Praying for Pink

I’m surrounded by noises that are rough and abrasive. I’m flying home from my grandmother’s funeral. I’ve spent the weekend listening to soft words. I've heard pieces of scripture read in soothing, quiet tones. We’ve shared stories and memories quietly with each other; gently acknowledging the way our eyes get wet in the corners when we think of her. We've been trying to be safe zones for each other, protecting one another from the outside. There has been a hushed silence forcibly placed on our lives this weekend without us asking for it—just an assumption that we couldn’t handle the noise that life makes all on its own. A correct assumption, I might add.

Suddenly I’m sitting in an airport, surrounded by people who can’t sense that the dark circles under my eyes are there because I haven’t sleep well in weeks. They don’t know that I’ve cried more in the last month than I have in the last year. They can’t tell from looking at me that last night I found myself so overwhelmingly sad, I had to excuse myself from a family dinner to run warm water through my fingers. That I had to sit down on the closed lid of a restaurant toilet to hold my face in my hands and take deep breaths.

There are children running around, with the happiness only children can have in an airport, and an anxious teenager behind me is chattering nonstop about her week at the beach. A woman across from me sloppily shoves food into her mouth—noisily chewing this disgusting thing an airport calls a sandwich. She drips food all over the seat she barely fits in. A man runs his wheeled luggage over my foot. He doesn’t apologize. And I can’t be upset with these strangers—these insensitive, disgusting, obnoxious strangers—because after all, I’m not walking around with a sign on my chest that says fragile. The experience is grinding and I can’t help but feel oppressed, attacked, and singled out.

The airport messages are blaring above my head, reminding everyone to limit their luggage, to queue up quickly and efficiently, and to follow the millions of rules that are now placed on all of us, surely, for our greater safety. There is a symphony of noise coming from behind the ticketing desk; clicking and beeping and the obnoxious noises coming from walkie-talkies. I feel like the people who work here have no regard for how noisy they make this space—how frequently their messages are repeated and overlapped with others. There are machines backing up. Loud people scream into cell phones. And I’m just looking for a quiet corner to sit in and write. I just want to release all the millions of things I’m thinking about right now. But I feel tongue-tied sitting here alone. I feel like I’m in such a strange space—this zone of grieving, sadness, and overall relief.

Finally, there is a break in the noise. A plane boards to Atlanta. For the time being, it appears the slobs, the anxious teens, and the insensitive owners of wheeled suitcases have boarded their plane to their final destinations. There is a soft silence that falls over this end of the airport. A wash of relief. A chance to breathe. Temporary, but necessary.

Four hours ago I sat in a quiet cemetery, thinking quietly to myself how peaceful this place is; an expansive cemetery covered in old live oaks. Moss hangs tenderly in the air. Despite the overwhelming sadness of this space, I’m astounded by how beautiful it is. As we sit through the short and tender graveside ceremony, I look forward at the small metal box that holds my grandmother’s ashes. I desperately want to open the box, let her breath in the humid Florida air. I’m feeling stifled thinking about an eternity spent in a small metal box. I want her ashes to float in the air—for her body to be here with us. I want her to be released, not held. I want her to laugh and share and cry together. I want to smell her—to feel her skin; to hug her soft frame. And I know that I’m being irrational—that what’s left in that small, metal box is basic biology. It’s the ashes of bones and cells and proteins. Her spirit has left us and gone forward. But I’m not sure how this space will feel without her. I’m not sure how long this sadness will linger.

Two weeks ago when I came to say goodbye to her, I knew death was around the corner. I saw him creep in with silent feet. I watched him slow her breathing and curl her toes. I listened, as she fought him entering her heart. He shut her eyes and turned off her memory, for good. But he did us all a favor—he stopped her pain. He ended her suffering. He closed her book. He wrote the final page. He took her home. And I can’t hate him for this. She was ready. She was tired.

But right now I’m sick to my stomach. I’m exhausted. I’m annoyed. I’m sad. I’m grieving. And I’m stuck in an airport—surrounded by all the things I hate most about America. I’m hoping that getting home and breathing deep makes this week easier. I’m hoping that all the people in my life can respect my need for quiet, my desperate hunger for gentleness. I’m hoping for relief. I’m praying for serenity and grace. On my first trip to Ghana, one of the people traveling with us asked the group, "I wonder what color the sand will be?" Another girl on the program thoughtfully responded: "I don't know but I'm praying for pink." This is what I'm doing right now. I'm sitting on a beach of gross, dirty, cold sand and I'm praying for pink.