling us forward on a journey that already feels transformative.

But when I hear the line, “the best is yet to come,” I think, “Is it?”

If we buy into the idea of “the best” of anything, the opposite must also be true: “the worst” is also yet to come. More loss, more decline, more heartbreak…these are all inevitable.

In the end, though, the idea of a “best” or “worst” anything seems unhelpful. It’s too linear and draws attention away from the often mediocre but very palpable present. Like a chambered nautilus or a labyrinth, we move in repeating spirals, returning to experiences but in new and expanded ways that hopefully help us learn more with each go around.

In “Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life,” Richard Rohr expresses a very Tiny Holidays-coded sentiment: “Your concern is not so much to have what you love anymore, but to love what you have—right now. This is a monumental change from the first half of life, so much so that it is almost a litmus test of whether you are in the second half at all.”

Instead of seeing the richness of our lives as fading or dwindling, the finiteness of the present can be felt as more colorful, more immediate, and full of impact. Love it then let it go.

In the last scene of “Somebody, Somewhere,” the show Rolling Stone just called the best show of 2024, Bridget Everett (an incredible actor, writer, and cabaret performer) sings “The Climb” by Miley Cyrus in a dumpy Midwest town bar, in front of the family and friends she has grown into love with over the three seasons of the show. She’s such an open, powerful singer and the scene is so heartwarming as are so many others throughout the three seasons (seriously, you should watch this show).

Nothing “big” or “best” happens in this show; it’s the tiny forward movement of the characters and their hearts that draws you in. “The Climb” is the perfect song for this moment because there’s nothing super special about it–it’s a nice twangy pop ballad which, in Bridget’s hands becomes goofy and heartfelt. It’s a tiny celebration of the fact that while there is no best or worst, there is always more to come. And it’s a good idea to keep a steady, hopeful pace as we walk into it.

There’s always gonna be another mountain
I’m always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I’m gonna have to lose
Ain’t about how fast I get there
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb

Keep on moving, keep climbing
Keep the faith, baby
It’s all about, it’s all about the climb
Keep your faith, keep your faith

December 12, 2024 2

Tiny Holidays Week 2

When you live in a small space, each item matters. There’s no room for a pile of clutter or a piece of furniture you feel half-hearted about. Last week, my Instacart order contained an exceptionally large red onion that didn’t fit in its assigned bowl, and it took up an annoying amount of space on the counter. The kitchen is that tiny. But I like the need to be intentional and that everything can be easily maintained. Extra stuff feels overwhelming.

Along these lines, one of the guiding beliefs of Tiny Holidays is that small details are not only worthy of our attention, but they may be the best places to put our attention. There’s nothing new about being reminded to “stay present” to the tiny details of our lives. But there are two things I think are important to keep in mind.

Only you can give your unique attention. The tiny things you notice can only be noticed by you, with your sensibilities, in your unique way. When you take note of the things that catch your attention, you are making yourself real to yourself. You are here, you are part of things, not more but also not less important than your neighbor who keeps moving the garbage cans outside, the exuberant kid who skips down the aisle at church without a hint of self-consciousness, the two friends who link arms to help a third manage the steps at church. You belong.
Details, as points to put our attention, are so much less overwhelming than broader concepts like justice, spirituality, self-improvement, climate change. And the mundane details of our lives aren’t stand-ins for bigger, grander things that, were we more accomplished or less weary, we’d be able to tackle. They aren’t “all we can mange right now.” I think of them more as doorways to the larger concerns of our lives. That single perfect skim cappuccino with an extra shot in a holiday cup is a little portal to gratitude; the first ice-cold bite of air at the bus stop in the morning reminds me I am not in my parent’s home that often felt so dark and stuffy, the air weighed down with illness and grief. Time has moved on.

I’m so aware that there are times when appreciating small details is too hard; life feels too overwhelming or sad, and stopping for even a moment is scary. The poignancy feels too painful and it’s necessary to just keep pushing forward.

And what if that particular pale square of sunlight behind the palm plant in the early morning is all there is? It can be frightening to accept that degree of immediacy and finality, because even if imagining a grander life experience feels painful and out of reach, it’s something to keep our brains occupied. Focusing on the tiny, present moment is a reminder that there is no backup life in reserve.

But there’s a reason why one of the strategies for managing anxiety attacks is to bring your attention to your immediate present and what you can see, feel, hear, smell; it helps your brain tether itself to the safety of the present. And there’s a reason why, when Mary Oliver writes, “Wherever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,” we feel profoundly welcomed, deeply included.

One of my favorite songs about the sanctity of the every day is “Holy Now,” by the unassuming but so talented Minnesota singer-songwriter Peter Mayer; maybe you’ll like it too. And this poem by Nikita Gill, an Irish-Indian poet, playwright, writer, and illustrator is a gentle gracious reminder that a small, quiet existence is still existence, is still valuable.

Everyday is not an opportunity
to improve yourself.

Some days are just there
for you to accept yourself
and look at the clouds.

This too is growth.
This too is rising.

Just existing is enough
on some days.

The flowers do it everyday
and make the world more beautiful
just by being here.

So do you.

–Nikita Gill

December 1, 2024 1