Things are just starting to slow down. A little. Things never really slow down when littles are about--there is great mercy in that.
I haven't really cried much. There hasn't been time. The week of the funeral was filled with slideshow preparation, hosting the ebb and flow of visitors, making lots of lists and phonecalls, and trying to practice the piano in between. When we were leaving the church in the "procession" I was the one tripping around with the video camera trying to capture at least something for the generations to come.
Then last night we went down to the beach for the fireworks, all of us. David was home, a rarity not to be wasted. We sat together on the green grass while Jaxon and Heidi chased each other around. We ate from the picnic baskets Nana had prepared and watched the slow birds circle the setting sun. When it grew dark, the orchestra began to play. In the program were a few choice selection from the academy award winning Chariots of Fire, chosen in honor of the upcoming Olympics.
Vangelis had a heyday in the 80s with these pieces, played so often now that they have become humorous cliches: The famous "Chariots of Fire," "Five Circles," and another good one called "Eric's Theme," in honor of the runner Eric Liddell.
The COF soundtrack is tightly woven with my early childhood memories, back when we had a record player instead of a Bose, before my parents had a television. Records were our entertainment, listening and looking at the album covers. My memories aren't very clear because I was so little, but Eric was always there. He would be washing the car or talking in a deep voice about jets, or making paper airplanes, or listening quietly while my mom read the Chronicles of Narnia in the yellow light of our family room. He would be telling us to watch our bottoms and get home right now before mom discovered that we were running away. He was in the creek behind our house catching frogs or poking dead ones with a stick. He would be walking up and down the beach all day, looking for shark's teeth or making funny faces at us in the back of the station wagon.
When I went to preschool I refused to wear anything but my cousin's old hand-me-downs, much to my mother's chagrin. One little girl asked me why I talked like a boy. I didn't have an answer, but when I look back on it, I realize that it's because I wanted to be just like my cousin, who, even though he was nine years old, did his best to sound like Marine would sound, like his daddy Paul.
When I accepted Jesus into my heart, it was because I had heard that Eric had done so earlier that same night. If Heaven is organized chronologically like that, maybe we'll be neighbors.
So when the music came last night with the songs of my childhood, much of this came back, and I was finally able to take a minute to cry. Music is good like that.
I'm so thankful for the huge part he played in my earliest years. Many of the memories are deeper than I know. It funny to think that memories are deeper than your memory, but I think it's true in the non-weird sense.
I once thought of Eric as someone who needed me, needed us. His departure has helped me to see how much I needed him.
