Tilt

You've heard the phrase, "It ain't over until the fat lady sings."

For me, it is often-- "It ain't over until the big-boned girl with a fondness for desserts writes."

Known for my dramatic streak and the one-act plays I could perform at a moment's notice when I found my parents unfair, one would assume that my reaction to grief would be quite Shakespearean.

What I have discovered, however, is that I have turned rather stoic. I have kind of floated around the past week or so, smiling slightly, listening to encouraging words. Uttering the traditional, "He's in a better place" and "It was time" in the same breath that I long to shout "I want him here" and "He deserved more time."

Writing is the way I cope. Hitting the "Publish Post" button lifts a burden from my shoulders and allows me to begin the moving on process. I could approach this post in many ways; and I think that is why I have begun it so many times and then closed my computer in defeat.

But then I remembered my grandma telling me about what happened shortly before I arrived in Texas. Several of my family members were standing in my grandparents' room, taking in the rearrangement. She made her way to a nearby picture frame and began straightening its tilt while she commented, "I just don't know what I'm going to do."

My newest uncle by marriage, with his timed wit and soft smile, responded, "There are plenty of pictures in this house to straighten."

She said she began to laugh; and soon, others in the room joined in therapeutic chorus.

When someone as upstanding and respected as my grandpa passes away, it often leaves those remaining with the seemingly impossible task of living up to their greatness.

It is easy to be intimidated by their stories of heroism and unfaltering compassion; it is easy to question whether you-- with your short temper and intolerance-- resemble them in the least; it is easy to only hope that your memorial service will be as crowded and story-filled as theirs.

But in the noise that was left in their wake, you hear: There are always pictures to be straightened.

There are always co-workers that need an encouraging e-mail. There are always people who need a casserole. There are always spouses that need an extra dose of unmerited grace.

So don't become overwhelmed by the large portrait that grief paints; be concerned with the small photos in your life that could use an extra eye to make them level.

For, at the end of your life, it is the collage of pictures that is presented as the testament to who you were.